Thursday, 18 December 2014

Does my physiotherapist make me look fat?




I'm trying to get into the Christmas spirit, I really am.
But shit is going down and it's not pretty.
First, I got the flu, then I got pink eye.
Pink eye!
Sophie, get off my pillow!
Next, I gained back the 10 pounds I struggled to lose over the past year. That's because of my bunged up knee. Doctor Ben, that wizard of modern medicine, shrugged when I asked him about it.
Said it was arthritis.
Nothing he could do...next.
But I'm an Internet maven and I'm not about to take the word of a geriatric Belgian who even other doctors on RateMyMD are calling out, saying he needs retraining.
So I hooked up with a chiropractor -- because for the first time in a decade I have extended health insurance -- and she soothed and stroked my knee and applied all the latest methods of chiropractic, including something that looks like a carpenter's framing square.
What ever happened to old fashioned cracking?
Then the kinesiologist who sits right beside her gave me exercises and told me to keep going to the gym.
I was stoked, let me tell you, until I got up.
Still couldn't walk.
After eight or so visits, nothing changed.
So I traded up to a physiotherapist who also does acupuncture. She stuck me with all kinds of needles and applied a warm pack (opposite of what the chiro did). She gave me exercises and sent me home.
What she gave me was a big nothing.
Still can't take my dog to the dog park after about $200 worth of treatments.
This week, I went for my last treatment before Christmas.
Both wished me well.
I still can't friggin' walk.
It's a shit show, that's what it is.
Oh, I forgot.
Just before I left, I asked for a diagnosis.
The chiro smiled.
Arthritis.
Dr. Ben was right.
The good news is that I can't do all the holiday baking.
The bad news is, I can buy it.
Twelve pounds of shortbreads have covered my hips.
Today, I went back to the gym after a month.
And I suddenly remembered all those other visits to the physio, the ones for tennis elbow and frozen shoulder. None of those helped me, either.
So I'm sitting here in my chair getting fat, eating bon bons, scarfing Rice Krispie squares.
I've watched all ten seasons of Grey's Anatomy in three weeks.
I could do a friggin' triple bypass.
I'm dreaming about McSteamy. Poor McSteamy.
Anyway, I'm done with the hands on experts.
Time to turn on Dr. Oz.

 

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