Most of my fears regarding physical therapy have worn off. I go three times a week and can now drive myself to and from the appointments. The physical therapy facility is a little like a gym for retired and mangled circus folk with everyone moving slowly and deliberately. I laugh at the people that are forced to wear the velcro corset and then suspended over the treadmill by a crane-like contraption. I always laughed at them (to myself, of course) until today when I was forced into the corset and strung up over the treadmill. You cannot compare this to any Disney ride at all, unless Disney has a piece of hidden real estate called Medieval Land where visitors are encouraged to sample any number of devices intended for public humiliation, like stocks, pillories, or Spanish mantles. Is this not the 21st century, people? Can't we do better?
As humiliating as the treadmill contraption was, it beat the hell out of the scar mobilization session. Scar mobilization is just a fancy way of saying scar massage and scar massage is just a fancy way of saying that you are giving someone your grocery money to press both their thumbs into your very recent and tender surgery site. In hindsight, I wish I'd kept my grocery money to buy a bag of prickly pears to rub into my scars because it would have been a much more pleasant experience.
When I asked my PT what scar mobilization was, she decribed it simply as massaging the newly healed incision. I imagined something blissful and relaxing. I will describe it thusly: IT HURT LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER. There will be no exclamation remark alluding to my surprise. I am talking serious and damnable pain.
Having my vulva tattooed would be preferable to scar mobilization. I may have gone too far, my apologies. Lying on the table I grit my teeth and wonder if my PT failed out of Acupuncture and Oriental Medicine School and went with physical therapy as her back-up career, her Plan B, because the scar massage is like enduring the worst acupressure visit ever. My mood is instantly altered the second she touches the surgery site. I feel angry and resentful. In short, I feel pissed off about everything.
On Monday I couldn't help myself from crying. She encouraged me to work on the scars at home. I did. I go through my entire round of exercises and end with the massage. I try to push myself to the limit and it pays off. When I went in this morning it was like night and day. I winced but hey, I didn't sob. It was definitely incentive enough to keep up with the home therapy.
I'm not the groaning, crying, skinny girl at PT anymore. Nope. I'm the freak in the velcro corset suspended ever so slightly above the treadmill that walks 0.4 mph. Yay me!