Thursday, 06 November 2003 | Counting squares

It's not considered a privilege to have been in the care of the entire staff of physical therapists in a single office, or at least that's what I gather from their reactions when they see my chart. "Oh my, you've been passed around, haven't you?" They shake their heads and apologize for having to ask me to tell my story again.

We talk about what exercises the other therapists have had me do, what I have and have not been doing at home, and how much I'm able to straighten my arm. In any case, I've learned something about how differently people approach their jobs/my arm. (I only saw friendly Tony twice; apparently he's in the hospital and isn't coming back for a long time.)

Corrina is my new "stable" therapist, and so far (three visits in) I think I like her the best. Yesterday four of us—Corrina, me, a therapist-in-training, and a guy named Matt who had a very similar accident to mine—sat around comparing stories while Corrina toyed with my arm as if it were a nutcracker. Matt said that he had randomly been biking with Robin Williams in Central Park, when a girl stepped out in front of him, causing him to crash and flip over his handlebars; the therapist-in-training had gotten caught in her toe clips; Corrina had gotten "doored."

The physical therapy "gym" runs like a humming machine. A woman in a corner walks in place in a giant clear tub of water; another woman walks in another direction on a treadmill, also going nowhere, ponytail swinging; a man jogs on a mini-trampoline in a sweaty t-shirt; another two play catch with a giant rubber ball; people stretch their injured limbs on giant rubber bands; they lift weights; they stretch and bend like accordians. I imagine that if you could look at the room from a distance, it would look something like a symphony.

Usually they leave the radio thoughtlessly playing. On Saturdays it's often Car Talk, and on weeknights its generally one of those bad "mix" stations that specialize in the unoffensive. The lights are florescent and the ceiling is made up of an endless pattern of squares. The therapists almost always have me lie on my back; as they reshape me, I count squares.

By the way, my brace and I have ended our relationship, as of a few days ago. An easy break-up.