clothespin

I had a new physical therapist today. He had a more tentative touch, not stretching me as far or as hard. He also worked on my shoulderblades a while to loosen up the muscles between them, which my regular PT hasn't done yet. Nothing better or worse, just different.

When I'm with a new doctor or counselor, my initial reaction is usually hesitancy. I figure this is normal, as a trust has to be established. I'm confident that my regular PT knows what's going on with my body, and not so sure with the guy. But he won me over quickly.

I'm always amazed at what I learn in the hands of someone new. Touch itself is an incredibly accurate communicator. Today I learned that my impulse to massage my shoulder joint on a point on the outside was a good intuition; the PT worked on this for a while. As he put his fingers on my shoulder blades to guide them as I did a rowing exercise, I understood better how to move. More than these simple things, there's something ineffable going on here, an exchange. Someone offers something--healing? touch itself?--and I accept. I wonder what I give in return.

"[. . .] poems are like dreams: in them you put when you don't know you know."

-Adrienne Rich, from "When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision

I know this shouldn't be what I got out of this essay (and it wasn't), but this is, nonetheless, my favorite quote. Could I be more apologetic? When do I outgrow that?

Transcript of my head today during Women's Rhetorics class:

The joints in my hands hurt. That can't be true. I can't have joint problems in my hands because my back, knees, and shoulders are already too much to handle. Is the pressure dropping? [a couple minutes] It's really windy. [a couple minutes] That's quite a downpour, like one of those movie rains that come in sheets. I'm a fucking human barometer. Am I really that accurate? Was there really a drop in pressure? I'm going to live with this pain the rest of my life. It's only going to get worse. I can't handle that. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of pain. OK, try to think more positively; my joints give me a connection to nature. I'm blessed with a sensitivity to nature. Fuck that.

So thanks to D., I'm a crocheting fiend. She taught me how last December, and I quickly graduated from potholders to scarves to hats. I recently crocheted a baby blanket and matching hat for a fellow student who's due next month, and now I'm working on a sweater. I love how it calms and soothes me and how productive I feel as I see the rows accumulate. What's the problem, you ask? Shoulders. And hands. Crocheting irritates the tendonitis I have in my shoulders (for which I'm in physical therapy), and recently my fingers have started to protest. I've been able to keep it pretty much at bay by limiting the amount of time I do it in one sitting, but when I got near the end of the blanket, I couldn't stop myself, and I knotted yarn for hours until it was done. I haven't recovered from that yet. It's incredibly addictive.

I've had this moderation problem all my life. The arthritis in my knees is, of course, due to over-use and the resultant tendonitis I've had since I was 16. But I also, according to my knee surgeon, have misaligned legs that predispose me for my condition, so I would have developed it anyway. So where is the line? Is it my fault? Is it my body's?

It just kills me that I found something I enjoy so much that also causes me more pain. I don't know how not to make that sound like whining, so I guess I (and you?) will just have to indulge myself. This is a blog after all.

Why do doctors not care about the pain they create? Why are doctors unconcerned with the amount of pain I'm in? Why do I never have the argument I need in hand? Would it make any difference?

Post-exercise assessment: knees: worse, back: better, shoulders: worse.

*

I was talking to a mother yesterday who described how her body shape changed permanently since she was pregnant. She started storing fat in her thighs, and her straight-legged girlish body became, well, not that. Her tone of voice was one of wistfulness.

In order to make these sorts of changes palatable, I tell myself that I will finally be able to fit into women's pants, which have always had too much thigh (and not enough waist, which I'm sure won't get any better). Why do I fear body changes when they happen every day anyway?

*

There's a Far Side cartooon I love where cook is holding a frog over a pot. The frog pleads, "Skinny legs! I got skinny legs!"

Post-exercise assessment: knees and shoulders the same, sacroiliac throbbing. Took ibuprofen for the first time in a long time, and it was only slightly helpful. I'm afraid I'm going to have to go back to the doc again and get a script for more PT. Afraid of what the doc and the therapists will think about this woman who can't stop complaining. I'm angry that I even consider their opinions outside of what they think will ameliorate the pain.

And afraid of future pain. I hate the word chronic, the plosive K sounds on either end implying finality that doesn't exist. But the pain does exist, like a N hummed discordantly in my ear. The hurt is a constant static, punctuated by O and I moments. What the hell am I talking about? I'm just trying to say something other than PAIN because as I'm tired of that word as I am of what it represents.

I'm pretty sure I figured out what was aggravating the sacroiliac, a particular pilates move I did today for the first time since I messed up the joint last Thurs. I'm annoyed that the problem is back after it receded over the weekend (though did not abate completely). But at least I know what it is.

Part of the despair of pain is not knowing how to ameliorate it, which makes me feel out of control and helpless. My knees I can handle better because I've dealt with them for so long. I know there's no substitute for time--a chance (many chances) to test and see what helps and what hurts. However, I have less and less patience having dealt with one thing or another since age 16.