private practice

After liberating me, with much noise and dust, of my cast last week, the doctor in the hospital gave me a referral to go see a physiotherapist. Twenty sessions of doing something (exercising my atrophied arm, lasering away the scar, stretching the tendon so the thumb will move normally - it wasn't specified), paid for by my health insurance. Since I'd never done this, I was mildly excited. Incidentally, this is identical to the situation when I got the cast in the first place, and that didn't turn out too enjoyable.

After procrastinating for a while, I made a list of physical therapists (kinesitherapeut in French, what a fine name) in the neighborhood. The first one I called, the closest-by, gave me an appointment, which I went to keep late this afternoon. Like most of the doctors, therapists of various kinds and, most beloved by the French, psycho analysts, he has his practice in an apartment building. You wouldn't know from the outside except for the little black plaque by the entrance door enumerating in golden characters the name, phone number and specialization of the doctor in the building. Walk through any town in France, and you'll see them everywhere.

I rang the bell, climbed the stairs to the second floor, rang another bell, and found myself in an apartment converted into a medical practice about a hundred years ago. The furniture and, I would later see, equipment were all original pieces, stuff that you won't even find on ebay anymore. The therapist was old as well. He ordered my butt on a little stool and my hand on the table in front of it. I was apprehensive.

The first thing my therapist did was trap my hand between two wet sponges, which he proceeded to hook up to a power supply, much like an SDS gel or Western blot. I'll be able to continue this therapy in the lab - when no one is looking. After a good ten minutes of variously spaced current pulses, my hand was apparently charged for real work.

The man in white started massaging the scar with much focus and dedication. Obviously I had expectations before coming. I thought I would get to work out my left arm that's still noticeably thinner than the right one. Or my thumb would be bent into places a thumb is supposed to go. But nothing of the kind. After fifteen minutes of massage, I was sent home - with another appointment for Friday.

While my injury was certainly more serious than it appeared at first, it now seems to me that everything is mostly ok. I can move my thumb almost normally, have no pain, and the scar is beginning to hesitantly fade into the skin around it. It would have never occurred to me to get professional help at this point. Luckily France is taking good care of me.