Yesterday I met the Physiotherapist for the first time. Since I got to keep my MRI scans, she was able to cast a professional eye over them and make comments:
She: (with more enthusiasm than I'd prefer) "Wow! That's a really good injury!"
Me: "Er, 'good' as in 'good' or 'good' as in 'bad'?"
She: "Well, I'm surprised you're even walking - look at the way that nerve is pinched. I mean, your leg should be totally dead with that sort of damage"
Me: (faintly) "Oh..."
She: "Lovely prolapse though. Nice and symmetrical..."
And so it went on. I've never heard the words 'prolapse' and 'lovely' in the same sentence before.
These medicos really could do with a little training in bedside manner.
The other problem was that she was really very pretty. After the problems with the osteopath, I was hoping for a man or maybe a woman to whom I would not be attracted. She proceeded to poke at my back, working down the spine. "I'm just going to check on the state of your sciatic nerve," she said.
What she actually meant was, "I'm just going to fondle your right buttock for a while, is that ok?"
She: "Does that hurt?"
"No" I squeaked, conjuring images in my mind to avoid thinking about what was happening below my waistline. Mentally going through my repertoire of christmas carols saved the day. "O Little Town Of Bethlehem" was particularly helpful.
If you've ever seen the television adaptation of The Singing Detective, you'll understand my dilemma entirely.
