Screwed

Go home dad, you're drunk.



Just a short way down the sidewalk on our block. It's a constant source of retelling that joke. Graffiti in a bar, more usually.

Neighbor walking in with her friend, tells how I broke my arm, specifically where. I added detail. Friend says "That's not funny." I said, "Actually, it is." She laughs, proving me right.

In the core of surgery, in an orthopedic hospital, surrounded by nurses and techs and surgeons. One hand surgeon, Dr.K, working that day, and honestly I was relieved that his schedule was packed, and I'd eaten lunch 90 minutes before. Dr.K may be technically proficient, but he is slow, and does not treat staff well.

Core tech, as I lay on the floor with my eyes closed, not moving, in a bit of shock, kept asking the nurses if she should get an ice bag. After several tries, she threw up her hands and got one anyway. Susan put a pad under my wrist, which felt pretty awful but needed doing. Kelsey took my pouch and put it in my locker. Brandie took my iPad and sent Dylan a message. Which helped later when asked for the time of the Incident.

Another one up in clinic, Dr.H who I trust and enjoy working with, made room in his OR schedule the next day to take care of me. Before that, he leaned in - "Let's talk politics, who do you want doing your surgery..." And he meant it. Him, or either of the other two hand surgeons, without hesitation. He offered the non-surgical option, without enthusiasm, and accepted my gut assessment that I needed it screwed down tight.


Going to make this into a button for my return. Fall Risk.