Thad and I were having our personal training session where my daughter, Francesca works.  She enjoys the office because the doctor, office manager, massage therapist and the other rehabilitative exercise therapist work together as a team to benefit the patient.  In a nutshell – she loves her job.  A little too much, if you ask me.  She seems to enjoy the torture, the ability to push us to our limits without actually rendering us invalids.  In fact, during the torture, I swear I wouldn’t be able to get up the next morning, but in fact while I have some mild soreness, I am able to go about my business and then withstand more torture at the next visit.  Perhaps she was doing this to us because as her parents we probably did some things that she didn’t appreciate at the time. Its passive aggression served with a smile.  But the other day I overheard something that changed my mind.

The exercise room is large and both she and the massage therapist were working on their patients.  The massage therapist had these suction cups attached to the ladies thighs as she used her knees and hands to push down and/or move the client back and forth.  It looked like something out of the torture chamber in the movie The Princess Bride.  Meanwhile, Francesca was instructing us on how to self-torture ourselves while she observed the level of efficacy and exhaustion we were experiencing.  She had a gentle, lovely demeanor and was perfectly calm, and at ease while we were sweating like horses having just completed the Kentucky Derby.

And that’s when I heard the massage therapist’s conversation with the other patient.  The therapist asked her how her home exercises were going to which the patient replied: “I wake up in the morning and while I am still in bed begin the exercises you and Francesca taught me.  And I can hear Francesca’s voice in my head saying “We don’t fling our appendages” and to use my porta-potty muscles to strengthen my core.”  She went on to say that if these visit to both Francesca and Barbara weren’t working, she would never, ever, put herself through this much torture.

Now you know you have been seeing your personal trainer way to often when you personal trainer shows up in your bed!  Thank goodness, we don’t hear our daughter’s voice when Thad and I are in bed.  We would have to cease and desist any and all personal training.

But more importantly I realized Francesca wasn’t treating us any different than any of her other patients.  She’s an equal opportunity torturer.  She merely enjoys thinking up painful, exhaustive exercises to render us speechless, useless, exhausted, groaning in pools of our own sweat with the excuse that it’s to prolong our lives and improve our health.  The more we sweat, the harder we breathed, the happier she becomes.  It’s purely selfish on her part – she thrives on her creative exercise programs and gets a personal high with every client!  She’s thrilled when she increases the weights.  She applauds when she can add more repetitions.  I think I am being used to feed her need to torture.

But hey, I am her mother and I’d do just about anything to make her happy.

 

Thank you for reading my post.  If you have found it encouraging please consider liking, commenting or sharing it.  Feel free to comment here or even re-blog – may these words take flight!

I have additional insights I’d love to share with you found in the pages of my debut book: Surviving Medical Mayhem – Laughing When It Hurts.  To order a copy or learn more go to my website at www.lorettaschoen.com

Blessings for Health & Wellness.

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