Sunday, April 27, 2008
On Friday, Chris and I made our way down to the hand surgeon, a weekly ritual we had begun to dread. As I might have mentioned before, it's no fun trekking all the way across town to have someone poke around your fingers for five minutes, give you a band-aid, charge an exorbitant amount of money, and then ask you to do it all over again the following week.
While we were sitting in the waiting room I was telling Chris "I'm not coming back here," trying to build up my frustration to the point that if need be I could confront this so-called-doctor with my complaints. Just to rub a little salt in the wound, Chris pointed out a picture of George and Laura Bush hung in the office hallway, only fueling my anger that my hard earned money was going to fund that idiot.
After seeing three patients (within the span of 20 minutes) come in and out of his office with the recommendation that they see him next week I was ready for my turn. Once he called me in, I announced with purpose that "I'm ready to get my stitches out today," figuring a little assertiveness might push him in the right direction. And to my delight, I actually got them removed! A few snips of the thread and I was stitch-free and more importantly doctor-appointment-free.
He said I'll have to apply some cream to prevent scarring and do some exercises to get the strength and flexibility back (you can see in the pictures just how far I can bend and straighten the left hand) but otherwise, I shouldn't need any further treatment. Yippee!
I used to sit in the cube behind you. Then I didn't. And then we fell in love.
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