A couple weeks ago I posted a blurb about my back.
At the time, I anticipated being told that I'm a candidate for back surgery. Turns out, I'm not. Yet.
I saw the "back guy" on Monday, and I'm a candidate for 6 weeks of physical therapy. I won't know the details until I actually find a physical therapist and get an appointment.
I confess, I'm a little disappointed that it's not a 1-shot fix. At the same time I'm a little relieved. But only a little. If physical therapy doesn't work, surgery may still be in my future.
Meanwhile, what the "back guy" said I should expect is that I'll be in for at least 45 minute workout at least 4 times a week. That's, on average, about twice as often and twice as long as I'm in the habit of. I often say, "When I get the urge to exercise, I lie down until it goes away." But the reality is that I very seldom get the urge to begin with. And, truth be told, I really do hate going to the gym. Or being outdoors. Unless it's on a deck with a stiff drink that has a little umbrella in it.
So, in my way of thinking, physical therapy sounds a lot like torture in a CIA black-ops camp somewhere in Columbia or Uzblechistan (or Nambia). But, like I said, I won't know the details until I actually find a physical therapist and get an appointment.
That could take a while up here in the north country. We have a hospital here -- or what passes for a hospital. But we have no real doctors that I can tell. Again, this is the first time that I've gone in search of a physical therapist, and I'm not sure whether they count as doctors. All I know is you need a prescription to see one. So maybe they're more like pharmacists.
I go back to the "back guy" next month for another nerve test of some kind, and to check in with him about how the Physical Therapy is going. Meanwhile, it looks like I'm going to be living with the low-grade pain and occasional momentary loss of use of my legs for a while. Hooray!
In more up-beat news, the dog also got her annual check-up this week. She's in perfect health!