Carefully shuffling into PT one Thursday, I signed the blue form, made a silly remark to the sunny ladies sitting behind the desk, and planted myself in my usual seat.
Even with my back to the door, I knew he was there. The woman to my left gasped when he brushed her chair. The patient in front of me mouthed, “You have got to be kidding me.” And the elderly couple in the corner shifted their weight nervously as he quietly passed them.
It was not the orange jumpsuit that grabbed our attention. Nor was it the armed military guard at his right and left. Instead, it was what he wore on his hands and feet.
Some might call them handcuffs. Others might call them restraints. But to us in the room, the shackles signaled we could pass judgment, labels, and preconceived notions.
Usually, someone in front of me would have gotten a smile or a good morning. But after a glance in his direction, I cowardly fixed my eyes on my poorly manicured feet.
And then the nurse called his name. I could not help but raise my head and look into his eyes. When I did, I saw something unexpected…
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