One of the more unpleasant aspects of this “growing old” malarkey is that bits of me start to fail or, at least, work less effectively than they used to. And that’s only to be expected, I suppose, what with all of the wear and tear that accrues from not having always paid a terrible amount of attention to my personal wellbeing.
Losing some weight helped a bit - the back is less of a problem, as are the knees - but my eyesight continues to deteriorate slowly but surely, and my eye tests are something to be approached with, if not apprehension, then at least an expectation of expense.
But for the past few weeks, my hitherto uncomplaining left elbow has been, well, grumbling. It is stiff, or sore, or both. Sometimes, the pain is around the joint, sometimes part way down the forearm, and occasionally nearer the shoulder. My gut instinct, and it’s such a male thing to do, is to dose it with ibuprofen and leave it to mend itself.
Ros is not impressed. She thinks that I should at least have it looked at by a physiotherapist - after all, what harm can it do, and it might even do some good. Naturally, I was slow to acknowledge her usual good sense, and put it off for a week. “It will get better and I don’t need to waste my time or that of a physiotherapist.”, was my evasive reasoning.
But it still hurts, and whilst it won’t kill me, it is a distraction, and so I have made an appointment for my very first ever physiotherapy session, next week. And whilst I fully expect to be told that I need to rest it, and possibly even do some exercises, what’s the worst that can happen...
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