I had one of those video conferences
with a physical therapist at the VA
today. She needed some measurements
for a wheelchair they were going to
provide me.
The arthritis in my hips had wor-
sened to the point where my legs
were starting to give out.
She began by asking me my address
and phone number. I guess she either
had to verify that I was who I purported
to be, or checking to see if I still had
my mental facilities about me.
Used to be years ago when I was seeing
and assortment of psych therapists for
my depression, they would ask me who
the President of the United States was?
I would usually answer, Grover Cleveland
or was it Martin Van Buren? Since I wasn’t
even close, I’m sure they just figured I was
being a smart ass. (Not a wise thing to do
with a psych therapist.) They tend to take
their job seriously.
Anyway, I rattled off my address and phone
number to the physical therapist, and we
pressed on.
She wanted me to measure the distance
in inches from the outside of one hip to
the outside of the other. Seventeen inches,
I reported. Good, she said. I’ll order you
a seat eighteen inches wide which will
give you an inch of wiggle room.
Is that it, I asked her? That was easy. I thought
it was more complicated than that. No, that’s
all I need, she said to me in her monochromatic
tone of professionalism.
By the way, did I pass the address and phone
number test, I asked at her? I’ve always been
lousy at taking tests.
I figured a physical therapist wasn’t authorized
to have me committed to the psych ward. How-
ever, like her counterparts in the mental health
field, she too was not amused.
The wheel chair will be shipped to you in about
a week or so, she told me. Instead of wings, I
would be issued wheels to help me get about.
-30-
Chris Hanch 11-10-2020
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