Therapy just brings out the pain

I finally broke down and entered therapy.

I know, it's been a long time coming, at least that's what Wife has been saying for the past seven years. Unfortunately for her, this isn't the kind of therapy she was hoping for.

The ankle doc must have been tired of me; he'd seen me twice and obviously my hard-nosed questions of "will I be able to walk again?" and "Will I be able to pick my ear with my middle toe?" was enough for him to kick me off to another doc like I'm a hand-me-down sweater from an older sibling. He prescribed a therapist - I'm sure Wife put him up to it because I'm a complex riddle wrapped in an enigma and she wants to get to the bottom of me - to build up my ankle's self esteem and get to the root of its depression.

That's how I ended up in Doogie Howser's office yesterday.

"So, what is this quack going to do for my squeaky-hinged extremity?" I ask the receptionist, trying to use as many medical terms as I can pull from the vastness (emptiness?) of my brain.

"He'll build strength and improve the ankle's range of motion," she says. "Now fill out these papers so we know who to call when your foot falls off and an address to send it."

She drops "these papers" - a stack that makes "War and Peace" look like a short story - into my lap and I my thigh bones bow under the weight like weak book shelves. The papers basically absolve the therapist from any wrong-doing. So when Doogie forgets I've been on the treadmill for seven-and-a-half hours, leaving me footless because the range-of-motion exercises worked so well that the foot actually unscrewed like a cap to cheap bottle of wine, I can't come back and sue the snot-sleeved punk. Not too mention, they make me sign a hippo form, too, so they can keep my case of butt lice a secret, but hinders the process because they refuse to call Wife to pick me up if I actually lose the foot citing the hippo oath as the reason for their omerta, in essence leaving me as a ward of the therapy office.

With a severe case of hand craps from filling out their forms, I finally meet the doc, and he really is Doogie Howser. He's a 12-year-old with a stethescope. He should be out doing what I did when I was 12: Throw rocks at friends (I still do that, so I guess you don't really outgrow that age).

"So, your ankle is bothering you?" Doogie says, his voice cracking over the last syllable in bothering so he sounds like Peter Brady.

"Did you read that all by yourself, doc? You're pretty smart, aren't you? Does your mommy know you're out of your play pen?" I said, wondering if I'll have to tie his shoes if they become unlaced.

"How did you hurt it?" Doc asks.

"Chasing hooligans like down the street before you TP my olive trees in the front yard."

"Didn't catch them, did you, gramps? Nope, I'm guessing not since you're in here looking for my help. Well, let's see what kind of damage you did. Stick your leg out straight."

He bends the food down at a 45 degree angle to the leg, no pain, no worries. Then Doogie stands up from his high-chair, takes my ankle in his bottom hand and with his top begins pushing down more until my foot is supporting his 12-year-old weight.

"How 'bout now, smart guy? Does it hurt?"

My yelp is my answer.

"OK, let's see where your range is at."

He takes my foot in both hands like it's a water main valve and begins cranking counter clockwise, and my fear of him improving the range of motion on my ankle is quickly coming true as he works his ass of to unscrew the appendage.

"Hey, Doogie, you ain't sealing off the Panama Canal, here, you can stop twisting," I say, half-screaming, half-crying, half wishing Doc cRipple had just amputated the damn limb and let me gimp through the rest of my life enduring the inevitable cat calls of "stumpy" where ever I went.

"OK, fine. Now walk to the other end of the room, double-hopping before each step on your bad foot."

"You mean to where the skeleton is?" I ask through sobs of pain and nerves because therapy offices really shouldn't have naked skeletons dangling from hooks out in the open for Joe Patient to see. Looking at the skeleton, I could see Doogie's plan as plain as the hair on my toes, I'd get down there, hobbled and weak from my excursion and his evil henchman Igor would leap out and haul me into their evil labratory whereupon they'll hollow out my insides to create their clone army to fight along with the blue-hair army Dr. cRipple is building across the street.

"Do I have to?"

"Do you see that little machine with the wires over there," he says, a wry smile makes his eyes shine and gives me the willys. I nod slowly, cautiously, like as if I was watchining all the misdeeds I had done in my life and not enjoying the show.

"Lets just say your testicles won't ever act the same if you don't."

Fair enough, so I start my double hop to the other end of the room. I get about three feet down before Doc tells me to stop.

"What?" I ask, afraid he's going to take a sledge hammer to my good ankle.

"You didn't say mother may I."

Ah, a 12-year-old's sense of humor.

With that task done, he has me hop back on the table and shows me some exercises to work on before our next visit. I would have been fine with another visit, had he not punctuate it with a maniacal "muwahahahaha!" That's about the time my bladder let go.

"Now, I'll know if you've done these exercises between visits. I've installed a camera and microchip into the exercise strap. If you fail to do your work, I'll instruct the strap to grab you by your junk and haul you down here where Igor will work you out. It won't be as pleasent."

Once the exercises are done he gets me back on the bench and wheels over the little device with electrical wires.

"Stretch out your leg."

"I don't wanna," I say, escaping to my own 12-year-old dialect.

"I can put these other places."

Just like when Wife threatens the same sort of harm, I dutifully stretch out my leg so Doogie can run electricity or radiation or whatever the hell that little device pumps into my body (if I had any luck, it would pipe beer into my veins, but we all know I'm not that lucky). He flicks the machine on and suddenly electric bolts shoot through my ankle and exit through my nose, singing the nose hairs ringing my breathing receptacle.

"Well, you're done, beefcake. How do you feel?"

I think I slur out worse than when I came in, but I don't know for sure.

"Great, see you Thursday then."

If there was any positive to this visit to Doogie the Therapist, it was the fact that I believe I left with telekinetic abilities thanks to the electric machine. Plus, my junk is still intact, and that's always a fear when I visit a doctor or dentist (the latter I visit today. Maybe he can give me ESP to go with my telekinisis.)