My latest trick
It's amazing! My arm fits through a jacket sleeve! My skin is exposed to open air! And, most amazing of all, my fingers can actually fing!
It's been weeks, literal weeks I tell you, since I looked so forward to wiping my ass.
Some of you may be thinking, "Hey, haven't we seen an image like that before?" No! That image has little bits of tape holding my blood and guts inside my arm. Well, maybe not the guts so much. And maybe not the blood, really, either--look, it's different, okay!
The deal is that on July 22nd Dr. Perlik pulled the pin. (Then he counted to three and threw my arm at a Nazi machine gun nest, it was freaking sweet. Okay, maybe that last part didn't really happen. Forget it.) Between then and now, I've had to have a bandage on it, and then Bill the physical therapist said I could just get by with a Band-Aid instead of swaddling it (which was great, notwithstanding the rash from the adhesive that started developing a day ago), and whenever I was doing anything other than sitting in one place very quiet and still I was supposed to wear the splint, pretty much for protection. (As Dr. Perlik's nurse pointed out when she called to follow up, if anything got in the hole where the pin was removed before it healed, the hole went all the way to the bone. Which was a pleasant thing to contemplate, believe you me. So anything providing an additional layer was a good thing, not to mention the fact that I still shouldn't bang my arm into anything or, I dunno, take up rugby or go dancing at a bowling alley.)
Today I had my follow-up, and the stitches were cut and the doctor told me I didn't have to wear the motherfucking, cocksucking, sonofafuckingbitch, rimjobbing, assleaking, cuntdripping, prickoozing, tit-of-a-whore, horseraping, shiteating splint anymore. Okay, I don't think those were his exact words, although I'm pretty sure that's the way I heard it.
I don't have to wear it while I drive! I don't have to wear it after half-past-five! I don't have to wear it in the house! I don't have to wear it to trap a mouse! I don't have to wear it on the job! I don't have to wear it to put down a snob! I don't wear a splint at all, Sam-I-Am! Not one that's big, nor one that's small!
Pfwew!
So yes, if you can't tell, I'm in a swell frame-of-mind. I guess Second Amendment enthusiasts are on to something after all:
A bare right arm really is essential for freedom....
It's been weeks, literal weeks I tell you, since I looked so forward to wiping my ass.
Some of you may be thinking, "Hey, haven't we seen an image like that before?" No! That image has little bits of tape holding my blood and guts inside my arm. Well, maybe not the guts so much. And maybe not the blood, really, either--look, it's different, okay!
The deal is that on July 22nd Dr. Perlik pulled the pin. (Then he counted to three and threw my arm at a Nazi machine gun nest, it was freaking sweet. Okay, maybe that last part didn't really happen. Forget it.) Between then and now, I've had to have a bandage on it, and then Bill the physical therapist said I could just get by with a Band-Aid instead of swaddling it (which was great, notwithstanding the rash from the adhesive that started developing a day ago), and whenever I was doing anything other than sitting in one place very quiet and still I was supposed to wear the splint, pretty much for protection. (As Dr. Perlik's nurse pointed out when she called to follow up, if anything got in the hole where the pin was removed before it healed, the hole went all the way to the bone. Which was a pleasant thing to contemplate, believe you me. So anything providing an additional layer was a good thing, not to mention the fact that I still shouldn't bang my arm into anything or, I dunno, take up rugby or go dancing at a bowling alley.)
Today I had my follow-up, and the stitches were cut and the doctor told me I didn't have to wear the motherfucking, cocksucking, sonofafuckingbitch, rimjobbing, assleaking, cuntdripping, prickoozing, tit-of-a-whore, horseraping, shiteating splint anymore. Okay, I don't think those were his exact words, although I'm pretty sure that's the way I heard it.
I don't have to wear it while I drive! I don't have to wear it after half-past-five! I don't have to wear it in the house! I don't have to wear it to trap a mouse! I don't have to wear it on the job! I don't have to wear it to put down a snob! I don't wear a splint at all, Sam-I-Am! Not one that's big, nor one that's small!
Pfwew!
So yes, if you can't tell, I'm in a swell frame-of-mind. I guess Second Amendment enthusiasts are on to something after all:
A bare right arm really is essential for freedom....
Comments
Good Lord! The Defense Attorney is stoked! OK, what does he know that I don't? Shit shit shit! Now he's arm wrestling the Judge! Damn it! I'm screwed.
I have had something like 10 surgeries for hand problems, so I understand your jubilation. In my case getting out of the cast meant I started physical therapy.
Now my therapist is very cute and has been known to come to the office on Halloween dressed as a dominatrix (her husband, my dentist, went to his dressed as superman with his assistant dressed as wonderwoman). I pay her a lot of money to hurt me.
The upshot of all of this has been to make me ambidexterous to some degree. I can touch type one handed with either hand. I can also tie shoes, tie a necktie or wipe my ass with either hand.
In the 13 years that these surgeries occured over his fees went up an outrageous 40%, my insurance costs which went from $0/annually to $3000 annually in the same time frame changed thier coverage from essentially 100% to a maximum of 50% of $4500, with $600 deductible. Damned money grubbing Doctors.
P.S. I liked what Janiece did ripping apart Betsy McCaughey today, but that paragraph full of epithets near the end of yours was pretty much the level of discourse I had in mind. (Maybe that's why I told her I couldn't write it.)
(You better watch what kind of gang sign you flash on your blog. They got people specifically looking for that kind of thing. You wouldn't want to jeopardize your lawyerishness. Just sayin'.)
Love,
Mom