Where You Been Boy? Conclusion

The Old Man wraps this up. After the round of visits by Dr. Stickfiend and the encounters with the imagined demented hunchback, I began an eight week program of physical therapy. A pleasant lady began the process with a series of stretching exercises. Pretty bland. After a few visits, I noticed that things were ramping up a bit. First there were one pound weights on each ankle while I did leg lifts. No problem....until she had me do these things while sitting on a huge beach ball. Ball rolling around, me trying to keep my balance, doing leg lifts until the spots began to form before my eyes, would have made Jillian of "Biggest Loser" proud.

The ankle weights gradually increased to five pounds per ankle. Then I became coupled to this rubber band apparatus mounted on the wall. "Pull down slowly with your arms, hold for a count of 5, and then release". "Oh, and do two sets of ten". Along about number 15 of these, I began to visualize the mileage I would cover if one of the bands happened to break and sent me out the 3rd floor window. By my calculation, I could probably make Omaha without stopping to refuel.

Through each twice weekly session, half of my mind was keeping count of the exercise sets while the other half spent quality time in the land of dread. I knew my personal Armageddon was approaching......the evil and sadistic exercise known as "the plank". "Achieve push-up position, keep back straight, and hold in the "up" position for 10 seconds. Do this 3 times."
"Yessim".
By the end of the third time, my arms were trembling like Ozzie Osbourne's vocal chords.

So, how does all this end? Physical therapy was good for me, but the back still hurts. More shots in a different area will be tried. Meanwhile, "The Old Man" is appropriately well named.