Rambling thoughts from my hospital bed #1

I'd like to post a few things I wrote while I was recently hospitalized for most of January. I wrote this in my diary January 19, 2007. I think it's too good to keep to myself.

Physical Therapy is more than facing challenges. It is learning to walk, or eat, or any of a myriad of activities of daily living all under the tutelage of a trained, highly skilled physical or occupational therapist (both interchangeable referred to as PT's hereafter.) From my personal experience, a PT is a young woman who is, shall I say for lack of a better term, petite? How would you describe someone smaller than petite?
My current PT's are attractive Asian women, none taller than 5 foot nothing and who would, after a lumber-jacked sized meal and a soaking rain, barely tip the scales at 98 lbs. This inherent cuteness is a great benefit to their job. Therapy hurts a lot, yet it is impossible to lash out at someone so adorable. Who could be so mean as to swat a pixie?
But PT's have learned to compensate for their tiny physique. I may tower over them, and weigh more than a squadron of PT's, but they use a method so insidious, yet clever, that one must tip one's cap for their resourcefulness. A team of 2 or more PT's help me to get up and walk. One puts her hand on my shoulder or arm, while the other gives me a wedgie. That time-tested favorite of grammar school bullies everywhere has now become a medical practice. I'm not exactly sure how pulling my shorts way up into my butt helps me to walk--who am I to argue with medical science--it must be admitted that it works. I put one foot in front of the other and hobble my way to recovery.