Where Oh Where Is Anne?

Five painfully-long years ago my physically-active, vivacious self was turned upside down and inside out. In early 2010 I suffered a misdiagnosed, debilitating gym injury. In a period of two months, my mobility declined rapidly as I packed up to leave New York. Religiously doing my physical therapy, I was not improving and but also unable to invest further in finding a new doctor until I was resettled.

Convinced that I was doing better, I found myself in Philadelphia and taking my first walk without a cane in April 2011. Six blocks from my apartment, I tripped over an elevated manhole cover in the street, literally careening into a concrete curb the first week I had my new Aetna insurance policy.

Afraid of somehow losing my insurance, even though Obamacare was in effect, I refused to go to the doctor, even though two individual parties observing my fall called 911. Bruised and battered, I iced my purple face back to normal, promising to go to the emergency ward if I had an ounce of dizziness.

Feminine Wisdom From Elle Gayda

In July 2011, my good friend Ellen Gayda noticed during a massage that my pubic bone was dislocated, causing the most searing part of my pain. I guess it’s no surprise that a male sports therapist was treating the wrong body part. Ellen’s snapping me into place ended the most excruciating aspect of my mobility problem. Agreeing that I must get medical treatment in Philadelphia, I began weekly treatments with a new doctor to restore my alignment and mobility.

During this period, the scar tissue took hold in major muscles around my right hip. My doctor explained retroactively that I probably should have had a procedure called MUA (manipulation under anesthesia) which he did not perform. The procedure is as it sounds; a medical professional rips the scar tissue one or more times until the muscle and ligaments are free to heal properly.

Iman Olujimi To My Rescue

By fall 2012, the scar tissue and muscle atrophy on my right side was a very serious problem, and I worried that I might never recover. It was time for an intervention, and she came in the form of my dear friend Iman Olujimi, who gives stunningly effective Thai massages.

Iman and I embarked on a uniquely intimate relationship in which she spent one night a week with me for about three hours. ‘Just do it,’ I told her, ‘even if the tears are running down my cheeks. If I can’t take it any more, I’ll tell you.’

It was Iman who month by month broke down the scar tissue in my pelvis and right hip muscles and ligaments, working lovingly and diligently with me even when the pain demanded that we both stop for a deep breath. Between Iman’s consistent efforts and my being back in a world class gym, I was nearly pain free and walking beautifully by July 2014.

Together Iman and I accomplished what my doctor couldn’t, and he said so, advising me candidly that I might have to accept a 95% recovery.

Death, Recovery and New Decline in 2014