Ed is his name. Ed is my physical therapist. And I hate him.
The last lovely thing I got to do in therapy today was a another stretching method: face down on the training table, with my knees just off the edge, and let gravity pull the knee straight. For 10 minutes. When the buzzer rang and I was done, I stayed there and cried for a minute. Or two. One of the techs brought me tissue. After I had regained a measure of composure, I limped out to my car. Ed wisely hid somewhere until I was out of the building.
Have you ever heard that tears are healing? "Let it all out, honey, you'll feel better!" I think we've all heard that from some aunt. I don't believe it. At least not today; giving in to the tears made me feel worse. It made me feel like a wimp. And even now, nearly two hours later, I'm still on the brink of tears just thinking about it.
Warning to my family: everybody better be reeeeeelly nice to me tonight unless you wanna see momma cry.
P.S. - Ed says that if I will hang my leg for 10 minutes every morning and night, my leg will be straight in ten days. I forgot to ask how long it would take if I didn't do it.
Anybody know a good voodoo artist?