If I were the kind of woman who was prone to falling in love with strong, sensitive, compassionate men, it would have happened more than once this summer.

It all started in June when I overestimated my ability to negotiate a kitchen counter in my bare feet with a paint brush in my hand.

I had accumulated some bad karma by way of some extremely ungenerous thoughts, and I ended up face down on the floor with my left leg twisted under me in an unnatural position.

Medical diagnosis? Torn anterior cruciate ligament and torn medial collateral ligament. Personal diagnosis? More pain than I remember experiencing in childbirth (they say women forget, which is very convenient for the males of our species).

As an overweight and nearly middle-aged woman who has rarely exercised, recovery was going to be slow.

Who would have guessed that I would one day be able to name the muscles in my leg? I can also contract them individually on command. Thanks to 12 weeks of physical therapy, I can.

I started my summer vacation in Southern California where I … hobbled to the beach? to Disneyland? to Universal Studios? No such luck. When I wasn’t lying around icing or crying or sleeping, I was at Sanford Sheklow’s office.

He was a dear, soft-spoken man whose hands I grew to love. He made me do exercises. Exercises that at first brought tears to my eyes, but he always rewarded me with cold therapy and deep tissue massage. In the end, I gained 20 degrees of motion in my previously straight-stiff knee.

The second half of my vacation took place in Northern California where I … visited every San Francisco museum? the best bookstores on the west coast? every micro brewery in town? No, when I wasn’t watching cable TV with my leg elevated above my heart and contracting my quadriceps to the beat of the X-Files theme song, I was getting physical therapy from Brian Wong and Hossein Massoudi.

These guys always made me laugh. I felt like I was important, like my recovery really mattered to them. The first time I completed a revolution on the stationary bicycle, I cried and Brian brought me Kleenex with a grin: he understood happy tears.

All around me were elderly folks with broken hips and shoulders and battered spirits, but every physical therapist in the room smiled genuinely, listened carefully, and touched gently.

Maybe I did fall in love with Brian and Hossein: I gained another 25 degrees of motion and finally started sleeping at night.

In August, I moved to Ames knowing that I would need surgery. But I had some work to do before I would be ready. I continued physical therapy at ISU’s Sports Medicine and Physical Therapy Center in Lied Recreation Facility. Now Mike Schaffer has stepped in for Sanford and Brian and Hossein — and he’s very good, too.

Mike pushed me harder than anyone else in preparation for the surgery. Thanks to Mike and Jim Nespor (the head honcho) and all the students who intern and volunteer at that office, I regained full mobility before I went under the knife on Oct. 1st. It will be a while before I am as good as new, but I know I can do it now.

These days, instead of dreading the various torture devices of the profession, I dream about buying my very own home versions of the tools of physical therapy. Eventually, I’ll have to deal with some addictions I’ve developed, like the Biodex and ice treatments, but also to the attention no doctor would have time to dispense.

An hour and a half to two hours of individual attention three days a week is something to look forward to — especially when you are in pain.

Never before have I encountered a profession whose members so consistently demonstrate such dedication to their patients, such commitment to their field, and such patience with what is inherently a slow process. All those qualities and a sense of humor, too.

Personally, I’d be a lousy physical therapist. I’d be tempted to slap around anyone who whined as much as I did the first few weeks.

And I’d want to punish anyone who didn’t do their homework exercises, no matter how much it hurt. And I’d probably yell at anyone who missed their appointments, even though I myself got dates and times all mixed up.

Only very special people become physical therapists. I’m glad, because they have kept me coming back, week after week, knowing it would be hard work. I couldn’t have done it alone.

October is Physical Therapy Awareness Month. Get to know a physical therapist or stop by Room 132 in the Lied Recreation Facility to see what Jim and Mike, the consummate professionals, do for ISU’s athletes and middle-aged women alike. You might even fall in love.

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Kata Alvidrez is a graduate student in English from Los Angeles, Calif.