Thanks to all the good wishes and support for Chase’s recovery at camp. I am relieved to report that he has been “discharged” from the infirmary and hopefully is back with his bunk making macaroni art with a vengeance.
When the kids are sick or injured, it is every parent’s God given right to fret about their children’s well being. This type of worrying is allowed, and even encouraged. But when it is the parent who is ailing, any personal anxiety is often misconstrued as hypochondria or desperate cries for attention, at least in the initial stages of whatever malady has befallen us. Only until we prove that we are truly unwell do we get respect and sympathy, which is sometimes all we need to recover.
Case in point: Monday night on our weekly bike ride, I hit a HUGE pothole. I swear I could see China down there. I was so certain that I was going to flip that I engaged the GRIP of DEATH on the handle bars, jamming the shifter in between my pinky and ring fingers at the precise moment of impact. Yeow!!
But I didn’t fall, and so I pressed on. I’m all guts.
At some point later that evening, my hand began to throb and my mind began to whrrrrr in sync. I have, of course, broken my hand, right? Even though there is no swelling, bruising or protruding bones, this is a serious injury. Because it hurts real bad.
To his credit, Dave goes along with it, bringing me ice and Advil at 1:00 in the morning – and then laying awake listening to me crinkle the ice pack until 2:30 a.m. If I have taught this man nothing, he knows this: Never, ever suggest that your woman might be OVERREACTING. For anything. Don’t say it and whatever you do, don’t LOOK like you are thinking it. Because we know what you are thinking. Even in the dark.
I wake up early yesterday with the mission of seeing a doctor and manage to get squeezed in at my Sports Medicine office. I love how receptionists offer to “squeeze you in”. You thank them profusely and then scratch your head when you arrive for your appointment and there are no other patients in the office.
I explain my predicament and pain to Dr. C; get some x-rays; and return to be diagnosed with …….a sprain. No break, no ligament tear, not even a “major contusion.” (I have had my fair share of the latter although I now realize the doctor just wanted me out of his office and the only way to do that was to make me feel justified in my visit by calling my bruise something more important sounding.)
Dr. C was very solicitous nice, telling me that I did “the right thing” by rushing in so quickly. I swear he then turned to his assistant and asked her for the diagnosis code for “major wuss” so he could complete my chart. And then he called in his PT guy to “show” me how to tape my two fingers together properly, (for comfort while I heal).
Oh — the HORROR! I understand if you can’t bear to see such pain and discomfort. Turn away. It’s okay.
So maybe I did overreact jump a little to fast to see the doc. But as I sit here typing with one hand because it really does hurt to move my (ahem) sprained pinky, I’m glad I went. For peace of mind. I know Dave is glad. Because from here on out, I have to fetch my own ice.
