The physical therapist on Trapelo Road is part magician, part athletic coach, part confessor and, for a limited number of visits, part nearest and dearest. She hands out hope from a drawer of resistance bands.
Every orthopedic muscle and ligament is known to her by name — it’s a variant of the teacher who recognizes each student in her class by first, last and nick names after one day of school. With unflagging yet authentic cheer, she listens to symptoms as if she had never heard them before. She understands: these symptoms are not fresh to her, but each one is fresh to us. At the same time, she recognizes the task at hand, and while she is sympathetically listening, slides this shoulder joint or that knee ligament into a more healthful position.
The relationship comes with a clear beginning and ending: 10-12 visits, extended by another few if some physician assistant isn’t too overworked to submit paperwork. A dozen visits is long enough to learn what her favorite kind of cookie is, which New England hikes she has completed, which she still wants to do, and what her weekend plans are. It’s long enough for a patient to share when some grandchild will be visiting and what her own weekend plans will be. It’s long enough for strangers to grow fond of one another.
Sometimes — in addition to strength and stability — a little miracle happens in the session. Tables are close to one another with no curtains between them, and when one patient or therapist overhears another’s conversation, occasionally they chime in. The woman with poor balance lying on table 2 listens to the woman on table 3 discussing a local restaurant while the physical therapist works on her shoulder. Sure enough, both patients have been there. Both liked it, too, though they had different starters. Maybe one prefers the shrimp poppers, the other calamari. Discussion expands from there.
In the world outside this room, there is probably less compatibility. Maybe we fly different flags from our front porches and maybe we have even confronted one another in front of the statehouse. But here we are in a demilitarized zone. This is a sanctuary.
And so, we meet on tables in a friendly and nameless little community, over rotator cuff sprains, Achilles tendon injuries, hip pain and poor balance, as well as restaurant preferences and plans for the weekend. Chatter is cheerful; members are harmonious; everyone wants their neighbor to feel better. Over and over, the physical therapists reach into their magic drawers.
But all things end: 45 minutes, 10-12 sessions, weekend plans. Maybe we will meet again, maybe not. The misalignments of an aging body are never finished, and we have this in common. Future injuries and future physical therapy prescriptions may bring us back to this very room. If they do, another nameless community will rise from the treatment tables.
For now, though, goodbye, goodbye. Time is up. The front bell rings. Someone new is coming through the door.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.
