Physiotherapists in demand

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Image by Matias Maiztegu, www.pixabay.com

Every day I walk anywhere, I silently thank the physiotherapists who got me back on my feet after a serious motorcycle accident in 1969. Too long ago and yet still traumatic to relate, so I’ll skip the detail of the accident and fast forward to the rehab centre.

Once out of plaster, able to use crutches and manage a flight of stairs, those with serious injuries were packed off to a rehabilitation centre. Those physios, I remember well, were relentless in the quest to restore flexibility and muscle strength to wasted limbs.

I’d fractured both kneecaps and had them removed, so on release from hospital had limited movement. My quads were so far gone I could hook an umbrella around my thigh.

Enter the first physio who introduced me to the pedal-driven lathe, on which we made wooden collection plates, cheese boards, wine goblets and other items that required hours of repetitious pushing up and down, first one foot then the other.

Then it was into the (heated) pool to developed further flexion through weight-bearing exercise. There were sessions with muscle-stimulating machines, weights and frequent massages to break up the scar tissue.

We were given three good meals a day and then sent off to bed at 8.30. One night we all sneaked out and found a pub down the road; discovering it was by no means an original idea.

My knees got better with time, although I still can’t squat down and kneeling is something I’ve learned to do as seldom as possible. If I get a flat tyre I call the RACQ.

I was musing about this on day three of the great rose garden refurbishment project, spending more time on my knees than I’m used to. Once the day warmed up, I’d shower and retire to the lounge to watch the Australian Open. I’m a fair-weather tennis fan and only get engrossed when we’re into the quarter finals.

He Who Was Deported for not Being Vaccinated is back again, and, despite a troublesome hamstring, seems destined to take home the AO trophy. As all the leading tennis pros do, he brought his own physio. He may even have brought two if you peruse this story.

No doubt you have all had dealings with a physio at one time or another. It doesn’t take much. Common complaints referred to physios include lower back problems, broken wrists, ankle sprains, knee injuries, shoulder conditions, achilles tendon and pectoral strains, tendinopathy, arthritis and the dreaded hamstring strain. Novak Djokovic has had a dodgy hamstring since he set foot in Australia but his physios are obviously skilled at keeping him on the court. He is in superb physical condition too, which helps.

Given the dominant form he displayed against Alex de Minaur (6-2 6-1 6-2), his hammies are just fine.

As Novak said early on: “It’s up to God, and my physio to help me. Let’s take it day by day, I hope I’ll be able to recover.”

The hamstrings are the muscles at the back of the thigh, attaching above the hip joint and below the knee joint. Adequate resilience of the hamstring muscles and their tendons, which attach the muscle to bone and are essential for movement, is essential and fostered by sport-specific exercise.

Retired ballet dancer Martin Collyer has just finished undergraduate studies at UQ for a degree in physiotherapy. One of his placements was at a former workplace, Queensland Ballet headquarters in West End. Like all elite athletes with a retirement age around 35, he made plans, initially working as a yoga teacher.

He said he chose to study physiotherapy despite some disappointing experiences with physios on the few occasions when he suffered injuries as a professional dancer.  He related an anecdote from a group he was teaching about a long-term yoga teacher who was studying for a bachelor of physiotherapy. She chose to stop, after four years and much effort.

The reason cited was that physiotherapy was, “too focused on individual joints and muscles; too narrow,” leaving the individual feeling that yoga was a more ‘holistic’ approach. Martin was asked for an opinion.

“I said that while there are tremendous physios, the individual may matter more than the modality. There are great chiropractors working from the evidence base and using exercise as treatment, just as there are physios who may disregard the evidence base.

“Physio’s origins are in massage, but the profession has evolved a great deal over the years. Increasingly, the evidence supports exercise as best-practice management for a majority of musculo-skeletal conditions. This means that the training physios receive, with an emphasis on manual therapy and other passive techniques (e.g. ultrasound), may not adequately support them. While exercise was covered in my physio undergraduate degree, it was arguably insufficient.

“Because of my prior experience in movement and movement coaching, I feel confident with this aspect of practice, but what about the individual who had little experience with sports and exercise prior to studying physiotherapy?”

Through four years of study, Martin said it dawned on him that the issues physios treat are public health problems.

“If more people were more physically active, far fewer people would suffer from musculo-skeletal complaints. The best sort of exercise is the sort you’ll keep showing up to.”

The popularity of physiotherapy as a study course appeals both to those who want to be practitioners and those who use it as an entrée to medical school.

The Australian Physiotherapist Association (APA) tabled recent data that showed there were 35,290 registered physiotherapists in Australia. Physiotherapy continues to be a female-dominated workforce (66%) and a Gen-Z profession with the majority of registrants aged 25–40.

The stumbling block for most people who are referred to a physiotherapist is the cost. Typical fees for a 30-minute or 60-minute session are between $80 and $120 per session. Your GP can issue a chronic condition treatment plan (subsidised) but this has limitations.

The Grattan Institute recently released a paper advocating a review of Medicare arrangements for allied health services.

Grattan Institute author Anika Stobart advocated scrapping the existing Medicare items for allied health and re-directing funding through local Primary Health Networks. These networks would contract providers to perform services with no (or very low) out-of-pocket fees for referred patients.

Stobart says that even though services are subsidised, they can still be very expensive.

“Last year, only 56 percent of allied health services were bulk billed, and patients paid on average $55 out-of-pocket per appointment.

Just this week there were news reports of a pending review of Medicare and its funding model. The Albanese government’s Strengthening Medicare Taskforce recommends moving from subsidising GP consultations alone to wrapping in care provided by nurses and paramedics.

Health minister Mark Butler said the current system is “no longer fit for purpose and flagged changes in the May budget. Given that one in six GP presentations are for musculo-skeletal conditions, there’s a good case to review the Medicare treatment plan system.

I ran into the treatment plan limitations when seeing a physio for a rotator cuff (shoulder) injury some years ago. I quickly used up my “free” sessions but opted to keep going at around $70 a session. My physio claimed credit for the reduced inflammation and increased mobility over time. I said the symptoms eased once I started taking magnesium tablets. She politely but firmly disagreed.

Septuagenarian motorbike dreams

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She who also used to ride a motorbike, Mt Coot-tha, circa 1970

I’ve been having recurrent (and happy) motorbike dreams lately, a few days short of a significant birthday. I had no idea what septuagenarian meant. Also, as my spell-checker immediately informed me, I did not know how to spell the word either. A septuagenarian is a person between the ages of 70 and 79.

There’s a lot of this about, with the quintessential baby boomers (those born in the immediate post-war years (1946-1950), throwing big parties and telling people not to bring presents. Some have a late flirtation with their youth, buying a motorbike they couldn’t afford then or taking bucket list cruises to exotic climes.

We graduated from ‘sixty is the new fifty’ to feebly claiming that seventy is the new sixty. A few say I could pass for that, but they don’t see me in the morning, in the harsh light of the ensuite mirror.

Septuagenarianism causes one to reflect on mortality. Indeed, it makes one think of times when a premature exit was on the cards. In my case, this was a bad motorbike accident in 1969. If you fall off a motorbike at speed or hit something, you are always going to come off second-best.

A study by the Federal Department of Transport found that motorcyclists are 41 times more likely to sustain a serious injury than car occupants. Moreover, the study found that 10% of motorbike accident victims were not wearing crash helmets at the time.

Not that the statistics put people off riding motorbikes or indeed competing in motor racing, be it on dirt tracks or professional circuits. The Federal Chamber of Automotive Industries estimates there are one million registered motorcycles in Australia, and twice that number of off-road bikes.

My accident (it traumatises me still to recount) resulted in smashing both kneecaps, breaking my jaw and a lip laceration requiring 37 stitches. The latter was the least of my problems. I had both kneecaps removed and lay in a hospital bed with both legs in plaster for months. I became close to the pigeons roosting on the roof outside my narrow window. And I took up studying racing form to pass the time.

It is a good thing the brain does not retain the memory of pain. Let’s just say when the IRA decided on kneecapping as a form of punishment, they were inflicting great pain and future disability on their victims.

In those days, hospitals routinely doled out synthetic forms of morphine ‘PRN’ (Latin for as required – pro re nata). After several months, they weaned me off Omnipon (synthetic morphine) as my body was starting to crave the drug. Thus began a difficult period.

We can skip over the bad parts, which are chronicled in a highly romanticised song, Motorbike Dreams.

After getting out of hospital, I went to a (physical) rehab unit where daily therapy aimed to get my legs back to normal. As those who have had a patellectomy would know, full flexion is rare. I kneel with difficulty, cannot squat and take extra care to avoid having awkward tumbles. Apart from not having much of a head for heights, I avoid climbing ladders beyond the third step and have never been on the roof of our house.

Rehab and the sci-fi hallucination

Rehab was a hoot, after four months of being cooped up in a public hospital. It was only when I first got on crutches and struggled up the halls of the orthopaedic ward I stopped feeling sorry for myself. There in rooms by themselves or shared with others, was a coterie of ex-bikies, all of them in various degrees of pain and disability far worse than mine.

In rehab, I learned to play pool, always being defeated by a Vietnam vet whose left arm was frozen horizontally at chest height. It made the ideal place to rest a pool cue but was otherwise quite inconvenient.

This impish Polynesian chap, whose name now escapes me, decided one night we should all disobey the curfew and slip down the road to the pub. The rehab unit was located in a dodgy south Auckland suburb. But as Tipu (let’s call him that) said, “Otara’s not as bad as it’s painted, Bro.”

We had a great night out, temporarily forgetting the daily struggle to regain our version of normal fitness. I dimly recall a fabulously rowdy public bar rendition of Ten Guitars (New Zealand’s unofficial anthem).

In July, the surgeon who operated on my right leg decided to try manual manipulation, in a last-ditch effort to improve on 97 degrees. An ambulance came; I was taken back to hospital, given an injection of pethidine and then anaesthetised. I woke up in recovery 20 minutes later, with the surgeon shaking his head. The ambulance took me back to the rehab unit (I’d had a shot of pethidine, remember). The rehab crew were gathered in the rec room watched a flickering black and white RCA TV set. In my altered state it seemed like a bad sci-fi movie.

That’s one small step for a man,” said Neil Armstrong, as he stepped on to the surface of the moon, “One giant leap for mankind.”

‘Tipu, mate, is this for real?”

He grinned at my dilated pupils and patted me on the shoulder.

“It’s all fake mate, shot on a Hollywood film set.”

Maybe that’s when the rumour began?

By the way, if you didn’t know, there are (still) persistent myths about the Apollo 11 moon landing being faked. In 2008, the TV series Mythbusters came up with one of the more entertaining attempts to debunk the un-debunkable.

Later in ’69 I was discharged from rehab, having made four wooden collection bowls on a foot-operated lathe. It was a sad day, as we had all formed a bond forged by physical adversity.

I went back into the world, to a series of unsuitable jobs where my physical limitations became painfully obvious. The hardest one was steam-cleaning refrigerated railway wagons at 4am. It wasn’t a difficult job once you had clambered up into the wagon, but getting there was pretty problematic.

Just try going for a week without squatting when performing daily tasks and you will have some idea how I adapted to ‘bottom-drawer’ world. No complaints here, though. I got off lightly, as people who have had their kneecaps removed typically develop arthritis and other ailments as time wears on. As a physio once told me, “You’re a lucky lightweight”.

In my 40s, playing soccer with the kids at a birthday picnic, I did the quick about-turn and felt something go ‘pop’. Weeks of pain and hobbling later I ended up in the rooms of an orthopaedic surgeon. He examined the X-rays and asked me to perform a few basic knee movements.

“Is this coming good on its own, do you think?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“Well, forty year old knees with the surgeries you’d had, if it’s coming good, I’m not touching it.”

I give my knees a good talking to, most days, and keep them going with daily walking, weekly yoga and by avoiding the scourge of the over-60s (having a fall).

“Good and faithful servants,” I mentally tell my knees every morning, “Carry me through another day.”

I don’t ride motorbikes anymore, but I’ll never forget the free-wheeling euphoria of a downhill run. And I still have motorbike dreams.