It started on Sunday March 20th.. I was moving between the bed and the toilet when it struck. BANG! Pain in my left wrist! My fingers were sore too but didn’t really hurt, just sore. Throughout the day the pain was getting worse. I wasn’t about to tell Dickie; he worries when I don’t feel well. So I took a double dose of ALEVE and waited. And waited some more. The pain didn’t go away. By Monday morning my wrist was quite inflamed and my fingers distorted. The slightest twist or motion caused severe shooting pain to the point of immediate screaming and sobbing. By evening I wasn’t able to pick up something as light as a pen and typing was completely out of the question.
But it was Dickie’s Birthday. I made a dinner reservation weeks ago. We must keep it at all costs, and we did – up to the dessert round anyway. Sorry, Dickie’s birthday cake made it home in a doggie-bag.
Monday night was tough. The pain was so shockingly intense I couldn’t sleep. It was the kind of pain you would expect to leave scars on your psyche. It may have. Tuesday morning Dick gave me ½ a Vicodin and immediately placed a barf bucket next to the bed. Then he called my doctor. He wanted to see me right away, which wasn’t possible. It took an hour to shower and wash my hair with one hand, and another hour to get dressed. We arrived at the Urgent Care Clinic around 11:00. The reception room was filled with mostly old people in pain, waiting also for relief.
Here’s a brief recap:
The x-ray nurse calls the roll:
“Hannelori”
“Here.” She has no humor. Pain nurses are not happy people.
“Follow me”, she says. I do, into a cubicle with a desk and two chairs. The interrogation begins.
“Where do you hurt?”
“My left wrist and fingers”, I say.
“On a 1-10 scale, which?”
“100”, I answer. She is not amused. She continues.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Hope not”, I say. “He promised safe sex.”
“Are you drunk, Ma’am?”
“Not yet”, I say.
“Be serious, Ma’am. Are you pregnant? Yes or no”
“Ok, NO, so far.” Her eyes fling daggers.
She finishes the paperwork and leaves. I wait. An old lady, maybe 100, hobbles into the next stall for interrogation. Same questions!
“Pregnant?”
“No”
“Do you know what the doctor is going to do?”
“Artificial insemination” she answers.
“Artificial insemination” she answers.
I’m beginning to like this old lady.
The door opens. An X-ray technician in a blue coat shambles in.
“Follow me”, she says. I follow.
“Why the vest?”
“X-Ray protection”, she says.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Don’t worry, X-rays won’t kill you,…….the twisting of your hand might.” A cold sweat erupts. I shiver.
“Rejoice….your redemption draws near.”
“Are you a Nun?”, I ask.
“No”, she says, “but I have given last rites.”
She laughs. I pray. Then I lose consciousness - almost.
After several hours I’m released. As I walk through the waiting room people with eyes of pain look at me. I feel sorry for them. I offer no encouragement. I exit, thinking “May God have mercy on you if you’re pregnant.”
The nurse called the next day saying that the X-rays revealed a previous fracture in my wrist, but that’s not the source of the pain. (The humorless technician must have x-rayed the wrong hand, because I have never had a broken bone in my life). The nurse also mentioned high uric acid, which may be a side effect from the new medication I take. Or it may be Rheumatoid arthritis, or gout??? Whatever, the doc will discuss it with me next Tuesday.
Five days later the pain has subsided. I’m hoping for a happy ending to this and a return to writing about parties and travel adventures. But until then, it’s back to a steady diet of steroid pills. Watch out Mike Tyson and Sugar Ray Leonard. I might knock you out in the first round.