CHAPTER TWO
Continuing

I fell in love with my physical therapist. It was not H's twinkling eyes, endearing freckles or amazing red hair that made me fall. It was her hands. Laying on the therapy bed in the small treatment room, H instructed me to turn on my left side, my backside to the tastefully wallpapered mauve and blue wall. She pulled up the red shorts I was provided with, to expose my bare hip, then slipped a small pillow between my knees. As she poured warm oil from a squeeze bottle onto my hip and thigh it felt a little like foreplay. Her fingers found all the aching spots without any direction. She would linger on the areas that cried out for her touch as if they were speaking to each other. My eyes closed and I made some small mewling sounds as my body melted into the surface I lay on.

Too soon she asked, "Did that help?", shocking me back from that new fuzzy warm place I never wanted to leave.

"That was heaven", I answered.

Then she taped me, adhering special flesh colored flexible two inch tape that looked sorta like crepe paper, at a point near my waist to just below my knee, along what (I think) she referred to as my "T-bar", which would stay adhered until my next visit. Then she sent me home.

Twice a week I went to that "house of heaven". Routinely I would change into shorts (my own on subsequent visits). One of the assistants would give me an ultrasound treatment on my hip and thigh or hook the area up to the electric pulse machine and cover it with a cozy heating pad, turn down the lights and leave me. A timer would go off and the assistant would stop rubbing me with the ultra sound "thingy" or come back in and unhook me. H would come in and manipulate me for a bit (my favorite was when she pulled my affected leg) and gradually had me do exercises. Then she would "touch me" and take me to heaven for a short while. Eventually she took to the gym where I did more exercises on the padded platform and used some of the machines, including the stationery bicycle, which was my favorite because of z.

After several (?) months H suggested I talk to my doctor about seeing an orthopedist. And I did.

Gotta do some laundry.