I may be almost 40, married, and have had 2 strokes, but I'm not dead...so one day at physical therapy when a young gentleman starts working out on this beast of a machine along one wall, I took notice. Of the machine...the guy was totally NOT my type. It was a weird not quite stair step, not quite gazelle, cardio monster. I wanted to tackle this thing with a vengeance. This guy made it look easy and I was taught that anything a guy can do, a girl can do, sometimes better, so why not? (This was the part of my brain that doesn't realize limitations doing this thinking.)
To better understand the setup at therapy, imagine a big room and then go bigger. Along one end of the room is a ballet bar and big mirror (imagine dance studio). In the middle was a set of parallel bars and closest to the entrance were several double wide padded raised flat surfaces about 2 feet or so off the ground. The East wall had a chameleon-type machine that could do about a 100 different things it looked like and then there were a couple soft leather recliners and then 2 tables that mocked those found in a nail shop to give manicures. Along the west wall was a row of machines that were hybrids of versions found at the local YMCA. Around the stuff in the center is a clear path that made a track (this is where we practiced walking).
On my first day of therapy I had marveled and wondered at all of the equipment and gadgets, wondering how on earth I'd ever get to the point of using this one or that one, or if I would be able to use them. But the more time I spent here, the more I wanted to tackle each one with diligence and purpose and conquer it. So, when I had enough focus about me to notice the guy on the cardio monster machine, I knew that I really wanted to try it. It was near the end of PT and Mama and Rabbi concurred that they wanted to see if I could handle this machine as well.
They helped me up on the steps and I grabbed ahold of the handlebars for dear life. This thing swayed and I wasn't expecting that, but soon got used to it. Mama set the settings to super duper sissy easy and told me to start moving my legs and walking. The face of this machine lit up and there were more lights on it to look at than DFW's landing strip at night. (I know because when I was a toddler, I wouldn't go to sleep until my dad would take me to the airport to see the planes each night.) I started moving. Slowly at first and then a steady rhythm of pseudo-walking. Only there were problems we soon found.
My heart couldn't handle it. Before I had hit the 2 minute mark, my heart rate had soared to more than 150 beats a minute. Mama and Rabbi quickly shut the machine down and helped me off of it. Tommy made note of the time because we were sure that my heart monitor that had been implanted would be sending some kind of signals or recording or something to the powers that be to let them know that I suddenly had a spike. It was then decided that my heart desperately needed more work.
This could definitely account for the constant fatigue I felt after doing minimal work and this was not going to be an okay future if we weren't able to conquer this beast. And moreover, I wanted to get back on the cardio monster and show it I was the boss. Mama assured me that in due time I would be allowed back on it, but not any time soon.
I left therapy feeling pretty defeated, but I also left Mama and Rabbi drawing up a new plan of attack for my therapy. This would be super interesting to see what they came up with for me the next time I was there because we all agreed rehab ain't for sissies.
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