This morning I had my follow-up with the orthopaedic surgeon. One of his team-folk cut the giant tree-stump of Tensor bandages off my right arm, then I was sent to get X-rays on both arms.
I had lots of time, while waiting for the X-rays, to look at the horror-show that is my dominant hand. And, hey, it’s Hallowe’en, so it was all thematically appropriate.
The middle two fingers don’t bend very well or much on their own. The surgeon told me that’s because they moved the tendons out of the way to make room for the bar that’s reinforcing the wrist. (Yes, rebar in my arm.) The three long scars — two on top, one underneath — were puckered around little black sutures, bleeding in spots after being separated from their crusty, old, mummy-ish dressings. And the skin was a sore desert of eczema, having been trapped in a damp, airless, dark, closed case again after the last surgery.
[I took pictures, but you really don’t want to see them.]
Every possible “Walk Like an Egyptian” pose on the X-ray table later, I was upstairs in the Hand Clinic again, worrying and hoping about what the scans might show.
Craig asked me this morning what I’d do if it turned out I needed another operation. I seriously thought for a moment that I might rather die. On second thought, I said that I’d want to be kept in overnight and sedated after the procedure.
Thankfully, none of that will be necessary: The left elbow is well lined-up and has formed a nice callus, which will later be replaced with bone. The tendons are a bit f#$*ed, as it seems they may have “evulsed” away from the bones on impact with the ground. I didn’t ask what that meant, ’cause as much as I could imagine was about as much as I wanted to deal with just now.
And the right arm? All the hardware was holding everything together perfectly, and nothing had moved since the operation. Doctor Furey kept getting me to try and make a fist, then spread my fingers out, but it just didn’t feel possible. He told me to keep trying, so I guess I may get that back before the bar comes out.
(In the X-ray, the bar looked like a ninja’s butterfly knife secreted underneath my skin.)
After an intern took my stitches out (which hurt!), they wrapped my arm up in gauze, and sent me off to make my next appointment — the last before I go to PEI.
I snapped (via e-mail) at my mum last night for stressing me out with her list and questions about which surgeon I’d be referred to in PEI. I said I didn’t suppose it was like going to the hairdresser, and doubted one had a choice. But when Doctor Furey brought up the subject of referring me on for the last procedure, I mentioned Mom’s list and he said he’d like to see it. “With the gossip?” I asked. “Well,” he replied, “if there’s someone in particular you want, I can refer you specifically to them.”
Whaddya know? Mom’s right again.
Speaking of PEI, at the end of last week, Craig and I filled out all our papers and had them notarized, and couriered them off. They reached the lawyer in Charlottetown this morning.
We’re soooo close, but I’m so scared the lender is going to ask again at this eleventh hour for more proof of income. I’ll be working again in short weeks, but right now it would not look good, me being off sick right when this is all going through.
My friend Lisa drove me to the hospital and hung out with me for a few minutes before my appointment, and she assured me this was no big deal. “People get sick. They still buy houses.” At least for a moment, I believed her, and that was a relief.
Finally, finally my kooky life fits nicely into form-field boxes, right up until this very last bit of the home-buying process. ACK!
By Thursday, this deal will be done. On Friday, I should get my other cast off.
I know in life it’s always something, but I really, really want these particular two things to be happily resolved.