Last week I completed two weeks of physical therapy that I take twice a year – this round was my 4th one. It includes light, laser, electric stimulator, and massage. 

Every time it felt routine, but this time was different. My chosen tranquil header photo doesn’t reflect what I experienced at all, and here’s what happened. 

On the day I started, I entered the facility and began to undress, switching my shoes for flip-flops. As I scanned the hallway with a side glance, it was clear that everything was business as usual. The waiting room was filled with people, all waiting for their turn to receive the rehabilitation services they had come for. I went to the main office to tell them I was ready, and I saw a few new staff members on my way. Being already old and wise, I didn’t dwell much on the changes around me. Life evolves, people come and go, and it seemed like it was time for some to retire while others took their places. I thought it wasn’t a big deal, especially since my female massage therapist was still there. Her presence reassured me, and I felt no sense of danger in the situation.

I also noticed a new guy entering the room where I usually received my massage, but I remained calm and relaxed. I knew who my assigned therapist was, so I didn’t anticipate meeting the new therapist.

I don’t really remember whether I went for the lights or the laser treatment first, but I had to wait my turn in the hallway with some other people. During that time, I noticed that my female therapist wasn’t going into the treatment room; she stayed in the office most of the time dealing with paperwork, while the male therapist was attending to patients. Still, I was unaware of the pending misfortune.

Eventually, I heard my name called to prepare for the massage, and it slowly dawned on me that I had been assigned THE NEW GUY for the job. I chose my favorite coping mechanism, which is denial, to deal with the stress of switching from a female to a male therapist. I thought, “It just can’t be; they wouldn’t do this to me.”

But my fears were about to become a reality. When he entered the room, he told me that he would be back in a minute. At that moment, I felt a storm of intense emotions: a mix of anxiety, panic, and anger.  I felt the veins bulge in my head, almost as if I was on the verge of having a mini-stroke. A little “Karen voice” in my head urged me to go speak to the manager and ask a host of questions, but first and foremost was: WHAT THE FUCK? Then —who is this person? Why is he here? What are his credentials? What is his education? Any referrals? Does he have a license to work here? What about his police record? And why wasn’t I given two weeks’ notice to prepare for this situation or any time to quit rehabilitation at all?

But because I am rather shy I followed the order. Knowing too well that the “Karen scenario” will never happen, I undressed down to my waist and placed myself on my belly, on a massage table squeezing my arms tightly to the sides of my body with cold, clammy palms clinched under my chin and sweating profusely. I was in full panic mode, seriously considering jumping out of the window and running into the forest to find a pack of wolves to live with. And all that just as I was, half-naked and humiliated – nothing worse could happen to me that day anyway.

He came in and offered a brief introduction, not breaking much ice at that point, I must say. After that, he told me to place my hands on the side armrests because he needed to have clear access to work on me. I did this reluctantly, hoping that my discomfort wouldn’t amplify the situation. When he touched me, I felt as if my spirit was leaving my body and floating above us. I decided to detach myself for the moment and planned to return once he was finished–I thought that would be the best way to survive this awkward situation. 

However, he had other plans. He began asking me questions about my disorder, my treatment, and the things I do to help myself health-wise. Although I was hesitant to explain everything, my shyness clashed with my politeness, and I began to share what I could. As the massage progressed, I found it was actually amazing. I felt the tension gradually melting away. I started to feel safe, comfortable, and blissfully relaxed. I questioned whether I might have overreacted a bit to a stranger touching my bare back—after all, don’t other people let massage therapist touch them and enjoy it? I didn’t know…

 Nevertheless, the first few days of the treatment were challenging for me; I felt stressed and uncomfortable even though the massage therapy provided some relief from my “suffering”. I wasn’t sure if he could sense how embarrassed and vulnerable I felt; I was completely tense, a complete tight-ass one might say. Nevertheless, he conducted himself with a high degree of professionalism and kindness, showing a genuine interest in my illness, which I assumed he found intriguing since it is rare and my disability is not immediately visible. He agreed to review some of my CDs containing medical exams I had taken over the past few years. This allowed me to see images of my brain, pineal gland, and a collection of my crooked cervical vertebrae. He gave me some useful advice regarding sensory exercising for my ever-cold hands. He turned out to be one of the best professionals I’ve met since diagnosis, and that’s not even only me singing praises – I heard people in the corridor saying a lot of good about him.

Summarising -I not only survived my last rehabilitation, but I also found it helpful and learned a lot from it.

I went from being shell-shocked and wanting to die to joining the choir of praise sung in the corridors of the rehabilitation center. The Guy turned out to be very knowledgeable, open-minded, easy-going, and funny at times. I like “funny” in stressful situations because it diffuses the tension and takes the edge off.  

My next treatment is scheduled for the end of May, 2025 and I am looking forward to it with calm and trust. It will be better next time because it seems like I overcame a lot of my ass-tightness and I came to terms with other people touching me for treatments and other medical reasons. I’ve even had a hard time being touched by neurologists – it took me a long time to get used to it. 

I think the problem is that I extremely guarded person, I am careful not to spill too much personal information to everyone who wants to listen. I had tremendous problems going to a psychologist and psychiatrist a few years back – I felt ridiculous having to share my problems with them. But I had to.