I Seem To Have Misplaced My Thumb
Music to read this post by: “The Thumb” – Wes Montgomery (Jazz)
Nobody ever signed my cast. It’s not that I’m not a popular fellow. Well, I’ve always been unpopular, yes. But, in this matter I’ve just never broken a bone in my body. Sometimes, I’m ashamed of this. I wonder if I haven’t tried hard enough. Rationally, I should see it as great fortune. I’m sure breaking a bone, even cracking a rib, is no picnic. And, at this point, since I’m paying, it would even be a really annoying expense. But, breaking a bone has a certain sex appeal.
Today, when I was playing basketball on my lunch hour and took a screamer to my left thumb five minutes into the game, none of this ran through my head. I was just pissed that I’d hurt myself. It was at the very least well and truly jammed. It hurt, it looked perhaps a hair crooked, it swelled like a sausage in mere seconds. But, it was my left, as in non-shooting, hand. I figured I’d keep playing and it would loosen up. Just a bruise, surely! I’m pretty sure no one else even noticed.
Of course, being the worst player on the court, no one would keep on noticing. I loped around and waved my hands and had actually a fun time of it. During stoppages, I’d squeeze my thumb. It felt sore and swollen. Never having broken a bone myself, I didn’t know what that even felt like. The possibility that it was dislocated crossed my mind. Indeed, I had no idea what that felt like either. I tried pulling it. I mean, that’s what I’ve seen in movies! Just snap it back in! It’s supposed to hurt like hell. I wasn’t getting any of that vibe, though.
I finished that game and a couple more. Fun times, for me. For my teammates, probably less fun. Guys from work. Team-building!
Got back to the office, waited for the shower. I kept holding my hands up to compare the angle of my hurt thumb to my good — well, average I hope — thumb. Was it straight? I just didn’t know! There was definitely some strange zig-zag along the joint. There was one cord that had transformed into an electric shock button. I started recalling vague stories of untreated dislocations leading to hands deformed for life! I didn’t care how it looked, but I wanted it to at least work again.
Two years ago I sprained my ankle. Very seriously sprained. Stepping in a pothole! I never got it looked at. It swelled up like a ripe gourd. It was supremely painful. And, I just gutted through it. I wrapped it, I hobbled around. I most certainly should have been on a crutch for a few days. I was stubborn, and honestly I had no idea how to get it checked out.
I’ve gone to the emergency room three times in my life. Never of my own volition. The first time was a sprained finger in grade school. My parents took me and all I remember was getting my sprained finger caught in the electric car window on the way out of the hospital. The second time was a few years back when I was jumped by a couple guys who beat me senseless for my bike. A cop took me to the emergency room fearing a fractured eye socket, but they found nothing so bad. The third time when I was hit by a bus and I had severe internal bleeding. All I remember of that time was a lot of swearing. Aside from the kid thing those seemed, excuse me, like legitimate emergencies. A sprained ankle? I couldn’t bring myself to call that an emergency.
But, this thumb worried me. And, I’m slowly getting older and perhaps wiser. After consulting with Sarah, I decided to pursue “Urgent Care.” I begged out of work early, still concealing my thumb from my coworker teammates. I’m not sure why I didn’t show them my mangled thumb. I guess feared making a big deal about it if it turned out to be a deep bruise, or something.
Called my insurance to figure out the most appropriate urgent care facility to go to. After some baffling rigmarole where I had to deny getting shot with a nail gun (really), I finally reached someone to direct me. Except, my choices from this fellow were: Doctor or hospital? No, I’m looking for an “urgent care facility.” A brief pause then: Doctor or hospital? Hospital it was! Insurance companies are so great. They really care, and everything.
I ventured into the UCLA Medical Center in Santa Monica. I thought it was the emergency room, but there was just a bored and bearded nurse in sanitary green scrubs and eerily matching sanitary green Crocs. I sheepishly confessed I was worried about my thumb, it might be broken, was this the right place for that level of injury? He replied, This is an emergency room! Right, I thought, but should I even be there? Another of life’s indescribable pauses, where my insecurity hung in the air like a defective pinata. There was a stack of sign-in sheets and a sign: Please fill out and wait! I got my name down before he told me no, he’d just type it in now. Yeah, he was bored.
As I took my seat to wait, someone else came in. He had hurt his hand! He needed to get it checked out! How was he so confident about it? It was eerie, but I finally had my validation. A brief moment in time where I was not in the wrong place.
I was called almost immediately. Not so many stabbings, shootings, car wrecks in sunny Santa Monica. Right? New nurse asks me: Pain on a scale of one to ten? A three. The doc poked and prodded. Yes, it’s dislocated. My breath caught, I was excited! He could poke me with some painkillers, or just try to pop it back in right there.
Well, Doc. Let’s pop it back in.
He gets a good grip. Deep breath, he commands. A yank. Nothing, but then pain. He turns to the side to get better leverage. For an instant, I consider the possibility that I have statistical outliers for tendons.
A yank! And, a definite click, like well-used Lego bricks snapping into place. And then, slow to the party, my eyes bulge.
A new kind of pain.
As my doc makes a note, yet a third nurse eager to divine my status in case she is needed inexplicably asks me, Pain on a scale of one to ten?
Calmly — calmly! — I say, right about now it’s an eight.
And, I was perversely fascinated and content with the pain. I am by no measure a masochist. This experience was not in that space at all. I knew millions had felt this. There was no danger. This was life! Also, I was psyched how this is how it’s been done for thousands of years. This was doctorin’ that a classicist could appreciate. Caesar probably had a dislocated thumb yanked out by one of his generals at some point. Wild Bill must’ve had a dislocated thumb. Just yank ‘er back in, doc! No digital machines needed. No cutting-edge technology. At a point in my life when so little is real, this was like a cool splash of truth. After a just-in-case x-ray and a basic splint, I was done. Still never broken a bone, but this was pretty cool.
Of course, there was still a $100 emergency room co-pay. And, still no cast for all my friends to sign. Not like they would, anyway.
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This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 6th, 2008 at 1:18 am
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You big baby. I’ve signed your tits, so why wouldn’t I sign your cast?
There’s no doubt in my mind that your little thumb cast by now is already littered with an assortment of John Hancocks, street graffiti and dirty limericks.
p.s. eerie lens flare on your palm in the photo!
You got balls, man. I would have taken the drugs
I love what you took from the experience. Great perspective.
Terrific write up MickO. Get well mate.