“When you stand, I don’t want you to put more than 50% of your weight on your left leg.” George, my way-too-cute, way-too-young, physical therapist said as he bent down, strapped a belt around my waist and pulled it tight. Then, he stood, gave me a reassuring smile, grabbed the belt and braced himself. “Now stand up.”
“What?” It had only been ten days since I’d been thrown from a horse, broken my pelvic bone in two places, cracked my tailbone and smacked my head on the ground – which, embarrassingly enough, only caused a minor concussion. And now, he wanted me to walk?
What if he dropped me?
I scanned the hospital therapy room, looking for a way to escape.
George gave the belt around my waist a gentle tug. “Ready?”
“You’re crazy. You can’t hold me.” My eyes narrowed. “Do you know how much I weigh?”
“Actually, I do.” He smirked. “And we’ll be fine.”
I recoiled. Nobody, except my doctor, knew how much I weighed, and he swore he never recorded it.
Which meant… George was lying.
Confident, I returned his smirk and ratcheted it up a notch. “Well then, tell me. Whisper – how much.”
George leaned in and murmured… the correct number.
Betrayed. I seethed. “Slanderous lies.”
George cocked his left eyebrow. “Really?”
Then, he burst into a grin. “Let’s go.”
I shot him a withering look, then stood. I took hold of my walker.
George braced himself, as if preparing to catch an elephant.
I took one step, then another, and another. Until I found myself in front of the ‘Shuttle,’ a leg press machine they must have salvaged from the dungeon torture chamber of some medieval castle.
“Okay. Lay here. Put your feet on this platform. You’re going to push 50% of your weight.”
I looked at him like he was crazy… But, since he’d been right about everything so far, I waddled, scooted and wedged myself on the machine, then laid back.
“Now, with your good leg, push the platform back.”
I gripped the sides of the plank and pushed. It didn’t move. I gritted my teeth and pushed harder. Still nothing.
“Come on. You should be able to move 50% of your body weight with ease.”
So, I summed up every bit of strength and pushed again.
George scowled, letting me see his disapproval. Then, he lowered the weight. “Okay, try it now.”
I did. It still didn’t move.
We did this dance three more times.
Finally, I got it to move.
“How much was that?” I asked, gleeful that I had finally conquered the machine.
“Fifty pounds.” George frowned. “That’s all.”
I fell back on the plank. Defeated.
Then it hit me.
“Well,” I rejoiced. “At least now you can correct my weight in those libelous medical records. I just proved I weigh exactly one hundred pounds.”
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