Angry muscles

It’s been a couple of days since my last post, and there have been some milestones.

On Wednesday, Claudie, my nurse, came to the house and removed the 73 staples. She’s very good at it, and it wasn’t bad at all. The pain level was similar to when Corinne plucks my eyebrows. Today I was allowed to get rid of my compression stockings, and I was also allowed to take my first shower. I stayed in the shower for a long time, singing. It felt wonderful.

Yesterday my physiotherapist, Claude, came to the house to check my exercise program and give me more exercises. Claude is a caring and knowledgeable physiotherapist, and she’s really helping me. Until yesterday I did most of my exercises lying on my back in bed (that sounds more exciting than it really is), but now I have many new exercises that I do sitting or standing. There is pain involved, and Claude explained to me that it is because my muscles are angry. And why shouldn’t they be angry. They’re angry that a surgeon cut them and manhandled them. They’re angry that I treated them badly in the past—angry that I was a careless cyclist. And now they’re angry that they’re being forced to do things that they don’t want to do. I understand their anger. Anyone would be angry.

Dealing with angry muscles, Claude explained to me, is a balancing act that requires patience and love. I need to reassure my muscles, encourage them to get strong, and then sooth them with ice. If I push them too hard, they’ll get angrier, and then we’ll all be in trouble. As my daughter-in-law just explained to me, the expression is “don’t poke the bear.”

Now I have a physio program that takes 45 minutes and must be completed three times per day. Next week, Claude will check to make sure I’ve stuck to the program, and she’ll add more exercises. I’ll soon be doing three hours or more of physio exercises every day. I’ll do them in a gentle, loving manner, just like Claude told me. I’ll avoid making my muscles angrier than they are, and maybe someday they’ll forgive me.