Basic Bitch

Learning to walk again

I met Aisling when we were 10 years old at a summer camp.

In the twice-daily bus rides out the country we had a lot of time for detailed discussions on key issues — why we’d never kiss a boy; what we wanted to be when we grew up. My answer to the latter changed every year, running the gamut from nun to actor/accountant. Aisling, however, had always wanted to be a physiotherapist. It was the first time I’d heard the word, and when she explained, I was still mystified.

Twenty years later, Aisling is a physiotherapist and I am disabled. I’m a regular visitor to my own long-suffering physio, Elaine, and I still don’t know why they do it. Is there any other profession where you are so comprehensively and determinedly ignored? Where your years of training and learning and dedication are so bleakly disregarded by people who are literally paying you for them?

I am painfully aware of this when I see Elaine, and so I kind of try too hard. It’s mad and pathetic, but I desperately want her to like me. She knows literally everything about me and my life and her approval feels urgent. My weird friendship-crush means I lose my head and forget which is my left knee, or what ‘lie on your back’ means, and make panicked guesses, rolling on to my front.

After a year of me being out of the habit, poor sweet Elaine is trying to teach me how to walk again. It’s not like riding a bike. I feel like I’m at a lizard-person training academy, learning how to pass myself off as normal. I lumber around a room like a drunk Bambi while Elaine gives me human-tips: “Now, swing your arms. No, not that much. A normal amount. Casually. Remember, heel, then toe. That’s it! Don’t forget to breathe. Try not to look at your feet. Now do everything at once.”

There I go, trying to impress her with my waddly-lurch, trying to be the ‘cool’ patient. I’ll walk again — for Elaine.