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A physical therapist recalls a memorable patient and her struggles to make peace with the patient’s untimely death.
I was 28 when I first walked into his room on the ninth floor of the university medical center — the neuro ward. As a newly graduated physical therapist, I was working at my first job in the field. I was there to evaluate “Matthew” for physical therapy, and I had all the right gear: a white lab coat, running shoes, a stethoscope, a clipboard, and a goniometer to measure joint angles — as well as an enthusiastic desire to help this young man function normally.
Date: April 1, 2025
Contact: aptamag@apta.org
Content Type: Column
Elizabeth Pimentel
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