Vote for Pedro. Pedro Offers His Protection.
Yes, that’s a Napoleon Dynamite reference. Yes, I’m one of like three people on the planet who thinks that movie is hilarious.
Midwesterners are traditionallly not very good at goodbyes. The Midwestern Goodbye™ is a thing where someone doesn’t leave until at least half an hour after they’ve announced their intention to leave.
In some cases, it might be a result of heartbreaking feelings about leaving. In other cases, someone might feel it impolite to tear the bandage off too quickly. Most of the time, though, I think it’s just customary.
There are always exceptions to the rule. Medical appointments, or appointments in general, spring to mind. In an effort not to make someone late for the next thing, goodbyes are wrapped up pretty painlessly.
I mostly feel like that’s how it should be, everyone respectful of everyone’s time.
But today was my last session with Pedro (not his real name) and the goodbye wasn’t Midwestern enough for me because I knew he had to get to the day’s next patient.
If I’m honest, a lot of that angsty sadness has to do with how I experience anxiety right now. I’ll be moving on to outpatient PT just up the road, and I have to leave my safe space for that. Both physically and emotionally.
Credit where it’s due, Pedro was a safe place.
I think back to the time when I did the Couch to 5k and ended up with pain in my right hip and leg.
The sports medicine doctor didn’t see anything glaring on my X-ray, and recommended I start PT to strengthen that leg and fix my minor gait issues. I dutifully obeyed, and the PT I saw at the outpatient clinic noticed my IT band was tight.
He did the thing where he tried to get my muscles to let go by scraping the outside of my thigh from hip to knee with his forearm. I screamed out in excruciating pain, and everyone there—about 20 people—stared at me as I curled up in the fetal position on the table.
I hate being the center of attention in a group.
I also hate feeling weak.
To be fair to that PT, none of us knew what we didn’t know.
I didn’t cry that day because I didn’t want to cause a scene, but I was weeping on the inside.
It was traumatic, the bolt of hurt that shot up the offending nerve and lodged for years in my brain. As the incubator of a slow-growing astrocytoma, there was probably some tumor stuff going on already. There was absolutely repressed anxiety.
In contrast, the first time Pedro stretched my right foot I said, “That feels good.” I was shocked, and because I was emotionally a little raw, I was also surprised I was surprised. My shock probably registered on my face. I have a hard time controlling my expressions now that I’m working on feeling more feels.
That’s not a bad thing, just not historically a thing I do. I’m still working out the kinks.
Anyway, for something like eight weeks, Pedro has been helping me regain the muscle strength I thought was lost forever. And while it’s very empowering to stand at the sink and brush my teeth again, it’s a million times more beautiful to feel the fog of depression clearing in such a profound way. In hindsight I can see how depressed I really was.
I’m independent to a fault, but need help with so much. That’s left a mark.
Naturally I’m a little scared about what physical therapy will be like without Pedro. A little scared I’ll backslide. That I’ll end up in the care of a professional asshole and flip out.
Even Dan was like, “Can you have another surgery or something so Pedro can come back?”
I didn’t have a chance to tell Pedro all of this because there were other patients to be seen and there wasn’t really time for that Midwestern Goodbye.
I’d have probably been weird and got teary anyway because at the end of sessions I’m running on fumes and emotionally as raw as uncooked ground beef.
Odds are good that the Midwestern Hugger in me would have forgotten that some people* don’t want to be squeezed and you don’t always know who they are.
Bottom line is I’m team Pedro. When medical procedures lurk in my future**, I will remind my anxiety and depression that Pedro offers me his protection.
* Like the doctor who robotically puts a hand on your shoulder. You know the one. The one that says “I was taught that touch conveys empathy in medical school, but I maintain detached indifference. This gesture is a pointless ritual.”
** Next opportunity to practice being chill are the routine MRI and CT on June 4th. So scanxiety can suck it.