Although the emergency clinic doctor thought my wrist was broken, the radiologist who checked the x-rays the next day did not agree. Despite – or because of – that fact, they still wanted me to be seen by an orthopedic surgeon. I’d been out and about all day and was sure at least one of the passersby was a surgeon. Does that count for nothing?
Not interested in another surgery or medical issue, I took their advice and set an appointment, simply so I could rule out a break.
In the meantime, MiniMe, sticking with family tradition, jammed and broke her toe. “How did it happen?” I asked. “The VCR. Who leaves a VCR on the floor?” she replied. “I had to move it to retrieve something. I really need to get a head cleaner. Didn’t you turn a light on?” I asked. “No,” she said. “Looks like you’re a victim of the 80s,” I informed her as she remained crawled up in a ball while the pain traveled through body. Confirming, once again, I have no feelings – physically or emotionally. “For the record,” I said to her, “My bones prove that, even though I have no feelings, I am sensitive. You’ll be fine.” I then walked upstairs to finish my glass of milk.
The next day we went to the orthopedic surgeon and learned that he was out of the office and wouldn’t be able to assess my injury for another couple of days. So, in the meantime, they gave me a brace. Splint removed, brace in place, and MiniMe’s toes taped together with limp in full force we made our way. Like the 80s, we were a sight for sore eyes.