The blessings of physical therapy in a pandemic
My son was a day short of one month old when we learned he had hip displaysia. Immediately, I fell into a paralyzing internet rabbit hole of worst-case scenarios (which, btw, never materialized). A couple of weeks later, kiddo was fitted for his Pavlik harness — a nylon, felt, and velcro contraption that looks a bit like a pair of lederhosen. He needed to wear the harness around the clock until our pediatric orthopedist told us he could stop. We visited Dr. Adib monthly for four months. Then finally, the day after Christmas 2019, he delivered a belated gift: Kiddo was free to move about the earth sans straps.
But kiddo didn’t want to move about the earth. When the pandemic set in in March 2020, he’d only just figured out how to push himself up to sit. And he seemed content for that to be the extent of his movement, to simply observe the world around him, to interact only with what was within an arm’s reach. At his one-year pediatrician appointment, our doc lowered the boom: It was time for physical therapy.
I didn’t react well. I thought our days of frequent doctor’s appointments were over. And I definitely wasn’t keen on having to take kiddo *anywhere* in the middle of a pandemic. But he was falling behind — and he needed his mom to suck it up. So I did.
On our pediatrician’s recommendation, we found a provider one town over who took our insurance and thus began our weekly dates with Meghan, his physical therapist. The first weeks were torturous. kiddo would sob for at least two-thirds of the appointment as Meghan performed strength assessments, guided him through different movements, and introduced him to toys to motivate him. We’d leave with a new homework assignment every week — but even at home, kiddo would wail like we were putting him through some misery no infant should ever experience. I found myself apologizing to Meghan during every appointment for kiddo’s constant crying, for his lack of progress. Privately I wondered if we were wasting our money and time pursuing therapy when he seemed allergic to, or incapable of, change.
After the first month, although kiddo hadn’t budged physically, he’d at least stopped crying the whole time. I began looking forward to the hour we’d spend with Meghan every week. After months of working from home, providing full-time childcare, and barely seeing anyone besides kiddo and Dan, it was refreshing to have another person to “hang out” with. She’d talk about her kids and I’d talk about our family. We’d laugh at kiddo’s antics, like the two or three toys in the gym he’d become adorably obsessed with. These appointments became a welcome break in the monotony my life had become.
I also realized that those 45 minutes each week were the only time I never felt tempted to split my time between kiddo and the TV, checking an email from work, or doomscrolling on Twitter. I focused completely on him in a way I hadn’t in ages, probably since the earliest days of my maternity leave. I was fully present, watching him try and fail and learn and grow in real time. And I enjoyed that.
Then, in late August, a switch in kiddo seemed to flip: he was ready to crawl. Around Halloween, he was pulling himself up to stand. By Thanksgiving, he was cruising around with the help of his walker toy all over the place — down our Towson sidewalk, across a Hilton Head beach, around my parents’ neighborhood. When we returned home from South Carolina after Thanksgiving, he was taking one or two halting steps by himself between Dan and me before falling into our arms. And in his first physical therapy appointment of December, he took off, unassisted around the room.
“He’s almost caught up,” Meghan told me in kiddo’s first 2021 appointment. He’d moved from the infant to the toddler gym weeks before. He was navigating the small set of practice steps and the ramp she’d set up for him with just one hand for assistance. At the end of each appointment, he was walking all by himself down a long corridor to the exit.
“I think we can discharge him in a week or two.”
Those were words that, back in June, I’d hoped to hear within a month or two. Now, almost seven months into our physical therapy odyssey, the phrase stung. Kiddo was ready to be done with physical therapy — but I wasn’t sure I was. Who would I be able to “socialize” with outside of my house now, in the dead of winter, if not Meghan? Where would I find my weekly 45-minute escape from the real world? How would I carve out the time to spend with kiddo, sans technological distractions?
The answer today is the same as it was in June. Kiddo needs his mom to suck it up. So I will.
P.S. Enormous thanks and hugs to Meghan at The Therapy Spot in Pikesville. If you’re in the Baltimore area and ever need a pediatric PT, look her up — she is a GEM!