Barnmaven

PT, Redux

 

I started physical therapy. Again. Third time’s the charm, right?

I am trying a different provider this time, and I have to say I’m seeing better results. I chose this after doing some research on a newer technique for connective tissue injuries. It’s called the GrastonTechnique, and it’s sort of like Rolfing, except the practitioner uses a series of stainless steel instruments, which allow them to really get into the muscle and break any adhesions to the fascia, increase heat and blood flow to the affected area, and according to the literature, increase cellular activity (whatever that means).

So far I can tell you two things:

1. It’s working.
2. It HURTS

They do other things in conjunction with the Graston. They usually hurt too. Plus they make me do exercises every day. In short, I’m paying them to torture me, and this is apparently good because I’m getting results. Lots of improvement over a few short weeks. It's a bit of a dark bargain, but worth it if the end results net out the way I'm hoping.

I did have a little setback last weekend when I brought Lala home (finally!). I strung quite a bit of hotwire and cross-fenced the pasture so that I could keep her safe and separate from the other horses. This of course did not stop them from being complete assholes and chasing her through the fence at every opportunity. At one point she ran through fence to get away from Bugs and ended up in the section with Z and Penny, and both of them went after her. I ran after them before remembering I can’t actually run yet and really put a hurting on my hip flexors.

The next week at PT I was so disheartened, but my PTA counseled me not to lose hope, that I’d be surprised how much more quickly I bounced back, and he was right.

This is going to be the year I ride again.  I'm sure of it.

 

 

End of the line

 

My dad passed away last month.

Everyone’s been so kind, asking how Mom is doing. She is doing as well as you might expect. Spend 57 years married to someone, even though caring for him the last few years took up nearly all of her time and energy, even though at the end his dementia made him agitated and angry and often hard to be around, even though all of those things, when that person is no longer there, they leave an enormous void. It takes a fair bit of time to figure out how to fill that void.

It takes some time to figure out who you are when you were someone’s wife and now you are someone’s widow.

I look at all of the things Mom did for Dad, especially in the last months of his life, and then I look at SG, and I hope like hell he will be happy in a care facility.

I’m kidding. I’m sure he will like the candy striper I hire to change his pants and help him with the shower.

I don’t know, maybe it is inappropriate to joke about these things, but you know Dad always injected humor into even the most awful of situations, and so it is something of a reflex. I get in trouble a lot for injecting humor at inappropriate times, so I suppose you could say I got my inheritance early.

It is not a light thing, even though it was expected, to lose a father like mine. He was bigger than life, bigger than mountains to me. He was often very difficult to absorb, he could be extremely difficult and temperamental and he had little tolerance for your feelings. He was also wickedly funny and had the biggest, best laugh. He loved his family more than anything and I have so many wonderful memories from my growing years. Dad gave me the gift of his time and attention, over and over again. He wasn’t just teaching me how to change the oil, steer out of a spin on ice, hitch up the horse trailer and back up my rig. He was giving me the best of himself. We bonded over horses and sports. He never missed a basketball game, not once that I can remember, though I would have appreciated him not telling me to jump higher so often. (I'm TALL, Dad, I don't HAVE to.)

He was in hospice for the last month, first with a home care team and then, at the end, at Hospice House.  They were wonderful.  His propensity to drop the F bomb on a regular basis (also my inheritance, apparently) didn't faze them one bit. 

He lived a good, long life. He loved and he was loved. He was boundless. We will miss him, and come spring we will take his ashes to the salt water and we will raise a glass (or three) in his honor and we will tell stories. Some of them will even be true.

 

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