Since her surgery, I give my dog PT three times a day on her knee. Unlike some of my patients she likes me. No, she loves me, wags her tail and licks me every time she sees me. She takes her medicine without fussing or complaining. She sleeps when she's supposed to. She walks willingly and doesn't limp for sympathy. She wants to run and chase groundhogs and I have to hold her back. She doesn't want to be sick or stay inside. She doesn't fart on me or cry when I leave or want therapy to go on forever.
I'm going to be old and sick one day. I'll probably want therapy (if I have it) to last forever, moan and groan about all of my health problems to anyone who will listen, fart on anyone who stands close enough and then cry when they leave. Perhaps these PT days are an early penance.
I took a deep breath (but not too deep) today in the midst of the worst of it and reminded myself I wasn't too good for any of it. Forty years from now the picture will be flipped and some youngish girl who walks too fast and talks too fast and types too much will hang onto me so I don't fall over. If she's nice I'll try to remember to pass on the brussels sprouts.
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