A revealing moment on the treadmill forced Billy Mann to ask whether real progress in post-stroke rehabilitation can ever be felt while you are actually in the process of doing it?
When I pitched up at the NHNN rehab unit back in January of this year for an Upper Limb Bootcamp, I was quickly placed in the charge of the archetypal therapy tag-team of physio and OT. When I had been there two years earlier immediately following my stroke and emergency surgery, a psychologist and a social worker were also part of the squad. This time, the absence of a social worker was not a surprise, but I did think a psychologist's input might be useful. I guessed that in the consultancy process it was decided that I had little need in that respect, which was reassuring. But since motivation forms such a key part of rehabilitation, psychology surely has a role here.
It is only now, after some time to reflect, that I believe that one of the strengths of the intensive programme is that the psychology is embedded in the experience of the process. It's, like, existential, innit? Is that laughter I can hear? have I strayed too far into the land of Pretension? Let me outline an example and you can decide.
On one day, Jo, the physiotherapist in charge of my treatment, was off sick and my session was taken by another physio, Fran, who started by asking me whether or not I could run. I answered quickly: "No." Fran then asked me if I had ever tried. "No, but ..." I then told her of the time a bus driver failed to stop when I had signalled but was then halted by a nearby set of traffic lights. My anger at the driver's conduct impelled me to pursue the bus in order to offer the driver a piece of my mind. So, I tried to "run" after the bus, but my left leg would not co-operate and I was left stranded and very frustrated on the pavement, waving my walking stick and shouting "tosser".
Fran laughed politely, but of course she now knew that I had the "desire" or the motivation to run, which from a therapy point of view could prove valuable. She then invited me to step on to the treadmill and started me walking at a slow pace, increasing it gently until I had found the momentum of a brisk walk. She started to crank the speed up, to a point at which she was barking at me "run, run run." I frantically tried to obey, flapping my left leg around. All the time Fran was standing casually to one side of the machine, with her left elbow hovering over the red "emergency stop" button. She eventually slowed the machine to a fast walking pace, which was both more comfortable and I suspect more therapeutically useful.
As soon as I left the session, I sent an SMS text to my wife boasting "I have just been running."
It is only now, after some time to reflect, that I believe that one of the strengths of the intensive programme is that the psychology is embedded in the experience of the process. It's, like, existential, innit? Is that laughter I can hear? have I strayed too far into the land of Pretension? Let me outline an example and you can decide.
On one day, Jo, the physiotherapist in charge of my treatment, was off sick and my session was taken by another physio, Fran, who started by asking me whether or not I could run. I answered quickly: "No." Fran then asked me if I had ever tried. "No, but ..." I then told her of the time a bus driver failed to stop when I had signalled but was then halted by a nearby set of traffic lights. My anger at the driver's conduct impelled me to pursue the bus in order to offer the driver a piece of my mind. So, I tried to "run" after the bus, but my left leg would not co-operate and I was left stranded and very frustrated on the pavement, waving my walking stick and shouting "tosser".
Fran laughed politely, but of course she now knew that I had the "desire" or the motivation to run, which from a therapy point of view could prove valuable. She then invited me to step on to the treadmill and started me walking at a slow pace, increasing it gently until I had found the momentum of a brisk walk. She started to crank the speed up, to a point at which she was barking at me "run, run run." I frantically tried to obey, flapping my left leg around. All the time Fran was standing casually to one side of the machine, with her left elbow hovering over the red "emergency stop" button. She eventually slowed the machine to a fast walking pace, which was both more comfortable and I suspect more therapeutically useful.
As soon as I left the session, I sent an SMS text to my wife boasting "I have just been running."
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