Monday, March 16, 2009

In need of some good news

It’s now been exactly six weeks since I broke my right wrist in two places and, quite frankly, six weeks since I last experienced happiness.

Ha, okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but this really has been a miserable six weeks for me and everyone who’s had the misfortunate of spending more than 30 minutes in my presence.

 

Tomorrow morning I have my third appointment with the surgeon, who will then break the news  tell me my fate for the next six months to a year. The first time I saw him, I was expecting the worst (read: "Ma'am, this is a lost cause, so we're just going to amputate the whole arm."). Obviously, no amputation was necessary after all, and what he had to tell me just didn’t seem as bad in comparison to that.

  
So when I went back to see him at the hospital a few weeks ago, I actually let down my guard and assumed it would be smooth sailing. I was hoping I’d soon see that light at the end of the tunnel, and I fully expected him to tell me things looked good and that I could soon start the ortho-physio.

 

But no. Instead I received some news I wasn’t expecting and really didn’t want to hear.

 

I just wanted to cry, but thankfully my inherent "stubborn Italian gene" over-ruled my inherent "emotional woman gene", and I didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing how devastated I was.

 

But, honestly, I can't do this anymore, and I just want my normal life back. This is no where near the worst thing I've ever been through -- far from it -- so I feel like a wuss for even being upset about it... but at the same time I just feel so defeated. I've done everything right and yet this setback still occurred.

I’m well aware that I should be grateful for the blessings I do have, but sometimes a person just needs to be reminded of this. Which is why I sent a long, excruciatingly-typed-with-one-hand message to a friend down south who never tires of telling me to toughen up.

 

To put things in perspective, when I first told him about the breaks, he replied with a, “The reason you haven’t heard from me in a while is because my appendix burst… but I tried to tough it out and didn’t do anything about it for five days… and then they hospitalized me.”

 

I swear, he does these things just to one-up me. (But I got the last laugh after all when he had to suffer through my inevitable You could have died, you know speech. That’ll learn him.)

  
So when I vented to him about how frustrating this entire ordeal has been, I already knew what he was going to say:

 

"Suck it up! At least you still have an arm!"
"He's a SURGEON. He's not there to be your friend!"    
"Do you know how many people he sees a day? Why would he remember you?"
"Damn emotional woman... always wanting to cry..."
"It could have been worse. YOUR APPENDIX COULD HAVE BURST!"
 

Turns out I did such a good job of predicting his responses that all he could do was laugh. (Which should be interpreted as a positive thing, right??) 

If I could turn back time, well, this never would have happened.... but aside from that, I wish I had at least taken a picture of my arm before they put me under to set it in place that first night. From my hand to my elbow, my arm looked like the letter S. It was wicked-cool in a grotesque sort of way, and I would have loved to whip out that photo every now and then, for at least then I'd have something to show for this. Instead all I'll have now is a gimpy arm.
 
As for tomorrow, I think I'll go in expecting the "amputation diagnosis" again, since that seemed to work the first time. Hopefully St. Paddy will also work his magic and bring me some long-overdue luck.

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