This is my mother, Phyllis Hanson. My first experience with physical therapy was observing her sessions at the Iowa Jewish Life Center in Des Moines. This photo was taken by my brother, Dan, in June 2016, about two months before Mom died. The PT was working on her mobility.
There was a cartoon on the bulletin board in the PT room at the Jewish Life Center. It showed Superman, and the physical therapist says, "It's great that you can fly, but I really want you to walk more."
About four months after Mom's passing, it would be my turn to experience physical therapy.
It was early January 2017. My primary care physician laid out the course for treating my crippling osteoarthritis, starting with physical therapy.
Before I left the doctor's office, I had an appointment with physical therapist Dan M. A quick look at his online bio showed a whip-thin, athletic man with devastating good looks. "Oh nuts," I thought. "This guy will never 'get' me. He probably does about a dozen triathlons a year, and he's going to fat-shame me."
I couldn't have been more wrong.
At my PT evaluation appointment near the end of January, I met Dan -- and Nate, the intern who initially took charge of my case.
I don't know Nate's last name, or whatever became of him once he finished his internship rotation with Dan. All I know is, he did the exact right thing with me -- told me a little about himself, shared with me his conviction that physical therapy was his calling, invited a short conversation about the meaning of personal vocation.
That's what I mean when I say my PT team treated me like a whole person, not just a defective body in need of repair.
It was my idea to try PT in the therapy pool. For that, Dan called on his physical therapy assistant, also named Dan. Dan M. for PT on the land, and Dan S. for PT in the water. (For about a year, Dan S. had the distinction of being the only man in my life who had never seen me in anything but a swimsuit.)
To say these guys are good at what they do is to damn them with faint praise. Both have extraordinary skills not only in the mechanics of the body, but also in instinct in how to bring out the best in me. Dan S., especially, was not afraid to try an exercise or a piece of equipment on me, then try something else if it hurt me, or if it didn't work as he'd hoped.
Before my knee replacement surgery, I was instructed to schedule my post-surgical PT. Dan M. was my first choice. And when the scheduler said I'd have to have some sessions with Dan S. (on land, not water), I sneered sarcastically, "Oh, MUST I?" and then inwardly went "WOOT!"
I came to know, from the way they treated me and the way I observed them treat other patients, that the Dans, and all their PT colleagues, need a lot more than a working knowledge of kinesiology to practice their art. That's just what PT is -- an art. It is, by its nature, an intimate art, and not just in a bodily sense. Their ability to work with me depended on them "getting" me, understanding what makes me tick, hearing my story and respecting me for who I was.
No, the two of them didn't have the skill set to restore the cartilage that had worn away around my patella. But they played a vital role in restoring my strength and health, preparing me well for knee replacement surgery and helping me to recover once was the surgery was completed.
I love them for it.
That's not transference. just fact. And my feelings extend to their colleagues who have not directly worked with me, but whom I have observed over the last year and a half -- enough to know that I would have gotten equally good care from any of them.
That's why I stitched the Phoenix. This is what it looked like, in progress. Today, it is displayed in the room where the Dans and their colleagues get together to start their day -- to remind them of how they help people like me rise from the ashes, every day.
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