“So, Melvin. Um, thanks for letting me know how much this sucks. But, uh, the doctors have said I must do this exercise. It will help me retain mobility. So, um, even though we both agree this feels like absolute shit, please help me out. We’re in this together, right? And I gotta get through this, Melvin. I need my arm back. You need my arm back. Right?”

I had D.D. count to thirty. Then I had her change direction with her rotations for a second time and count to thirty again. We performed the exercise several cycles through. I spoke evenly, providing instructions for breathing, suggestions for words of praise. She followed more raggedly, until finally:

“Thank you, Melvin,” I intoned for her. “Thank you for your help, thank you for your care of my body. Now we’re done, and we can both rest. Job well done.”

I stopped talking. After a second, D.D. straightened at the waist, once more sitting up. She appeared uncertain.

“No more pendulums?”

“No more pendulums. Now, on a scale of one to ten, please rate your pain.”

She stared at me. Blinked several times. “It hurts.”

I remained silent.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s magically gone away. My shoulder throbs, my entire left arm aches. I don’t even think I can close the fingers on my left hand, everything’s so swollen and inflamed.”

I remained silent.

“Eight,” she said finally. “I’d rate it an eight.”

“Is that normally how you feel after your exercises?”

“No. I should be curled up on the floor right now. In the fetal position.” She frowned, touched her forehead with her right fingers. “I don’t get it,” she said flatly.

I shrugged. “You’ve been externalizing your pain. You turn it into rage, which I imagine is a far more comfortable emotion for you. Then you lash out. At which point, your heart rate accelerates, your breathing shortens, and your blood pressure spikes, ironically enough, increasing your physical distress. In contrast, I’m trying to get you to look inward. Focus on steady breathing, slowing your heart rate and lowering your blood pressure, which in turn, eases your nervous system and increases your threshold for pain. Hence, the deep-breathing techniques used for centuries by laboring mothers and yoga devotees.”

D.D. rolled her eyes. “I did natural childbirth,” she muttered. “I remember the breathing exercises. But labor is a matter of hours. This . . .”

“In addition,” I continued evenly, “by having you establish an ongoing dialogue with your pain, I’m attempting to move you beyond your current combative relationship with your own body. Acknowledging what you are feeling will lead to acceptance, which will lead to advancement. Basically, as you just experienced, when you talk with Melvin, you feel better. When you curse at him, you feel worse.”

“But I don’t like Melvin.”

“Does that mean you can’t respect him? Appreciate his role?”