On Monday, I had a much anticipated visit with a general practitioner. He is Fiddledaddy’s doctor, and because he has a more holistic approach to healing, Fiddledaddy is crazy about him. I agreed to go because I thought another set of eyes might be needed in looking into my medical maladies. And frankly, what would I do with my time if I weren’t checking out all the magazines, in all of the waiting rooms, of all the doctor’s offices in the entire city?
And since these new joint issues have cropped up in the last few weeks, I know that my orthopedic doctor is going to automatically jump on the arthritis bandwagon.
I’m not jumping with him. Not yet.
Basically, I’m having pain in my shoulders, I can’t straighten my left elbow, and my right hand is highly inflamed. To the point that I can’t close it. To add insult to injury, I have to use one hand to lift the other arm up so that I can drink my coffee in the morning.
So, the doctor comes into the office. The first thing that he does is extend his hand to shake mine. Now, I know it’s my bad hand, but in the span of 2 seconds, this is what goes through my mind: “I don’t want to hurt his feelings by not shaking his hand, and besides, most everyone has a wimpy handshake, so how bad could it be?”
My new doctor, as luck would have it, has a VERY firm grip for a handshake. Tears sprang to my eyes as I cried out and jumped 3 feet into the air.
On my good leg.
He immediately withdrew his hand, saying, “Well. That must be why you’re here!”
I started laughing. Uncontrollable. Inappropriately.
I finally calmed down long enough to explain everything that was going on with me medically. And then I began crying. Uncontrollably. Inappropriately.
Let me just tell you. I now adore this doctor. He will be my family physician. For eternity. Even though I’m certain he’s going to ban Oreos from my life.
He took a great deal of time to talk TO me, and not AT me. He is suspicious of the fact that this joint issue began while I was still on my crutches. And that since I had been on my crutches for months, that was the jumping off point. It could be nerve damage. He wants to look at the simple, then move on from there.
He ordered x-rays and blood work and I see him again on Thursday. Oh. And he told my husband not to let me do any housework, or lifting.
This doctor is now in my will.
We headed over to another building, where my right elbow, and right hand and wrist were x-rayed. When finished, I was heading into the crowded waiting room where my family was waiting for me. I was just wearing my brace on my leg, so I didn’t have my crutches. My right shoe stuck on the floor and I went careening into an elderly gentlemen in a wheelchair.
In the span of 2 seconds I thought, “I don’t want to end up in this old guys lap, and I don’t want to hit the floor because I can’t use my arms to catch me, so I’ll likely break my face, and then where will I be?”
I caught myself on a chair before impact. The elderly gentlemen’s eyes were almost as big as Fiddledaddy’s. Who, by the way, audibly gasped.
When we arrived home, in a fit of overwhelming love, Jensen climbed up on the passenger side of the van to throw his arms around me. He was holding a large metal souvenir key chain and managed to hit me in the front tooth with it. I saw stars. At about the same time, a large gust of wind caught the passenger door. Fiddledaddy let out a guttural yell, fearing his son be crushed in the door, so I instinctively reached out and caught the door. With my bad hand.
More stars. And then laughter. Uncontrollable. Inappropriate. Followed by tears.
I’m a limping bandaged disaster. But on the bright side, I did manage to get my roots retouched, so if you just look at me from the neck up, I AM DOING FABULOUS!
You’d be hard pressed to tell that I’m actually 104 years old.