When “Do PT” Meets “Absolutely Not” — The Mobility Aid Saga

You ever have one of those moments where your doctor replies to your message and you just sit there staring at the screen like… did we read the same chart?

So picture this: I finally decide it’s time to start looking into mobility aids. I’ve fought it for ten years—ten years of pain, flare-ups, and trying every medication, therapy, and supplement under the sun. But when your body says, “Hey, we need some help,” you learn to listen (even if your pride still puts up a fight).

Now, I already have canes that I use here and there, especially on rough days. But lately, with my spinal stenosis progressing to severe, even that’s not always enough. My body needs a bit more support now—something to help me stay safe and mobile on the really bad days when a cane just won’t cut it. This journey has been a humbling one, as I navigate the complexities of chronic pain and the often slow-moving healthcare system.

[ I mentioned that in another post recently: ]

Learning to Let Go of Resistance

So, I message my GP through her portal—laying it all out. I explain that my mobility has been getting worse, that my flare-ups have been brutal, and that I’d like to explore options for a mobility aid. I pour my heart into that message, hoping for understanding and a potential solution that could ease my daily struggles.

Her response? “I can offer you a referral to Physical Therapy…”

Cue my internal screaming.

Now here’s the thing—this isn’t the first time she’s done this. It’s actually the third time she’s suggested PT for long-term, chronic issues I’ve been dealing with for years. And it’s also the third time I’ve had to politely refuse it, explaining (again) that my neurologist has specifically said no physical therapy and no surgery. I’ve told her twice already that he completely disagrees with PT and does not want me doing it at all because of the risks involved.

This feels almost like running in circles; I articulate my medical history, my neurologist’s stance, and my genuine need for alternative solutions, yet it seems lost in translation. It’s frustrating to feel unheard and to repeatedly advocate for myself after all this time. The emotional toll of managing chronic issues is significant, and when you add in the constant need to reiterate your own medical needs, it amplifies the burden.

In that moment, I just wanted a simple acknowledgment—perhaps even an alternative suggestion that reflects an understanding of my situation. But instead, there I was, feeling the weight of disbelief wash over me once again. I’m left contemplating what steps I can take next, not just for my physical health, but for my peace of mind as well.

After I reiterated that my neurologist said no to PT or surgery, she did not reply — just left me on read.

So, I hop over to my rheumatologist’s portal and send her a message—the doctor who’s been with me for over five years now and actually knows my body and my medical history. Her response?
“Oh, no. We’re not doing that. I got you.”

Ha! The difference between a doctor who reads your chart and one who actually knows your chart is immense. It’s a relationship built on trust, understanding, and years of shared experiences. She immediately said she’d write a prescription for a mobility aid to help me during severe flare-ups. No debate. No side-eye. Just understanding.

Today, I even called my insurance company, fully expecting another wall of red tape—and surprise! They said they’d cover it with a prescription, since I’ve got over a decade of documentation showing we’ve already tried everything else. This was a pleasant surprise, a glimmer of hope amidst the struggles that often accompany navigating the healthcare system.

So after all this time—after being brushed off, doubted, and told to “try PT again”—I’m finally at the point where I can say: I’m getting a mobility aid. And it’s okay. This statement resonates deeply within me. It’s a testament to the journey I have endured, filled with ups and downs, moments of frustration, and triumphs, however small.

It doesn’t mean I’ve given up. It means I’m finally giving myself the chance to move safely, live with a little less pain, and stop pretending my body can do what it used to. It’s acknowledging the reality of my condition and the limitations that come with it, while also embracing the possibility of finding new ways to exist in a world that can sometimes feel challenging.

Sometimes, “help” doesn’t look like a miracle cure or another round of therapy. Sometimes, it looks like a cane, a prescription, and a doctor who actually listens. This is what true support can look like—recognizing that help can take many forms, and it’s not about weakness but rather an act of self-care and acceptance.

So here’s to the rheumies who get it, the neurologists who protect us, and the insurance reps who (for once) say yes. It’s a reminder that there are professionals out there who are willing to stand beside us, who understand the complexity of our struggles, and who are committed to helping us live our lives fully, even with limitations.

And here’s to finally accepting the help I deserve—ten years later, still fighting, but standing proud (with a little stylish support, of course). This journey has taught me resilience, and I’m learning to celebrate the small victories—like finally getting a mobility aid that honors my needs. Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B 🖤