I’m standing under the steely gaze of a five-foot eight French-Canadian demanding to know why I’m walking even more funny than usual.

Her  perfectly sculpted eyebrows dart skyward under her trim pixie hair-cut.  I stutter under her scrutiny, confessing that I broke my toe.  I assure her, It’s actually much better.

“Co-reen —-” she scolds me.  “What did you do to yourself?” she demands to know.

I start into the story of how I had a really important telephone call to make, while she guides me over to the Nu-Step at the far end of the physical therapy gym.  The eyebrows arch higher as I tell Dr. Claude that I needed just to finish the call as I walked through my living room and then —

“Really, Co-reen?  Really?  Have you not learned?”  My PhD credentialed North-of-the-Border-hailing taskmaster gestures to the seat.  As I sit, she adjusts the level back down to one from the “position four” level to which I had graduated before the moment two weeks ago when I allowed myself to topple head-first on the living room floor, with my cell phone gripped to the side of my head.

Two agonizing five-minute Nu-Step sessions later, I’m over at the parallel bars, back down to the yellow band, the easiest of tensions.  Dr. Claude is telling me a story about her son and summer camp, as she eyes my pitiful, back-to-square-one attempts at form.  I finish the session in the Weight-Band-Torture-Chamber, with Claude on a rolling stool talking about her vacation and planning my two last beatings before she prepares her report for the spasticity guru at Stanford.

I find myself apologizing for hurting myself and losing the ground we had gained all summer.  Claude breaks into a smile, dawn on a stormy morning.  “It’s okay, Co-reen, my dear,” she trills.  “I forgive you.”

Ah, absolution.

I left the clinic with a spring in my wobbly step.