“Dad?” Ian fastened the strap of the cold pack around my knee. “What are you doing with your foot?”
I flexed my ankle again. “You mean this?”
“Yeah. You had knee surgery. Why do you keep doing that?”
From the time I returned home following my knee replacement, the recovery fascinated Ian. He became my home therapy coach and the resident expert on arranging the cold pack on my knee. Now, yet another thing about my procedure piqued his curiosity.
“It’s something my dad taught me before you were born. He had a tractor accident and it ripped all the tendons from his right thumb. He had to have everything surgically fixed, but that wasn’t all. He needed a lot of physical therapy, too, so that his thumb would be fully usable again.”
“What did he do?”
“He got a little, rubber ball that he carried with him everywhere he went. Whenever he had spare time, he’d pull it out and squeeze. Every chance he got.”
“But, what does that have to do with your knee and your foot?”
“I can’t squeeze a ball with my knee, so the hospital therapist said I should flex my foot whenever I could. The more I did it, the faster I’d recover.” I flashed a few quick reps.
“Your dad taught you that?”
I gave him a gentle smile. “He had no idea that I’d need his help thirty years after he died, so he made a point to tell me as much as he could while he was still around. Thanks for helping me. I’ll call you when I need you.”
“No problem,” Ian said and left the room.
“How’d I do, Dad?” My father didn’t answer, of course but it made me feel good knowing that he might have been watching.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.