I have a crush on my physical therapist.

She is all Charlize-Meg-Reese perky with blond curly hair and eyes the color of her pale blue sweater. She is like a favorite second grade teacher who always knew what to say and when to say it and we all vied for front row seats in her classroom. She smiles dazzling encouragement and I think, “I’ll bet I am her best client.”

I drive 45 minutes to see her twice a week, into a rough neighborhood beyond the edge of my known map. I pass signs declaring the town as the sister city of Durango Mexico. Near the clinic is a busy racetrack where there are no ladies in lovely hats or juleps of any kind. Oblivious to the distance or sordid scenery, I maze through strip malls and adult superstores to get to my appointments on time.

About a month and a half ago I broke my wrist. I was taking the pug out in the backyard, just home from work with a glass of Shiraz dangling jauntily from my right hand, undaunted by snow and ice in my patent leather clogs. I slipped, and in the split second between flight and crash landing, I had the unexplicable instinct to successfully protect the hand-blown Polish wine glass. In retrospect, this was probably not the best decision.

I learned almost immediately that broken wrists are the common cold of the fracture world. Wrists are spindly tubes with poor insulation, no match for our weight when we fling them outward to brace a fall. On impact the bones frequently snap. By the time the x-ray confirmed what was obvious, the ER doctor seemed bored and moved on quickly to see what was behind curtain number three. Later, we found out that I did manage to add some pizzazz to an otherwise mundane injury by crunching instead of cracking, subsequently requiring surgery to place a nifty multi-pronged metal plate, leaving a scar that looks as though I was a far more troubled teen than I let on.

Five casts later I was given a splint held together by removable Velcro straps and declared ready for physical therapy. The first thing I did was get my nails done. The second thing was make the seedy drive to the recommended facility. The physical therapy room is part gym, part romper room. There are brightly colored “toys” scattered throughout. One woman is extracting sparkly beads from florescent orange putty. Someone else is guiding a red square along a handheld maze. I am given a fun bucket with real seashells to pick up one at a time. But there is an undercurrent of sinister intensity to all this healing play. It hurts to do what they ask. It hurts a lot.

I have marathon runners in my family – two sisters, a sister in law, a brother and my father. They talk about “pushing through the pain” or how they can “hit the wall” and continue to run for another five or ten or million miles. They grimace and spit and tremble as they lurch through the chute at the finish line, already planning the next opportunity for self-inflicted torture. I am not sure what goes through their minds for those three or four hours, but I know what would go through mine in the first three minutes: “Stop now. Go have coffee and a slice of banana bread.” And I would. I can gain without pain, thank you.

So as I roll my arm over a little hamster wheel (sans the hamster) and scrutinize diagrams instructing my hand to turn this way or point that way, I am losing interest. The cute therapist comes back and tells me I am doing well. I sit up straighter and look sheepish, “Really?” I ask. “Oh yes,” she says. She hands me a red rubber ball to grip. I take it, ready to continue my suddenly extraordinary progress. She goes off to help someone else and I begin to fade again.

I have learned in physical therapy that my mind is stupid. Without the help of the senses it will delude itself into believing anything. I have to practice putting my hand on my hip and as I do, I imagine that I am a sassy teapot with my arm handle jutting at a perfect angle. Looking down, my wrist is straight and stiff without the slightest bend. In my head, I have no injury and everything works as it always has. With bizarre gestalt compensation, my other arm and hand just work a little harder and barely notice that their partner is nearly useless. Under this illusion, I could go on forever, functioning on a memory – a painless yet phantom flexibility that allows for a minimum of true change.

So if I dread discomfort and if my mind simply glosses over what it can’t really process, how will I ever fully regain my mobility?  

Call it transference, call it a latent four on the Kinsey Scale, call it cooped-up-four-weeks-in-a-house-syndrome, call it whatever, but I will do my exercises and drag my body and brain through this gradual recovery because I want to please my physical therapist. At least at first, this may be the only thing keeping me focused on holding a pen and pressing my knuckles toward the floor. Isn’t that why most of us choose to change? For our parents, for a lover, for a boss, for a friend, for a child, for a stranger, for someone we want to impress or cling to? I have altered and learned and resisted hundreds of behaviors in an effort to connect with another person. I am not sure how much transformational effort I could muster if it were just for me alone.

In the past week I have had my splint off more than on. I have typed, picked up dirty clothes, carried a plate of potato chips and put up my hair. I am starting to see how the directed stretching and repetitive movements are helping me return to normal activities. I am finally practicing on my own.

Yet as I remember that tomorrow is my physical therapy appointment, I work a little harder on my assignments. I would touch my thumb to my pinky all day long just to see her smile.