HEALER

 HEALER

I remember my first day working in a hospital-based physical therapy clinic. I was so excited. After working in three other departments, I finally scored the job I was after all along.

I'd worked very hard to get the job rehabilitating patients. After spending two years in physical therapy myself as a patient, then studying, shadowing other therapists, reading every Frank Netter anatomy book, devouring all things anatomy related, and teaching schoolchildren through the hospital community outreach department about our bones, it became part of me, our anatomy.

Then I got certified as a personal trainer, though it did take repeating the course two times, because remembering all the exercises and modifications and how to do them correctly proved overwhelming even for an anatomy geek. I knew every bone and muscle, but strengthening them is different than healing them from injury.

Officially a geek about the subject, they finally let me near real patients. I'd been through a rigorous hiring routine and had to prove my knowledge to multiple people at multiple interviews.

I bounded into the clinic with excitement and a wide smile that first day, bringing chocolate for my new boss and co-workers. Always show up with sweets your first day on the job. People like that.

After getting a tour and learning where they kept everything it was time to go to work. Sure I was a little nervous. These were real patients who were really hurting or seriously injured and they expected me to know what to do. I did, but hadn't had my own patients ever and the chatter around the clinic suggested that even the patients knew that I was new.

Mostly knee replacements, that first day were in there. One shoulder replacement lady, one bad back guy, a lady with a stuck neck, an old man that couldn't walk right, and a child who was annoying and I never figured out what was wrong with her.

Taking a deep breath, I jumped in. Adjusting machines for patients, getting and returning equipment, modifying exercises when they couldn't quite do them, and watching everything around me. Then I observed my supervising therapist wrapping kinesiotape intricately around a leg, cutting each strip in a certain pattern and interlacing the strips for support.

She assigned my first knee replacement patient, Patricia, who meekly allowed me to guide her through her flow sheet of rehab protocol. It felt easy for me. Second nature after all my worry. She was kind and had a nice nature and we chatted away while I watched her struggle to get everything right. Only two weeks out of surgery, her scar was huge and swollen and it wasn't easy for her to do things, but she tried and that's all we expect in therapy.

Assigned permanently to me, I worked with Patricia twice a week for several months. Because she was my first patient, we developed a close connection. It felt like I did when I was in therapy myself. That connection between provider and patient is tender and close, especially when real healing is involved.

Meanwhile, my favorite patient was Jaime, who was a prisoner brought over from jail twice a week for a wrist injury. The sheriff escorted him in handcuffed, in front of everybody, removed his cuffs, then sat nearby the whole time while I worked with Jaime, who wore the signature orange jumpsuit prisoner garb. A young man, I felt sorry for Jaime who'd made a bad mistake with drugs and driving. He confided his whole story to me in whispers and was truly sorry for what he'd done, but in Georgia the law is extremely strict and he had to serve his full time for his youthful indiscretions. Meanwhile the sheriff regaled me with the craziest stories about the latest criminals, amazing details that they never report on the news for the gory and salacious nature of those details.

I still looked forward to seeing Patricia. I don't think one ever forgets their first patient. Or their worst, or favorite, or most difficult, etc.

After four long months, she was ready to be discharged. She'd done well and luckily had no issues, because there was and still is a high failure rate for knee replacements. (Remember that before agreeing to one, no matter what a surgeon tells you, and DO try to avoid one as long as possible, because it brutalizes a body.)

Patricia brought me a cake to say thank you. And she filled out the evaluation form about her treatment and about me. It was glowing. She said such nice things, I nearly cried reading it.

But it was what she told me before she left that mattered most of all. She confided that she was scared of me that first day. She heard that I was new, watched me come into the clinic, and admitted that she prayed, PRAYED: please, please, don't let that person treat me. Patricia told me that. She didn't mind admitting to me that she fervently, privately prayed that I didn't come near her, because she wanted an expert, someone with loads of experience.

That's smart, by the way. I wouldn't want a new therapist either, and coach my friends not to accept one.

But Patricia had gone along and she was telling me this now because she wanted me to hear her and to know that she had been afraid of me. She also wanted me to know that she'd never met anyone like me. That she was so glad she'd accepted me and having been there for months and watching everyone around there, she was sure nobody else would've healed her knee better.

"I think you're going to have great success with whatever you choose to do in life," Patricia said. "I can't thank you enough for all you did for me." I smiled and thanked her for saying that.

"I want to tell you something else," she added. "You're really good with people. Really really good. That's why I say that. Whatever you decide to do, you're going to do it well, because you have such a delightful spirit. Thank you again and I left you a very good review. Five stars."

I nearly wept again, hearing her say that to me. What I didn't let her know is that I was scared of her that first day too. I wasn't confident enough yet and I really appreciated her trusting me to treat her knee.

We walked out together, she gave me her phone number and asked me to keep in touch with her and let her know how I was doing. I did that until she died.

We stayed in touch and it's true. We never do forget our first patient and I'll never forget her last words that day in the clinic. Patricia gave me confidence.

I am a healer.

Just Another Lori Story