Quiet victories

I've been thinking a lot about physical therapy, and how subtle and simple but oh so challenging it is.

In the movies, recuperation and triumph after physical injury seems so glamorous, tough, and aggressive. The soundtrack pumps up the audience as they watch the beads of sweat appear on our hero's forehead. Big, bold movements and long grimacing efforts are shot in interestingly edited montages. The hero grunts with pain and trembles with exertion. He has a mentor who eggs him on, pushing him to reach his highest potential. And in the end, the triumphant victory. Hard, hard work results in glorious success.

I'm thinking of Peaceful Warrior, and the gymnast with the shattered leg, and Nick Nolte there to urge his apprentice to overcome his physical challenges. "With some hard work, I'm sure you'll be able to walk again," his doctor says solemnly. "A warrior doesn't give up what he loves. He finds the love in what he does," Nick Nolte rasps.

Flash to any of the Rocky movies. I don't recall what injuries Rocky had to overcome or fight through (I confess to not having seen all of the films), but man, what a soundtrack for his training. Whew. The only similarity to my situation is Adrienne, my amazing physical therapist. But I don't think I'll be shouting, "YO! ADRIENNE!" at any point in my therapy.

Check out this list from Amazon.com of Movies about individuals dealing with physical or mental challenges. I'm sure these films have tear-jerking scores for the revelation of the seriousness of the challenge, and driving scores for the recovery efforts.

"The Eye of the Tiger" isn't resounding in triumphant crescendo to accompany my efforts, that's for sure. The realities of recovery would be way too BOR-ing for any film audience, and the detailed descriptions of the exercises I do would put my blog readers to sleep. Instead of dramatic, sweating exertion, my heroic journey is made up of little steps and stretches and many admonitions from my therapists: stop pushing so hard; take it easy; you won't get there any faster by rushing--indeed you could set yourself back by working too hard. REST!

I suppose the drama in my story lies in the emotional components of recovery. A writer like Philip Roth might be able to do it justice. There is great complexity in my mental and emotional journey from harried wellness and relentless pursuit of the Bottom of the To Do List, to shock at my diagnosis and recommendations for treatment, to the forced acceptance as I am wheeled into the operating room, to the odd timelessness of the hospital, to the mixed joy and anxiety of returning home to examine what I've left undone.

I've had to surrender to this process, and let them have their way with my body in the interest of wellness. Funny how awful these health-building interventions can be. But there's no choice in the matter, so courage doesn't really come into play. Some kind of fundamental strength may be at work here, but it doesn't feel as deliberate as courage must be.

The best I can hope for are daily accomplishments, measured in such small units that it's ridiculous to verbalize them. Just a nod to the fact that I have made the transition from lying in a bed for 14 days to gradually sitting in a chair, then given mobility with a wheelchair, then a walker, then a cane, all in a matter of weeks. Only in taking the long view of my recent history can I measure my quiet victories.