My journey with Physiotherapy contd…
Come Thursday evening. I’m all excited and dog-eared for my physio. If you’ve forgotten why, it’s captured at the end of the prequel to this article. I flag down an Uber and am actually 10 mins early to the appointment at 4:20 PM (I know, what a shocker!). Oh the things we do for love lol!
Anyhow I have some difficulty finding the actual entrance to the building due to the way it’s designed (America, stop designing super huge complexes with difficult to navigate facades!). I manage to wiggle in 4:25 PM my eyes scanning the lobby to find this fairy of my dreams and me secretly hoping she’s young and single (oh how we engage in wishful thinking!). I find a nice black lady at the front desk who checks me in and as soon as she get’s my name she goes, oh Leena was talking all about you etc etc. My inner child glows up with glee and I form images of us in Bali honeymooning and living the life of happily ever after >< (unhinged to the maxx). I scan Leena’s portion of the front desk where some of her belongings still lie and try to Sherlock Holmes my way into my destined utopian future. There’s a name tag, which unfortunately reads just ‘Leena’ and I go drat, need more clues. Then I see something which drives a cold steel dagger in my heart. Up on the wall beside her desk is a painting made clearly by a young kid, but which totally could pass for a multi-million dollar modern art (more on that later). My mind oscillates between few possible outcomes — mom? aunt? sister? and while I’m hoping for the latter my racing heart gated by the dam of this new found information pauses looking for clues in the image as if I’d be able to pick up on something that would confirm which bucket she fell in. The word Leena is scribbled on the bottom left corner. Surely if it were her kid, the kid would’ve written mom right? But wait a minute, it’s not uncommon in America for kids to refer to their parents by their first name. Shoot is it the former or the latter? As the main thread in my head get’s stuck on that loop, the thinking fast portion of my head scans through the other possessions of her that she’d left behind.
Failing to affirmatively deduce one way or the other, my thoughts are interrupted by the assistant who says my Physio Connor ‘stud’ Bray (who becomes my confidant and therapist too eventually :D). My dream flow state broken I resign to being treated by Conor who does a fabulous job of booting me up for the process. He’s knowledgeable and affable and works magic with his hands on my poor ankle. He repeatedly manages to hit the sweet spot, the omg I love that pain kinda pain. Oh how sweet that felt. Now that I’m recovered, I dream of being able to feel that pain, without breaking my ankle obviously :D. Stockholm syndrome? It’s the sweet tingly pain, you’re in pain, but so enjoyable. God I wish god had given us the ability to summon it at will. He takes measurements of the swelling, how much I’m able to bend each direction and jots them down murmuring stuff. See the good thing about therapy is the therapist is like a captive audience much like a barber. To Conor’s credit he was such a great listener that he brought out the inner gaga in me. The hour long session eventually comes to an end me tingling with remnant happiness of the good pain and thinking to myself boy am I glad this happened to me. However as the session wraps up my Sherlock Holmes thread is back on and I stride back to the front desk determined to strike gold.
“What a nice lady she is”, I strike up a conversation with Malaika (front desk). “Such a bundle of joy and positivity”. Malaika enthusiastically nods back and tells how everyone loves her. I probe further exclaiming, “She spoke to me in Hindi too which was so cool, and so fluent. Is she from the US or a transplant?”. I high-five myself thinking, yass I’ve laid the right hook. My heart leaps with joy as she tells, “ Yeah she moved from India and still is so connected with her Indian roots”. The wedding bells ring and I await the killer confirmation. Din Shagna Da is playing in the background and time slows down.
But then Hiroshima drops and my heart sinks faster than Titanic on rendezvous with the iceberg, as she continues, “She’s married to a US citizen but is still very Indian at heart.” Hit by a brick, and time having sped back to reality; Internally I go, why Malaika why, after a long set of dreary days did I experience my heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, but you had to Hinderbug me. My Notre Dame in the air which I had painstakingly built came crashing down and I retreated back to home, this time via a bus.
