Well, shoot. I’ve hit a wall and can’t get much done on my work today. I know it’s because I’m in a kind of goofy mood and because my stomach is doing some very uncomfortable gurgling following lunch… I’m distracted. And I have things I NEED to do today. Grrrr! So frustrating!
Hand therapy is going well. Yesterday we did some measurements to see how far I can bend my wrist in different directions, how strong my pinch is, etc., and I improved on everything! However, I’m still lagging way behind what my left wrist is capable of doing. For instance, I can bend my left wrist 34 degrees in one direction. When I bend my right wrist in the same direction, I can only make it to 18 degrees. (It’s an improvement from my first day, though: when I could only make it to 13 degrees.) I still have a long way to go. But it’s good to know that measurable improvement is happening.
I need to go for another two weeks. So that’s 4 more visits, $80 more. Well, what choice do I have, really? I saw with my own eyes that the therapy is actually helping me, and I want to keep getting better.
It’s funny to observe some of the other people who are there for treatment. Yesterday, this older guy named Mike was there. Apparently he has been going there a long time, because when he came in the whole staff was clearly happy to see him, like he’s almost a colleague or something. Anyway, he was a nice guy, and he started chatting with this woman who was seated next to him. Their table was right next to mine, so I could overhear most of their conversation.
They were talking about body fluids, decomposing bodies in the heat, suicide clean-up, and “smelly things in Ziplocs.” How could I NOT listen in?!
Finally, I couldn’t stand it. I asked my therapist in a quiet voice, “Umm, is he a cop or something?”
Instead of answering me, the therapist turns to Mike directly and goes, “Hey, Mike, are you an actual officer, or… what? What’s your title?”
Fortunately, Mike didn’t seem phased by the fact that I had clearly just asked the therapist (whose name is Fabian, BTW… it is much easier to type that than “therapist”), and he kind of winked and said, “Well, no, I’m not an ‘officer’, so to speak. I mean, I investigate cases, but I don’t carry a gun.”
I have no idea what his title is. He never said. He just acted all suspicious and kind of cool. A man of mystery. Forensic mysteries. He did mention that he doesn’t just investigate homicides, he is usually called to almost any “scene of death”… man, I loved that phrase. Scene of DEATH. Sounds so ominous. Call me morbid, or weird, but I wouldn’t mind being “called to a scene of death.” Come on, I’m only human. I’m curious.
It was good no one else was really there, because he kept talking about some truly repulsive stuff. Luckily, neither me, Fabian, or the other woman, seemed to mind hearing this gross shit. He said he once had to clean up an old man who had died in his garage over the summer. Now you’d think it would stink really, really bad in there, but he said it wasn’t as bad as expected. That’s because the body mummified and dried out before they got there. (It’s just so sad when you hear about those old people that die and no one misses them.) Also, there was the kid who shot himself out near his backyard pool, and they had to drain the pool to get, well… everything out of the mechanisms of the filter. BLECH. But… come on, it was fascinating!
I don’t have any fascinating work-related stories. Unless you consider “The Day I Moved to a New Cubicle” exciting, or “When I Couldn’t Stop Laughing in the Company Meeting” to be particularly entertaining. You just don’t get brains-in-a-pool-filter when you work for a business magazine. Oh, sure, you’d think it could happen from time to time, but… not so much.
How is it that I go to physical therapy and could talk all about the interesting and helpful exercises I’m doing, how the iontophoresis is apparently helping reduce the inflammation, and yet all I care about was the fact that I heard nasty death-scene stories told by a white-haired, snarky old gentleman with no real “title”?
Because, that’s why. BECAUSE.
I hope he’ll be back the next time I go. I want to hear more, a LOT more.