Yesterday was not a good day. Just not feeling well, which added to the emotional-not-feeling-well, which, no news there. A crying jag before my shower didn’t help, the crying jag during the shower didn’t help, and the crying jag immediately after the shower only helped make me almost-late for my first physical therapy appointment.
So, fine, I went. My primary care doctor asked me to try PT for a few weeks before we move to the next step of pain management for my back (I have spinal arthritis, diagnosed in January), which is cortisone injections. Doesn’t that sound like a blast?
So, I agreed to go, and afterward I felt even less optimistic than I did walking in; and I wasn’t exactly bubbling over with Pollyannistic glee when entering. The physical therapist told me I have “excellent pelvic alignment” (go ahead, listen to someone say that to you and then try NOT to go all Wayne’s World on them: “That’s what she said, heh heh heh…”) and only a few specific muscle groups she wants to target to see if strengthening those areas might help. Might. Great, thanks for the vote of confidence there, can’t wait for the steroid shots.
But the physical therapist is also a nun, and was dressed in full habit, with cross and everything. I don’t know why this was funny, except maybe that nuns are inherently funny, but it was. Right up until about three minutes into the meeting, when she was filling out a demographics sheet on me and asked, “And what do you do for work?”
And I lost it. Just instantly teary and snivelly – and while this might sound somewhat normal for those of you who only know me through the font of angst and misery which has been my blog over the past few months, let me tell you, it is Not. Normal. For. Me. I’m not a cryer, never have been, just finding it both largely ineffective (I have trouble speaking when I’m crying, which means it’s harder for me to win an argument) and the long-term effects just aren’t worth it (I get all splotchy and stuffed up and pathetic, for hours afterward).
So, that was fun.