My name is Daniel Reeves. I’m a doctor of physical therapy.
For 14 years I’ve treated shoulders, college pitchers, weekend golfers, nurses, retirees. Thousands of patient visits. Shoulders are most of what I do.
Last Thanksgiving, at my mother’s house, I went looking for extra pillows and opened the door to the den.
There was a bed pillow on the recliner. A folded blanket on the ottoman. A water glass and a bottle of Aleve on the side table.
My mother — Ruth, 63, a retired school nurse, had been sleeping in that chair for five months.
She hadn’t told me. Her son. The one whose entire job is shoulders.
When I asked her why, she straightened the blanket like I’d caught her doing something wrong, and she said:
“Honey, you fix athletes. This is just my age. I didn’t want to be a bother.”
I want you to sit with what I felt in that moment, because if you have shoulder pain, someone in your life is probably feeling it about you right now: she had quietly given up her bed, her sleep, and her right side, and reorganized her whole life around not mentioning it.
The kettle had moved to the counter from the shelf.
Her garden gloves were in a drawer, clean.
She’d stopped wearing the blouses that button in back.
A nurse for 31 years. She’d repositioned a thousand patients in their hospital beds, and now she couldn’t get comfortable in her own.