I have a physical therapist; therefore I’m practically an athlete.
Last Friday, I did something I usually don’t do; I went to the doctor. For my knee. After years of it bothering me. Yes, I said years. When I called, the receptionist asked me how long it’d been bothering me and I mumbled something about it having been at least the last two years. I’m pretty sure it’s been longer.
For those of you who know me, doctors give me extreme anxiety. Even going to the doctor for something as simple as my knee. As one friend told me, “No one dies from knees!” I would have happily (and painfully) lived through my knee hurting me for another number of years, except I made the mistake of googling reasons for my knees hurting. It turns out people can die of knees if it actually turns out to be a deep vein thrombosis that turns into a pulmonary embolism that goes straight to your lungs. No lie, google don’t play. [Sorry if I freaked out any self-diagnosed hypochondriacs. I feel your pain. Each and every pain…]
But don’t worry, that wasn’t my knee problem, according to the doctor (what does he know anyway?). After some X- rays and just looking at me, he decided on some latin sounding words that mean my pelvis is too wide for my narrow knees therefore my knee hurts. My step sister thinks that the diagnosis is actually fancy words for “Tiffany can’t walk in heels.” It’s true that I am horrible at walking in heels and usually blame it on my bad knees. She’s hoping that physical therapy the doctor recommended will solve that but probably only so shoe shopping with me will be more exciting.
So three days later I’m cynically sitting in the room waiting for the physical therapist to come in and fix my body’s misalignment (like I actually need a medical diagnosis to prove that my body is unproportional) and I’m thinking that my knee problems are actually just a result of the that one time that I slipped on a patch of ice in March outside my dorm freshman year of college. That is until the PT came in and had me do some exercises and deemed that my right thigh/hip is weak and needs some work. So she
sentenced me prescribed 4 weeks of therapy twice a week. And let me tell you – physical therapy is hard. Especially the day after sucking at a yoga class taught by a 45-year-old woman who is more flexible than me and who keeps saying “Kick your leg way up there.” No thanks, lady.
I’m not sure exactly how much I believe of what I’ve been told by the doctors for the last week but it does feel pretty cool saying I have to go to physical therapy. I still haven’t ruled out there it’s not just a ploy to get me to spend a ton of money. I have yet to get my first bill…
Long Story Short: Athletes get injured. Injuries require physical therapy. Duh. Or just very clumsy…