One week after I was given the boot (no, the doc didn't nix me as a patient), I began PT. It started out fine: My ankle was stiff as a board; I could still wiggle my toes; I could NOT wiggle my foot despite the incredible amount of energy I put into the attempt. Finally, a millimeter of movement! Doesn't sound very compelling, but to me, it was akin to tying to move a dresser across the room via telekinesis and the dresser actually shakes.
Next I tried an exercise that my PT had showed me, and got really queasy. I 'mentioned' it to her, and she took one look at me and screamed for smelling salts. I spent the next five minutes taking deep breaths with my arms raised above my head.
She kept asking me if I ate in the morning and I kept telling her I did. And every time she waved the salts under my nose, my eyes would water. Finally, I'm okay. But she decides to start with two sessions a week instead of three. Okay, no arguments from me (there's a first)! Of course, whle I was waiting to make an appointment I got that weak in the stomach feeling again. So I tell her I'm gonna go sit because I'm feeling a little sick. SALTS AGAIN! This time they gave me a cold towel to put around my neck. All in all I think it went pretty well. But to this day, my primary PT teases me that if I faint, he won't catch me. He particularly likes to do this when I graduate to a new exercise that presents a whole new set of challenges. He also likes tease me just enough to get me to tell him to Fu*k off. Come to think of it, so does my buddy Steve, from work. (note to self - Tell the next cute guy who flirts with me to 'Fu*k off' and make mental note of his response)