In praise of ...

Physiotherapists.

Have you ever needed physio? They tend to lurk at the end of long corridors; the entrance to their sanctuaries have no roses round the door. There are no fanfares. But without them I'd have seized up long ago (a dodgy back), been unable to lift a rucksack ever again (broken shoulder) and now I'm back again, with wrecked knees. If you've never needed one - lucky you. The rest of us know we'd be permanently crock without them.

All my physios have been women. I know there are men in this profession - please bear with me if I stick to the feminine pronoun here. And my physios have mostly been young. (They are getting younger ...) Their  capacity for empathy, for humour, for simply understanding the significance of information that you might drop by the wayside - is astonishing.

I blogged, ages ago, about my crumbly knees. My consultant hopes that phsyio (plus steroid injections - I wince even thinking about those) will keep the muscles in good enough condition to hold what is left of the bones together for a little while longer.

I have a quite different agenda. For if I want to go to Laos (and I do) I need to be able to use a squat toilet.

Yes, it's funny - I thought it was funny enough, when I came back from Cambodia a couple of years ago, to write a little poem:

NEXT TIME I’LL LEARN.

A line of doors, gunmetal grey, with flakes

of rust around the hinges and a fringe

of dust along the floor.

None can quite restrain the pongs beyond.

The creak of welcome.  And there it is:

a footrest to each side and the chasm –

well, it could be worse. 

I clutch my bag with one hand;

(not sure it would be safe plonked on the floor)

shuffle backwards.  Perch; deep breath; and down.

The sweet hiss of relief.

Now what?

My thighs begin to ache, my muscles twitch.

My knees forget the art of standing up.

I topple, just a little, hoping that the see-saw

will propel me upright, somehow.

Instead I risk reversing, slipping backwards,

sitting like a weeble on surprised porcelain.

My bag, now insecure, falls forward, empties

purse book pens passport bus ticket

on the damp patch on the floor.

And for a moment I fear I might follow it

to bang my head on the metal door

with a clang that will echo and

every woman in the queue will know.

Next time I’ll learn to squat before I go.

My knees are so much crumblier now than when I wrote this.

But my physio did not flinch when I set her the challenge of enabling me to squat. She did not even titter (well, in front of me she did not titter - she may have guffawed when I left). She simply smiled, put gentle hands on my sorry knees to show where the muscles seem to have collapsed, then gave me exercises, encouragement, and support.

I have joined the 'lower limb group' at the specialised gym in the physio clinic. There is the lass who fell of her horse and broke an ankle, who wants to ride again. There is the bloke who was knocked off his bike and broke his femur - he talks of road racing. There is the older woman who slipped, broke her foot, and wants to be able to climb stairs without pain so she can stay in her own home. And me - who wants to use a squat toilet. Together we grimace, and puff, and wince as we make forgotten muscles do what they were designed to do, and do it over and over again. Alongside us the physio is quietly encouraging.

Now I can get down, and (imagine a fanfare) get up again. I can go to Laos.

What have physios done for you?