When I started walking with a cane, and started to come to terms with the fact that this would be A Thing for me for, like, ever, I started seeing a therapist. I talked to her about transitioning into a different kind of life for about four seconds before the conversations turned to “yeah my spine is fine or whatever. Let me tell you about my mom and my own complicated feelings about potentially becoming a mother. Please take all my money now.” She was wonderful. She and I had our babies six weeks apart. This meant that she was a great support through that time, serving as a willing glimpse into my not-too-distant future. Unfortunately, she seemed to get hit pretty hard by postpartum depression, and she did not maintain her private practice for long after we both came back from leave. Fortunately, I had graduated into non-therapist-needing life, and I was released into the wild.
A few months ago, my physical therapist released me into the wild as well. This was a major victory. I’d been going just about every week for over three years, and for a while it seemed there was no end in sight. But I came back from maternity leave to a new physical therapist, and between a new set of professional eyes and my body’s own postpartum reset, I started making measurable progress. I have fibromyalgia, in addition to spine stuff & other stuff, so improvement is complicated. We did everything we could do there, but all signs point to me having stressed-based pain flair-ups because of the neurological aspects of fibromyalgia. So I was released from physical therapy– on the condition that I get back into the Talk About Feelings kind of therapy. I dragged my feet on the matter, because I REALLY liked not having to keep a weekly appointment anywhere outside of work. And I REALLY liked not spending all my fun-time sandwich money on coinsurance and copays and deductibles. I was like a normal adult again. But if I really want to operate at my highest level, with as little physical pain as possible, I’ve got to be here. Here, in the waiting room, with several other young, professional-looking woman who probably want help with self-actualization and work-life balance, and one dude in a suit who’s ripping the pages out of the magazines in the waiting room and throwing them away with exasperation. Crap, now he’s looking at me. Crap, now he’s walking over here. Crap! Gotta go.
Wish us all luck.
UPDATE: It was good, and the magazine-ripping guy was a non-issue. And good health is going to cost all my fun-time sandwich money. Damn.