Physiotherapy

 

Hospital in May

It is one step at a time in the physiotherapy room. Many of the patients arrive in wheelchairs. Others are already at work on elbow circles and shoulder shrugs, mentally counting out their two lots of twelve, their bid at improvement. This is the world of the next ten minutes. Life is walking on the spot, or as likely a square of blue foam rubber, balancing the bilateral. It is sit to stand and stand to sit. “How was that?” asks the sprightly physio of Frank, who returns an effort of smile in a cloud of exhaustion. Broken ribs have not dimmed self-composure nor his desire to finish the exercise, a gentle sashay along the parallel bars, barely perceptible movements, breathing okay. Followed by marching on the spot, thirty seconds. Our bodies have known grander days pre-operation, that strain today and sag far behind our minds. Our active minds would sprint to the closest coffee shop, while our bodies remain in their chairs for the next ten minutes, learning limits. The Rehabilitation Hospital has fifty physios all told, half a dozen working the room at any one time, matching the patient’s surgery with their capability, the damage with the goals, the pain with a minimised effort. Achievements in miniscule notations the physio enters into each personal logbook. Noel is tall and slightly bent, would have been a ruckman in the school team, who today squats, three lots of ten, both hands firmly holding the bar. Heyday was a tap to the rover for a snap goal, that post-operation completes bicep curls, three sets of 12, a one kilo dumbbell in each hand. “That’s all for today.” The falls enter the physiotherapy room with little steps. There is John, a veteran of striding, before the fall. That wasn’t meant to happen, or, That doesn’t happen, or, What happened there. Collateral damage keeps John at a steadying pace behind his frame, easing his way uneasily along the bars. “Just in your own time.” Then there’s Maeve and Joan, falls, who have both passed 100 and laugh because Joan was born in July and is therefore older than Maeve. They raise their arms above their heads, or lever them up and down in front of their bodies, two lots of twelve, like saluting the sun in the sitting position, then they rest. “I’ll need a nap after all of this.” Crutches lean against mirror walls, ready to raise Michelle to her full height. Her stoic gaze could fill a book. Ian was designing computers before there were computers. The oxygen peg on his middle finger reads the particulars while he recovers breath from resisted chest presses, three sets of twelve. The new wounds join the old wounds in the exercise yard. The brisk physio is all friendly commands and rote questions. “How would you rate all of that? Easy? Moderate? Hard? Very hard?”