Which Doctor?

I was out at the shops yesterday, with my lovely wife and daughter. We paused for coffee - or at least, I had a coffee; Stacie went with hot-chocolate, and we heartlessly confined our offspring to water - and then had a few other things to do. Scooping up little Charlie, I leaned over to put her in the stroller, twisting slightly to get around the table as I did so. I was at that point that I felt a sensation in my back that could best be described as Ping.

As anyone who has experienced it knows, that Ping is a truly unique sensation. It needs no further explanation to the initiated; the innocent are better off not knowing. But I suppose, for the morbidly curious, it felt a little like when you grip the base of your fingers and squeeze them together, so your knuckles jump over each other. Only in my back. And agonisingly painful.

Mark Twain once said that 'The world is a book, and those that do not travel read only one page.' This pain had aspirations of reading as much of the book of Chris as possible. Its fury spread across my back of course, but intensified with every breath: as a consequence, I found myself involuntarily tensing the muscles in my stomach and chest, trying to limit their movement. Unfortunately, this not only hurt even more, it also began deprive me of a certain amount of oxygen. Which also hurt.

I have hurt myself in the past in similar ways, though seldom as severely. Always I have been told, 'make sure you see a physio.' Having the planning disability known as 'being a man', by the time I ever thought seriously about it, the pain had gone away on its own. Yesterday, however, was different. By which I mean, my wife rang the physiotherapist around the corner and made an appointment for me.

I have never before spoken to a physiotherapist - at least, not in a professional capacity. I have a friend who graduated from Physiotherapy a few years ago. Stacie and I were invited to have dinner with her and her husband a couple of weeks ago, along with some other friends. In the warm after-glow of an excellent meal (both of our hosts are very capable cooks, and they had made dinner between them, a dish each, carefully assigned separate ends of the kitchen as their work spaces, since they are both what you might call 'alpha-chefs) we sat talking over coffee and scotch. Relatively recently graduated from Social Work, I laughingly complained that I sometimes feel like a child, pretending I know how to do my job; my friend the physio agreed. (I felt an even greater deal of sympathy for her than I might otherwise; I work in a high-school, so though my coworkers are older than me, as a rule, my clients are younger. She, on the other-hand, works principally with those over the age of 60.)

However, with no sort of warm glow whatsoever today (unless you count the Deep Heat cream) I made my way to the physiotherapist. I was greeted by an even-more-recently graduated young woman (in the course of our conversation, her side even and considered, my side jerkily put forward between stabs of pain, she told me that she completed her studies at the end of last year) who assessed my back and sides before going to work.

Generally speaking, I believe that I have a reasonable immune system. However, I have made my share of trips to the doctor over the years, and I have noticed this one thing: when you walk out of a doctor's surgery, if you feel any different than when you walked in, it is normally because your level of physical discomfort has increased. Doctors poke you and prod you, put cold things on you, stick things into you and are generally fairly merciless in their quest to make you well. I find that they help, in the long term, and I get better. However, this takes time, and I cannot remember having ever walked out of a doctor's surgery feeling 'cured'. Today was something of a revelation, because when I left, it didn't hurt anymore.

Oh, certainly, by twisting a particular way, bending too far, I could still find the pain - that is, if I tried to hurt myself I could do so, easily. But the majority of the pain was gone.

I have not the slightest idea how this is possible, and I now find myself with a mystical respect for physiotherapists; I feel about Rebecca (my hero) the way I imagine a primitive tribesman must have felt about his witch doctor. I don't understand, but I do not care. I am only grateful!