If it's physical, it's therapy

When I was a TA in the phys ed department at Swingstate U. (go bucks) one of my students wore a T-shirt to class with that statement printed on the front. She was a physical therapy major, natch, and not only was she wise, but she looked good in the T-shirt. I subscribe to it. The statement, not the shirt.

The subject of physical therapy kept coming up during a recent trip to Tennessee. The soundtrack coming out of central swingstate swung from Moby to Steely Dan to Chopin to an elevated political discussion from Miami University to "Fresh Air" from WEKU in Richmond and "All Things Considered" from WNOX in Knoxville. The surrealistic movie in the foreground features an aging son going to see his parents for a few days to see if he can help. By four o'clock he was doing qigong in the shade of their back yard facing the first fairway when they got home from the two-week checkup with the neurosurgeon. Warning: Everything in this movie means at least two things.

Dr. Justice removed the staples from the top of Charlie's head, which appeared to have healed nicely, and pronounced him fit to gradually resume his normal activities. Driving the car is okay with a passenger to keep him company, so I've done some of that, and his driving is fine. No golf for awhile, easy on the lifting, bending, getting up, twisting, and turning. Golf, it turns out, is a fairly violent game if you consider the whip-like action through the hips, trunk, and shoulders, and we don't want to shake anything loose.

The physical therapist did a kind of stress test on arms, legs, and balance, and it appears that the major motor neurons on both right and left sides are functioning, which is very good news, so no PT was prescribed. Dr. Justice will schedule a CT scan before Dad's next check-up in six weeks. Then we will see a digital image of how completely the gray matter is returning to its regular shape after the pressure of the bruise was released.

In the meantime, there was a lawn to mow, an old water heater to dispose of, and weeds to pull. In many ways, it was like any other visit with the folks, except their main job was to keep me busy doing the things they would have done if they were 100 percent. So we scrubbed some deck chairs and painted the railing, put screens in the screen doors, and took the water heater to the recycling center. It was fun hanging out together and satisfying to get a few things done.

Dad and I went for a drive around the Glade, took a tour of the new Wellness Center and its impressive array of exercise equipment, and checked out the Recreation Center next door. Charlie and Helen are pretty good driving in their neighborhood, but it can get a little tense out on the highway, so I did most of the driving outside the Glade. We did an errand at Ace Hardware and the Green Grocer, then cruised past the new Food City supermarket, soon to open in a very close and convenient spot.

Mom and Dad saw people they know everywhere we'd go, some casual acquaintances and some fast friends. They are well-connected in their community via church and golf and other social networks, and I get the feeling that people value those connections highly. I think I shook hands with a hundred nice people during the week and even remembered a couple of their names. It's easy to see how comfortable Charlie and Helen are in this small Cumberland Plateau community of largely like-minded midwestern people.

Dad keeps in touch with the guys by phone, finding alternates to fill places in the regular foursomes, and diligently maintains the records of The Mulligans league, including raw scores, handicaps, net scores, team scores, standings, skins, dues, and winnings. They count on him to keep track, and he delivers up-to-date scorecards on time. Note to self: make your OCD work for you.

Every day we would have breakfast together in their kitchen and start the day's activities. There was ample time to relax and talk in between chores, and I would duck out to the flagstone terrace in the back yard once or twice a day to do a taiji or qigong form. Mom was curious enough to spend an hour one day learning a couple of basic stances in an effort to use the pull of gravity to straighten and lengthen her forward-bending spine.

Dad was a tougher sell, although he yielded when I pushed the idea of looking into a membership at the Wellness Center. The in-your-face salespersonal trainer we talked to did not win his confidence through enthusiastic exhortation to "do something," and I had to admit that the information they presented was unconvincing. But I couldn't let the subject rest.

The day I was to leave, I was thinking outloud that ideally Max, my nephew who is the athletic trainer at the College of DuPage (COD) in Chicago, would spend a day or two with his grandparents putting together a suitable rehab program. I made the case that Max knows more than all the personal trainers put together, and we know and trust him. Charlie was open to the idea, so I talked to Max on the phone. Lo and behold, COD's seasons are over for the year, so he had a one-week window and quickly agreed to come to Tennessee for the weekend.

Pinch me.

Arriving back in central swingstate was the surreal part, so I made myself a Magritta (tequila, lemon juice, triple sec, tonic) and a salad. There is an ironing board leaning on the front of my dresser. The warm red-orange kitchen has been repainted and rearranged in black and white. Where am I? I read the paper and call the folks to tell them I am home. I think this transition will take a while.