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5:48 p.m. - 2004-03-09

I gots me my operation yesterday. After a shitload of paperwork filling out and a goodly sum of miles clocked driving from clinic to clinic, I found myself in the waiting room of a real, honest to goodness plastic surgeon. It seems that the same cats who enlarge breasts and reduce fine lines and wrinkles also perform orthopedic reconstructive surgery on hands with severed tendons.

The doc was fucking classic. He called me into the office with a big ass grin and sat me down before pulling his chair up to me so his grill was six inches away from my own and asked in comically concerned tones “what happened?”

I thought the close proximity was a request for eye contact, but when I gave it he, without pulling back a centimeter, rolled his eyes in big circles and looked around the room. I retold my tale and he bottom lines it with “so you can’t get your finger up…we’ll just give it a shot of Viagra”

Hardy fucking har. He liked the joke so much he made me promise to tell my girlfriend in the waiting room, even after he found out she was my little sister.

“Well, if you marry them in Arkansas and divorce them in California they are still your sister!”

Please, no more incestuous implication doc, I still have one finger that works and I’m about to show you.

He assured me that it was an “easy one!” and that he could fit me in between his other appointments. I reluctantly gave in and after having the local injected, waited for him to come back and fix me up.

Apparently I had severed both flexor tendons and required ten internal stitches, but it did turn out to be an easy one. So easy in fact that while he had my hand splayed open and exposed he was able to work out a few scheduling conflicts with his receptionist, and give his nurse an anatomy lesson on bones, tendons, and anything else he could expose in my gaping wound.

I have to admit, it was interesting, but I do suspect at least a part of the excruciating pain I am feeling now is due to the unnecessary roughing that occurred when he was digging around in there.

He told me I would feel about the same as before, pain wise, which was very little to none, but just in case he gave me a script for THIRTY vicodin.

I didn’t expect to have to fill it for myself, and had every intention of getting my black market on until this morning when I woke up feeling like my hand was run over a few dozen times.

But I got the day off, went to the beach and lounged around in the beautiful sunshine…it was nice.

There has to be better ways to get a vacation though.


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