My first visit to the Physical Therapist.

I expected a quick cure; half hour appointment, and violà, pain free.

He seemed like an affable chap. He chatted with me for a short time to try and make me feel comfortable, asking about work, family and the holidays. Then he slowly crept into what I now call ‘physical therapy chatter’.


“So, Mac, how long has your back been giving you problems?”

“It’s been since summer. Started off gradually, but it has slowly gotten worse and worse, so here I am.”

“Was there a tragic automobile accident, with death and dismemberment involved, that started your problems?”

“No, um… no accident. No death. No dismemberment. Just for some reason it started to hurt.”

“Old age,” he muttered as he wrote some notes in his folder.

“Now, Mac, this is extremely important, so pay attention. Do you have any continence issues?”

I must have turned ashen. My mouth dropped open.

“Come on, old man. Control issues of the bladder or bowel? Don’t lie to me. I will find out the truth.”

“Umm… huh?”

“Do you wet or soil yourself? It isn’t that tough of a question.”

“Well, sometimes if I’ve had Mexican or Thai food I have to run to the bathroom… but, what the hell does this have to do with my back?”

“If you knew that, you wouldn’t be here,” he said with an evil grin. “Tell you what, do me a favor and try to touch your toes.”

I was so proud of myself. I bent over and touched my toes like I was a teenager again. Twelve minutes later, when I approached a position that could be vaguely classified as upright, the physical therapist finally stopped laughing.

“Mac, would you mind doing that again after I get the video camera out? That could have made us a bundle on ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’”.

I did my best stern look. I wanted to shout out, “No way!”, but I knew if I opened my mouth I would let out a blood curdling scream. So, I just looked stern. Very stern.

Apparently he got the message. The physical therapist (who I’m sure has a name, but I have blocked that out of my memory) just shook his head. “Could have made some bucks, old man. But if you’re retirement is secure, then no problem. Don’t worry about me.”

He sulked around the room for a few minutes, looking hurt and defeated. Then I saw a sick smile cross his face. “Now Mac, I am going to put you in some positions that may be uncomfortable, but it is important to thoroughly diagnose your problem. I promise that I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

I should have known by the gleam in his eyes. I should have run as fast as my stubby little legs would have carried me. Seven minutes later, as the heel of my left foot was imbedded in my mouth, effectively muffling my screams, and the ball of my right foot was rubbing my left shoulder, the physical therapist asked, “Does that hurt?”

My mind raced. “Does that hurt? Does that hurt? Is the Pope Catholic? Is it cold in Antarctica in July? Does NCAA football need a playoff system?” But all that came out was “MMMPPPHHH!!!”

“I’ll take that as ‘a little’”.

So it went. I left with humiliating exercises to do, like the “Scared Cat/Fat Cow”, the “Ball Butt Lift” and my personal favorite, the “Hunting Dog Pointing at Pheasant”.

Quick cure my ass. Give me drugs!