The southern Mr. House

So after months, possibly years, of dealing with a knee that was less than cooperative anytime I decided to run more than 10 miles, I decided it was high time to find myself a physical therapist. Well, actually husband-dear told me in clear as day terms that if I wanted to keep running the way I do now I needed to stop messing around with ice baths, ITB straps, and expensive and painful massages. So for once, and only after about six weeks of having him repeat this refrain, I listened, and got myself a referral to a physical therapist. We'll leave the interesting process of acquiring said referral aside for now (except for me to note that if I were to address this, the words "Tricare" and "kafka-esque" would be sprinkled liberally throughout said blog), and focus on my first visit to the physical therapist. For his sake, and mine, we shall call him Mr. House.

Now  if there ever was a sign that I am fully, totally, and completely adjusted to life in the south, it would have to be this memorable first visit.

Granted, the visit didn't start off very well, and that was really my fault. I showed up to his office at 4:20pm, fully convinced that with a 4:30 appointment, I would have more than enough time to fill out the paperwork so typical to an American doctor's office, only to find that I was actually twenty minutes late for my 4pm appointment. Oops. Fortunately, the receptionist was a lovely southern woman, who waved my profuse apologies away, firmly told me not to worry, and then even added that things like this happen all the time. I was almost feeling better, when Mr. House walked into the reception area.
"Mrs. Husband-dear?" Mr. House had a crisp British accent.
"Yes."
"I'm Richard House."
"Nice to meet you. Look I am so sorry I am late, I really didn't..."
"Please follow me, "Mr. House interrupted.

We walked into a a curtained off cubicle, where Mr. House pointed to a chair, "Sit."
I sat, and tried again, "I really am sorry that I kept you..."
"Yes, so tell me what you're here for."
Apparently, Mr. House wasn't having any of it. So instead I told him what was wrong with me, or rather my knees.
"OK, "Mr. House said after a while, "let's do a strength test. Sit" He tapped on the bed behind me.
So we did the stress test, after which Mr. House proceeded to tell me, and I am seriously literally quoting him, "Right, well, your leg strength is absolutely rubbish."
Alrighty then.
Now he was right. I'm supposed to be somewhere in the 90s (at this point I was too intimidated to ask what the units were), and instead I scored in the high 60s. Definitely "rubbish", I suppose.

He then asked me about my race goals and my training schedule, and proceeded to tell me that with my current schedule, there was no way I was going to be able to meet this year's race goals (for the record: I run twice a week (between 8-15 miles total), bicycle at least twice a week (five hours total), swim for an hour, and do an hour of strength training each week - anyone will tell you that is a fine training schedule). But Mr. House disagreed, and proceeded to add on, "And I think that if you're honest with yourself, you know that that is the truth."
Well, at that point all he was getting from me was a raised eyebrow, which seemed to placate him into silence.

At this point, he informed me of his treatment plan, and explained the importance of the home exercises as follows, "You need to do them at least 3-4 times per day. If you do any less, you coming here is really wasting your money. Or, well, in your case, wasting someone's money."
Ah! The curse of military health care. It's almost free, and thus we're nothing more than beggars and dregs. Obviously.

You may wonder why I at that point I wasn't telling him to shove his treatment plan, well, somewhere, and vacating the building as fast as my poorly developed legs could take me. Well, you see, the large treatment room was filled with patients. They were on machines, doing exercises, and getting massaged. And so I figured, he's either the only one in town, in which case there's nowhere else to go, or he's really good at what he's doing, which means I better stick around.

I was, however, very much offended by the man's demeanor. And if there ever was a sign that living in the south is like living among the Borg, that had to be it. And the sign wasn't the fact that  Mr. House was the crabbiest, curtest, and most diffident health professional I ever met, as life in Europe should have left me amply prepared for such individuals, but it was the fact that I was positively offended by the man's attitude, and had no clue how to handle him. It took me almost thirty minutes to remember how to I used to act around people like that back in Europe, and even then, I wasn't comfortable enough to at least smile at the man while I answered his questions as curtly as possible.

I have to admit that my attitude towards Mr. House did soften a bit when he, halfway through my massage came in to tell me he was wrong about my training schedule. He had asked his staff, and had learned that apparently my training schedule is ideal for triathlons. No sh**, Sherlock. But I nodded, smiled tightly, and said, "That's OK." Nothing more, nothing less. I have to tell you that not gushing over the man and telling him it was fiiiine, really, was the hardest thing ever, but once I imagined I was on a crowded Dutch bus, and Mr. House was the man who just stepped on my toes for the second time in two minutes, I was fine.

In short, of all the physical therapists in all of Tricare-approved physical therapy land, I end up with the one who's British, acts Dutch, and believes my leg strength is rubbish. I have another appointment on Tuesday, and I'll have to remember to bring my Dutch chip (you know, the one on my shoulder), or else I may just cry.