The Gift of Diagnosis

It was a sports massage therapist who told me there was a name for the particulars of my body. I was twenty-five, used to seeing massage therapists who treated the knots in my shoulders as a challenge, and were baffled by the way I was tickled by pressure that should have been painful. None of the half a dozen I’d seen before, nor the two physio-therapists, nor three different family doctors, had ever recognized that there could be a diagnosis found in the sinew of my muscles and tendons.

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