Losing My Religion

I checked my calendar the other day, and was a little shocked to discover that it's been four months since I started seeing a physio about my lower back. The damn thing isn't better either, even though I've been doing all my swiss ball exercises and avoiding all activities involving vigorous pelvic thrusting. I've had numerous false starts where I thought that I had appeased the cruel spinal gods and it was finally on the mend, but each time I've sunk back down into the soggy pits of pain and frustration.

After four months, I'm starting to lose faith in my physiotherapist. She's a nice girl, and she has lots of expensive machinery, but four months is a pretty long time. The Canadian winter is almost here, which means snowboarding, and skiing, and ice fishing for Sasquatches. I don't need to be all systems tweaked and tuned to perfection, with flames bursting out my pipes and making the ground shake, but I do want to be able to get out and experience the frozen Canadian goodness without collapsing in a weeping, pain-wracked mass of pink jelly in the snow. That isn't fun. That sucks.

So if things don't improve, I'll probably stop seeing her. I'm not sure I'll find a better physio elsewhere, but I can't just keep on paying good money for treatment that only gets me more treatment a week later. It feels quite a bit like a breakup, with me holding on for just another week just in case she finally redeems herself, or cranks up the spice by suggesting a threesome. One can always hope.