Physically Therapeutic

Two dark eyes were trained on me, gazing unabashedly from across the room. I pointedly stared back, noting the angles of the face, the protruding nose and mouth, the summary orange skin, but my silent confrontation was ineffectual. The eyes, unblinking, remained locked with mine.

A bulbous goldfish was staring at me, and I didn't like it one bit.

I've spent time in two physical therapy waiting rooms in the past six years. The first was located in the basement of Cambridge's University Health Services, a fine medical establishment indeed. (Pay no attention to the coughing you may have just heard; it was only me trying to stifle my laughter.) A trip with my parents to UHS on the very first day of move-in to meet my general practitioner - who was out - resulted in an urgent-care diagnosis of strep throat and a referral to physical therapy for the lasting results of a simultaneously broken and jammed finger. (I never did meet my GP, incidentally, in four years of being under her care.)

Entering the PT lobby all by myself a few days later was intimidating, and I snuck to a wooden-armed chair and tried to blend in with the decor. Fifteen minutes after my appointment was set to commence, a dark-haired woman with a clipboard called my name. She looked surprised when I stood up and moved toward her, and as we walked down the basement hallway she commented, "You should be sure to check in at the desk next time. I didn't know that you were here." I hadn't even thought about announcing my arrival to the receptionist; I never had to in Sleepy Eye, mostly because the receptionist was a family friend and probably knew everyone in town.

The UHS physical therapy department had many things: a competent practitioner, a successful therapy regimen, cool red and yellow resistance clay that could be used to strengthen fingers or release stress. It did not have an aquarium.

That's what sets the second physical therapy waiting room apart. Sure, the layout is more open, the seating area is smaller, and the accents are a wee bit rounder in New Ulm. But the aquarium is what really makes the place stand out. "Go downstairs and straight down the hall," the nurse told me last week, when my initial examination yielded a PT prescription. "When you reach the aquarium, you're there."

Apart from the unwelcome attentions of a staring goldfish, the therapy experience in New Ulm is essentially intimidation-free. Most-helpful therapist S measured the range of motion in my shoulder (135 degrees, thank you very much) and pointed out that the strange protruding of my right shoulder blade is due to the fact that my serratus anterior and rhomboid muscles seem to be "slacking off". This sort of "winging" (which seems to be the preferred technical medical term) is often associated with nerve damage. From the attention that I get when my case is presented, I feel as though winging without such damage is unusual; last week, the doctor asked my permission to show my lopsided shoulder blades to a nurse for novelty's sake, and today the therapist who peeked around a receptionist at my chart on the day of my referral stopped S's measurings to poke at my shoulder himself. "No neurological damage?" he asked her over my head. Shocker, I know.

But as far as I can tell, all is neurologically sound here in Sleepy Eye, and I have been assigned a slough of strengthening exercises, a few of which involve a red resistance band that I am most interested to try. Two to three sets a day is the prescription until Thursday afternoon, at which time I'll venture back to the New Ulm Medical Center for session the second. If I'm super strong, we'll trade the red latex therapy band for a more resistant one of a different color, or maybe some little free weights. If not, well, at least I'll be ready for that goldfish - a red latex therapy band makes a keen blindfold.