I lay on my front, arms folded just above my head, my shirt pulled up just enough for me to be able to feel the air upon my bare back.
"I'm going to move down to your buttocks now."
"A bit sore."
The physiotherapist made a sympathetic noise yet continued hurting me nonetheless. It's her job.
"All right, I'm going to ask you to turn back over now, ok?"
"Ok, but I am going to make sad little noises while I do so."
And I did, as it hurts a great deal to move in certain ways at the moment. "I very much want to swear," I told her. "But I am aware there are other people beyond the curtain."
She smiled. I needed her approval. I felt I was being a brave soldier and displaying amazing powers of restraint by not shouting "Fuck! Oh bastardly, cunting fuck!" and crying a bit. I really wanted that to be acknowledged.
She fetched a heat pad and left me lying on it for a few minutes. I drifted off into almost sleep. As I lay there, in my post-traumatic haze, I realised that my morning's worries were pointless. I'd been mulling over the information that certain unspecified people had certain unspecified gripes with certain unspecified actions of mine. Why did I waste even a second of my time wrestling with that one? There is absolutely nothing I can do about such vaguaries.
(Has anyone else been on the receiving end of this one? Had an attempt to inflict worries and self-doubt upon them under the guise of well-meaning advice/friendship/concern? What are you supposed to do with that information, if you have no idea what it's about?
I get this a lot: "It's not just me there are others who feel the same way."
"Who?" I will ask.
"I can't say."
Well, what am I supposed to do about it then?)
I have to say, it has its faults, but God Bless the NHS. My physiotherapy session yesterday was good for my body and mind. I go back again next week. I think in a month or so I will be on a whole other plane of enlightenment and I'll be able to limbo dance again.