After school on Tuesdays and Thursdays I trekked from the high school to Beverly Hospital for physical therapy appointments. My therapist was young and affable, and she offered the space to me if I ever wanted to come in on non-appointment days to weight train or work out on my own. (I didn’t.) As the fall progressed into early winter, neither my flexibility nor strength improved. Frustrated, the therapist told me I was regressing, and she saw it in my curling posture when I entered the room. I wanted to say I always walked into a place like a question mark. To punctuate her point, she pushed and pried at my shoulders like she was opening a bear trap. On the verge of tears, I assured her that I kept up with my exercises, that I was doing the best I could. Either hearing the quaver in my voice or clocking my downturned, brimming eyes, she softened and said she knew I was working hard and it would pay off. Both suitably embarrassed, we barely spoke for the rest of the appointment, in which she attempted to summon enough irresistible force to stretch the immovable object. I had told her the truth about my working hard. For over an hour daily I sweated through the various exercises until my legs and torso quivered. I spent more hours at home squeezed into the iron maiden (not the band) back brace too; putting it on right after dinner instead of waiting until before I went to bed.

Run to the hills