Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Dry Needling = Not As Much Fun As It Sounds

It's been two weeks since my debilitating, life shattering injury. Lucky for me, I have many close, personal friends in the medical industry who are kind enough (badgered) into giving me advice on my many (mostly imaginary) ailments.

One of them is an absolutely amazing physical therapist. He agreed to meet me a few days ago for what I thought was going to be a rehabilitative, fun time.

After showing me around his cutting edge facilities, he took me back to his exam room where I sat on the table. He then began digging his fingers deep into my wounded leg.

After a few minutes of that, he let me know that I had probably, 'strained the shit' out of my quad muscle, but that my ligaments all seemed to be intact. Yay!

Then he smiled and asked, "Are you up for more torture?"

"Yes!" I said enthusiastically, believing that whatever he had in mind could not be any worse than whatever painful thing it was he had just been doing.

He came back in with a box of needles.

I became seriously concerned, but still optimistic that this would end well.

He took a needle out and briefly explained what was about to happen, but I was far too distracted by the needle in his hand to pay attention.

He told me to lay down.

I thought it was probably a good idea as I was feeling a little dizzy anyway.

He then began what is known as 'dry needling'. Basically what happens is someone who is supposedly trying to help you, shoves a needle into your muscle and wiggles it around. If it's damaged, it will twitch and contract. The more damaged, the more electric shock type contractions.

My muscle was extremely damaged.

Rather than dwell on the torture he was inflicting upon me, he decided that now was a good time to start up a conversation.

"So, how's the family?"

"Great! AwesomeCool is still living in-OH JESUS CHRIST!" At this point he hit a damaged area an my muscles began to seize up uncontrollably.

I clamped my hands down on the table and began maniacally giggling. Giggling like a mentally deranged 13 year old girl is the answer I come up with to many of life's difficult situations.

"Let me know if it turns into a general, sharp pain because that probably means the needle is dull."

I broke out into a sweat. Having to worry about dull needles stabbing into my torn up muscle seemed like way to much to expect from me at this point. Instead, I continued with the crazy high-pitched giggling.

He pretended that wasn't happening, preferring instead to continue our pleasant conversation, "I just got back from a training in California where I learned this."

Lucky me. "That's just great! It's so good to continue your educat-OH FUCK!"

A few minutes and a few strings of swear words later it was over.

He warned me that my leg might feel a 'little sore'.

Sure, if a little sore means it feels like it was beat with a baseball bat.

My Teen who was with me during the whole ordeal wanted desperately to buy a new shirt on the way home.

"All my shirts look the same!" She complained, "I only have stripey t-shirts and tank tops!"

"Fine." We went to the store.

I got out of the car, only then realizing that I could barely walk. My every step sent searing pain through my muscle.

I hobbled around the racks of clothes, gasping and swearing.

Understandably, My Teen decided to separate herself from me immediately, "You should go look at 'Active Wear', Mom, I'm going . . . somewhere else."

"Fine." I said. I dragged myself and my useless, throbbing leg over to 'Active Wear', "Shit! Oh god that hurts! Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!"

A few minutes later, My Teen reappeared, "I want these." She announced, holding up a stripey t-shirt and a tank top.

I was in no condition to argue, I bought her the stripey t-shirt and tank top to match her enormous collection of stripey t-shirts and tank tops at home.

Now, a few days later, my leg has improved significantly. I'm cautiously optimistic that I will be back in that spin room, sprinting furiously to Ke$ha in no time at all.

Can't hardly wait.

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