Making people do things they don’t feel like doing, while they’re exhausted, and it’s probably going to hurt. It’s no wonder us physios get the fun name of physio-terrorists. It may be a long running joke but we can’t be that bad can we? Surely we’re caring, allied healthcare professionals, working to a standard of care. However, sometimes hard work is needed from both of us to smash those rehabilitation goals. Saying that, I recently saw a quote from a patient, Eunice, on a set of hospital notes that read, ‘uh oh, here come the torturers.’ Well Eunice, let me show you 3 examples of why we do what we do.

1. ‘Pete, your friendly neighbourhood litter-picker.’

96 year old Pete’s walking wasn’t as good as it used to be. In his younger days (which he described as his 70s) he would hike across mountains. He set up a walkers group in his hometown which continues to this day, and he remains honorary president. Something Pete established in the group was to litter-pick during their sessions, because ‘it was a good thing to do.’ Having built up Pete’s strength to walk 0.5km outdoors, I handed him a litter-picker and a bin bag. His eyes actually lit up, and he completed an hour of what some might see as community service. Pete loved every minute of it, and enjoyed the adulation of passers-by.

2. ‘The washing-up won’t wash itself, Barbara.’

Barbara fell and broke her wrist. Whilst her wrist was immobilised, I gave her an exercise programme for her legs as she was struggling to walk. Her initial response to me was, ‘oh god I don’t need physio, the doctors said the physios did this to me.’ Barbara and I were going to get on so well. She progressed from needing assistance to walk 2 metres, to independently walking 20 metres. Would you believe me if I said her chosen goal was to be able to walk to the kitchen and do the washing up? Once the plaster cast was off the wrist, I put her to (more) work. Leg exercises, balance work, and wrist movements. 2 weeks later, Barbara walked into that kitchen, stood at the sink, and washed up. I made a deal with her - I dried. See, I’m not a monster.

3. ‘Albert, please use your actual toilet.’

After a bout of pneumonia, Albert was drained. He’d settled himself downstairs with a bed and a commode in his living room. It was just easier that way. He tutted and rolled his eyes every time I came into his house. So I said to him, ‘do you want a portable toilet next to you whilst you eat your haddock and chips?’ That was the kicker. He loved a chippy tea and there was no way the putrid smell of a commode would spoil it. So I made him stand up from chairs, squat in the kitchen, and do step aerobics, over and over again. Before he knew it, he was going up and down the stairs with ease, sleeping like a baby in his double bed, and using an actual toilet that flushed.

‘If that’s not enough to convince you, I’ll try harder.’

Sometimes ‘a bit of torture’ is all you need. I know it's not easy. In fact, it's bloody hard work. But the rewards are up there with pots of gold found at the end of rainbows.

‘Hello Eunice, my name's Andy. We’ve got some hard work ahead. But when we’re done, shall we take over the world?’