Forget about the grotto. I've had bigger fish to fry. But now that I can (it being August, for heaven's sake, I am writing this and back-dating it. I know that’s cheating. Let me explain:
Where to start? Early April.
Luckily Jon was standing two feet away when IT happened. The pop. We both heard it. It seemed to come from my right hand, second finger when all I was doing was lightly tucking the dog blanket back under the loose back cushions of the couch. I retracted the hand, where the finger had already begun to swell. Jon, who is generally right about such things, said “Oh, you’ve just dislocated your finger” and he reached over to give it a pull. Ouch. By now it was becoming clear that the last joint of the injured finger (hereafter identified as “Flopsy”) was out of my (and Jon’s) control. It hung uselessly. I briefly thought that while I had never given anyone the finger, I most certainly had now missed my chance to exercise this option in the future
To be clear, I am greatly indebted to Ontario Healthcare: from start to finish, Flopsy had first-class care. Dr. Banwatt the Wonderful pronounced her a “mallet finger” and set about getting me help. The tiny tendon hadn’t really snapped; it had torn itself away from the bone and would need to be reattached. The Acute Hand Care unit of Trillium looked at my X-rays, confirmed the diagnosis and then issued diire warnings about how the 12 - 16 week splinting process could fail at any point necessitating a reset back at Day 1 Wait….. Thought I hear 12 - 16 week…..plus an infinite series of failed tries….Shoot!!!
They revived me and I pulled myself together, insofar. Okay, it’s just a finger I can’t use. I can do this.
Not so easy, Cowboy. “Can’t Use” turns out to refer to the whole hand. Apparently our four fingers are “wired together,” so to speak.
Flopsy and I knew resistance was futile when we met Catherine, my physiotherapist, and I tried arguing that I had a beloved habitat garden in its second year and that I had moral obligation to help it save the world. I think I was pretty convincing, but no dice. “NO gardening.” She was firm; Catherine and Jon immediately bonded. and for the next four months they tag-teamed my marching orders (A mixed metaphor walked into a bar…) I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they had formed a Facebook Page. Catherine allowed that I could “direct” someone else; she looked straight at Jon. I laughed bitterly, knowing better.
I tried for permission to paint. No. Handwrite? No Word-process? It went about the same.
Just shoot me.
Where to start? Early April.
Luckily Jon was standing two feet away when IT happened. The pop. We both heard it. It seemed to come from my right hand, second finger when all I was doing was lightly tucking the dog blanket back under the loose back cushions of the couch. I retracted the hand, where the finger had already begun to swell. Jon, who is generally right about such things, said “Oh, you’ve just dislocated your finger” and he reached over to give it a pull. Ouch. By now it was becoming clear that the last joint of the injured finger (hereafter identified as “Flopsy”) was out of my (and Jon’s) control. It hung uselessly. I briefly thought that while I had never given anyone the finger, I most certainly had now missed my chance to exercise this option in the future
To be clear, I am greatly indebted to Ontario Healthcare: from start to finish, Flopsy had first-class care. Dr. Banwatt the Wonderful pronounced her a “mallet finger” and set about getting me help. The tiny tendon hadn’t really snapped; it had torn itself away from the bone and would need to be reattached. The Acute Hand Care unit of Trillium looked at my X-rays, confirmed the diagnosis and then issued diire warnings about how the 12 - 16 week splinting process could fail at any point necessitating a reset back at Day 1 Wait….. Thought I hear 12 - 16 week…..plus an infinite series of failed tries….Shoot!!!
They revived me and I pulled myself together, insofar. Okay, it’s just a finger I can’t use. I can do this.
Not so easy, Cowboy. “Can’t Use” turns out to refer to the whole hand. Apparently our four fingers are “wired together,” so to speak.
Flopsy and I knew resistance was futile when we met Catherine, my physiotherapist, and I tried arguing that I had a beloved habitat garden in its second year and that I had moral obligation to help it save the world. I think I was pretty convincing, but no dice. “NO gardening.” She was firm; Catherine and Jon immediately bonded. and for the next four months they tag-teamed my marching orders (A mixed metaphor walked into a bar…) I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they had formed a Facebook Page. Catherine allowed that I could “direct” someone else; she looked straight at Jon. I laughed bitterly, knowing better.
I tried for permission to paint. No. Handwrite? No Word-process? It went about the same.
Just shoot me.
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