One afternoon, a week before the end of the past school year, I was washing my hands at the classroom sink. When I was finished, I turned to walk to my desk. Instead, I slipped on a pile of student backpacks left sprawled about on the floor and soon found myself sprawled out next to them.
I tried to play off the pain that was shooting from my right hand to my elbow and all the way up to my shoulder. It was bad enough that my ego was bruised and on display for thirty seventh graders to see. I really didn’t want to admit any other bruising that may be emerging as well.
Workman’s compensation papers completed, I headed to the assigned clinic where I was quickly examined and then prescribed several sessions of physical therapy.
A few days later, I arrived for my first session. The therapist walked into the lobby and called my name. He asked, “Do you remember me?”
I am embarrassed to admit: I remembered his face, but my brain could not quickly supply his name. It turns out that my physical therapist, Dr. Brandon Olson, was once a student in my fifth-grade class – twenty-four years ago! Ten-year-olds grow up! They change!...