Hooroo, Simon!

It went something like this: Simon led me into the usual room, the table ready. I walked past it and sat in the metal chair near the window. I smiled broadly and proclaimed "I'm not taking my clothes off!"

Simon, you may recall from an earlier post, is (or shall I say was) my Australian physiotherapist. I'd been having sharp pain in my left leg, and after a half dozen chiropractic treatments with no sustained relief, decided to go to a physiotherapist, anxious to do something to help myself rather than being pulled, cracked, and massaged every few weeks. Simon understood, diagnosed the issue, and after the first session I left with some stretching exercises. I returned every two weeks to learn more advanced techniques, and then Simon went home to Oz for a month.

The first couple of times I advanced the stretch, I was not happy--rather than having the sharp pain diminish, it seemed to happen more often. I was slightly panicked; Simon was away, and I wondered if my technique was perhaps flawed. I half thought to call the centre and see if someone else would be willing to see me. Instead, I reverted to the easier, less advanced stretches. And, I observed more keenly to see if I could determine what was triggering the pain. 

I had a revelation--or perhaps more of a DOH! moment--as I was carrying a sackful of groceries back from Sainsburys, just down the high street from Harbour House. I had noticed that the pain would occur more on the IoW than in London, and half though it was because I wore flats--usually my faded blue sailing shoes--more often than not whenever Tim and I took our long walks to Gurnard. Now that the weather's a bit warmer, though, I've also been wearing my patent-leather black flats almost daily to work . . . so that wasn't it.

In London, and to the IoW, I do often tramp around with my laptop and papers, but it's in a rucksack and I rarely carry it on just one shoulder. Not it either.

In Cowes, I dutifully bring my recycle shopping bag so I don't take any of the store's plastic shopping bags (still for free, unless you shop at Marks and Sparks). One bag, always with a few pounds of stuff in it owing to bottles of wine, water, and food, and my shoulders are quite visibly out of line--and no doubt with the rest of me. I am clearly throwing my skeleton off kilter every time I carry my shopping one-handed.

I discuss this with Simon--my "aha" moment--and he agrees. He suggests I weigh between 50 and 55 kilos (he's dead on) and that carrying 10 per cent of body weight awkwardly is enough to do harm. I am at once proud and embarrassed at my observation, and have promised Simon and myself to keep the load balanced in the future. 

We talk about when to stretch. Not before, as I often see people do. Better to start the programme slowly, which my tennis partner and I always do, beginning close to the net before finally winding up at the service line for our hour's play. Stretching is best done post-exercise, when the muscles will tend to tighten a bit from the work out. 

I find the time to ask Simon about his month home; he points to two large sacks near his desk in the office, where he slept last night because he'd come in from the airport quite late and needed to be in early for his first appointment. He is ebullient; he always has been, but he is even more bouncy and friendly than usual. I suppose a month off, and being home, would do that to anyone.

I tell Simon I had thought to simply cancel my appointment, not feeling the need for treatment, but as he had helped me focus on my "injury" and helped me get through it, I felt he deserved to hear my story and to be thanked for his work. He is grateful; he likes closure with his patients. He is incredibly smart about physiology, and while I don't know why that surprised me, I realise I am grateful for that knowledge and competence. In fact, I was telling my tennis partner, who pulled something while we were 40 minutes into our last session, about how I see Nuffield as the John Lewis of their field--JL has a reputation for hiring good people and training them well to understand the products and provide excellent service. I would recommend them in a heartbeat--both of them.

Simon walks me to the door, shakes my hand, and wishes me well. (Hooroo, by the way, is slang for goodbye for Aussies.) I remark to him that this is the point that I am supposed to say "I never want to see you again," and  I add the phrase "for this problem, which I hope is now behind me." He agrees and smiles. I don my sunglasses and head right onto Endell Street, wishing I didn't have to head back to the office. Strolling through Covent Garden in what has turned out to be a rare few hours of spring sunshine would be a far better way to spend the rest of the day.

Simonized

You may recall my post on being Torbenated, trying to alleviate a nerve root irritation in my left leg. The five sessions left me, in the end, unhappy; while I always felt fine afterward, I didn't think I was making progress toward real recovery, and wanted to do more to help myself.

A few years back I had an elbow injury—a slightly violent clash with a rushing commuter as I was exiting a train and putting a rucksack on my back—and found myself going to a wonderful physiotherapist called Vicky who used a combination of acupuncture, massage, and exercise to help me fully recover, even while playing tennis. After my disappointing results with osteopathy, I thought to look her up again, only to find that the office she worked out had closed. I called my private health insurance to try to track her down, and they could not tell me where she was practising and only that she was still certified under my insurance plan. Sounding a bit exasperated as I did, the very helpful person on the other end offered to set me up—gratis for multiple sessions—with a physiotherapist through Nuffield Health.

And so I’ve been Simonized. I use the American spelling here because I’m not sure one uses that term at all in Europe; it refers to polishing with wax, as in polishing one’s car. And, I must admit, I am a far happier client. There’s still massage—that hurts, by the way, lest you think this is a pleasurable experience—which the osteopath used, but this time it feels more focused. And there is stretching—which doesn’t hurt, because if it does you’re not doing it right. And there is homework--the helping myself bit I was hoping for! My first two weeks I dutifully did my take-home exercises twice a day, and I must say I noticed a slight difference almost immediately. I still had occasional flashes of pain when I stepped down with my left foot, but the pain was less shocking and occurred less often. Having returned for a second session and giving Simon my update, I was issued more difficult and even more localised stretches, and once again I will dutifully carry these out in hope of further alleviating the pain.

I came to a realisation in chatting with Simon about my injury and other such diverse topics as philosophy (he’s a Buddhist) and cultural differences (he’s Australian), and he confirmed my suspicion: this treatment is not temporary;  it is part of a lifelong journey of keeping healthy, as Simon says, to optimise the quality of my life. There is no quick fix for what ails me; I will have to stay fit, keep on exercising, and yes, perhaps continue some stretching. I accept that, and honestly find that far more palatable than taking drugs—even Paracetamol or aspirin—which may mask the pain but not get to the root cause of the problem, ever. I like Simon because he is asking lots of questions to help provide me with guidance on how I can easily integrate wellness into my every day life without having to do things that I likely wouldn't enjoy, like core exercises or weight lifting, planning my longer-term path toward a healthy body. 

Are we a quick-fix culture? Sometimes I think we’re inclined to be less interested in treatment that requires even minimal effort, and then there are only a few who benefit from that—mostly large drug companies. I’d like to think that I’ll always fall on the other end of the spectrum—that I’ll be patient in treatment, and accept that steady progress and life-long vigilance will keep me enjoying  long walks along the seaside and relatively pain free. No matter how often I take that stroll along the Parade toward Gurnard, I always enjoy it—the scene is never quite the same, what with the boats and the wind and the tide and the colours of the sky from the sun, all painting a different picture each time I set off, making me smile, often softly, and always with a nod of gratitude for the chance to experience it.