At the behest of my friends and MiniMe, I went to the local emergency clinic to have my arm checked. We – me, MiniMe and Live Longer – arrived ten minutes before they closed, so the ‘relationship’ started off rocky.
Like most medical visits, they took my vitals immediately. Once on the scale I realized the real emergency might be my weight gain and not my wrist. Luckily, elastic waist leggings are in right now so i figure I’ve got nothing to lose, literally.
We made our way back to the waiting room where the not-so-rad rad tech was tending to my wrist. It was obvious that he was not keen on our company. He took me back to the x-ray room and begin positioning my hand. “Now I’m going to do a karate chop,” he told me. “What?” I asked, shocked. “A karate chop,” he replied. “Why?” I asked. “I need you to make your hand like you’re going to do a karate chop,” he clarified. “Oh, OK. I can do that. I thought you were going to karate chop my hand,” I said. He shook his head and walked over to the computer. “Would you like to see these?” he asked. I walked over to look at the x-rays, however, saw nothing but bones. “What does this mean?” I asked. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “You can tell me,” I replied. “No, I can’t. Only the doctor can,” was his reply. Has he never seen Airplane?
We returned to the exam room where Live Longer and Mini Me had been waiting and reading magazines. They found a feature titled ‘Pimp My Injury.’ In this feature were celebrities with blinged slings, wheelchairs, crutches and the like. “If she has to get a sling or a cast can you please make it look like this? Can you pimp her injury?” Live Longer asked with a sheepish grin across her face and giggling in be. He looked at the picture, said, “No,” and informed us the doctor would be with us shortly.
The doctor was a short, kind, older gentleman who was extremely sorry for the news he was about to share, “You’re not going to like this, but I think it’s broken. We’re going to splint it and you should definitely see an orthopedic surgeon just in case.” “What?!?! Surgeon? Surgery?” Live Longer asked. “I told you to drink more milk,” MiniMe scolded. “Those two are misbehaved,” the doctor told me. “I’ll speak with at least one of their mothers,” I replied.
The rad tech returned to apply the splint and appeared to take great pleasure in applying pressure for my displeasure. It was as though he was sending the three of us a message via my arm. The message being, “I don’t like you.” Once my wrist was tightly wrapped we headed home. We took our time leaving, just to get even.
2013 Scorecard:
Road: 2
Me: BROKE!