The day I quit physical therapy

A year ago I contacted my physiatrist's office in tears to say that my therapist had recommended a stander. I was simultaneously talking, bawling, and choking. And the person who answers the phone at the doctor's office is there to take down messages not console someone who is heartbroken. So she was focused on getting the prescription and I had to interrupt her with an "I do not really want it."  So why was I having the conversation? 

I had my return visit with my extraordinaire physical therapist a few days back. This man had gotten me semi-weight bearing on my gimp leg. Granted that was more than a dozen years ago and the angry illness retaliated, but for those few months were nice. And he was the only professional who had tried to preserve walking rather than give it up in advance of the disease. 

At the appointment he told me that getting me on my feet would be the only way to correct my leg. No pool work. No stretches. I was mortified. The contrast between the teenage version of me, that walked to the beat of her own drum, and who clung to the idea of never stopping walking versus the present shadow of my rebellious self, the girl that gave in and quit walking was embarrassing. Did I spend the last decade making decisions that took me further and further from my once self?

The fact that the therapist was (what felt like) bargaining with me to use this device was too much. I was embarrassed and I just could not do it. Plus a week later I hit my foot pretty bad. So I quit therapy.