For two and half months last fall, I felt like a prisoner wearing a ball and chain. Not on my foot, but on my left hand. Not a ball made of iron, but of therapy appointments two or three times a week as well as hand and thumb exercises every two hours.
Day after day. Week after week. Month after month.
Lugging around the ball and chain designed to restore the function of a severed thumb tendon, I had plenty of time to think about kids who go to all sorts of therapy appointments. Who are assigned endless exercises, not for a few months, but for a lifetime. Whose parents drive them to therapy, schedule the appointments, and supervise exercises.