![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
VRRT VRRT VRRT
May. 14th, 2009 11:15 pmI spent the day wandering up and down the length of a room in my underwear, being manhandled into all sorts of intriguing positions by an absurdly hot young bloke named Joel, getting impressively rumpled and bench-pressing quite a lot more than I thought I could.
H - who will know who they are when they see this, though it's not my place to drop names - would be impressed, and might possibly try to pounce on me (lovingly) through the internet!
Okay, so it's not quite what it sounds like.
I was back at the Gait Lab, being tested. I've been a medical guinea pig all my life - first kid to have Botox injections in my hamstrings and calves, first kid to have some of my surgeries and very early on the list to have most of the rest, they used me and my wonky walking to calibrate all the machines in this particular Gait Lab when it was built - so honestly, if I'm going to be paid and get some decent strength training out of it, one more round of guinea-piggery won't do me any harm.
The thing is, though...I really don't like going to the Gait Lab. I know it's necessary. I know why it's necessary. It doesn't hurt until I have to rip the tape off, nothing bad happens to me while I'm there, the people are nice to me 95% of the time. I've done it heaps of times.
I just don't like it all that much. There's something about all those numbers that strips me down. Reduced to a string of stats about degrees of flexion, surrounded by a whole pile of medical mumbo-jumbo I don't have a hope of being able to understand...I stop being me and start being that.
I'm suddenly very aware of the hundred and one little things I've always known don't work for me the way they do for everyone else, and I hate that. I can't really explain why.
I console myself with thoughts of my new Robot Leg. There's a little machine taped to the top of my thigh, and it goes VRRT VRRT VRRT as I walk.
H - who will know who they are when they see this, though it's not my place to drop names - would be impressed, and might possibly try to pounce on me (lovingly) through the internet!
Okay, so it's not quite what it sounds like.
I was back at the Gait Lab, being tested. I've been a medical guinea pig all my life - first kid to have Botox injections in my hamstrings and calves, first kid to have some of my surgeries and very early on the list to have most of the rest, they used me and my wonky walking to calibrate all the machines in this particular Gait Lab when it was built - so honestly, if I'm going to be paid and get some decent strength training out of it, one more round of guinea-piggery won't do me any harm.
The thing is, though...I really don't like going to the Gait Lab. I know it's necessary. I know why it's necessary. It doesn't hurt until I have to rip the tape off, nothing bad happens to me while I'm there, the people are nice to me 95% of the time. I've done it heaps of times.
I just don't like it all that much. There's something about all those numbers that strips me down. Reduced to a string of stats about degrees of flexion, surrounded by a whole pile of medical mumbo-jumbo I don't have a hope of being able to understand...I stop being me and start being that.
I'm suddenly very aware of the hundred and one little things I've always known don't work for me the way they do for everyone else, and I hate that. I can't really explain why.
I console myself with thoughts of my new Robot Leg. There's a little machine taped to the top of my thigh, and it goes VRRT VRRT VRRT as I walk.
