Doctors

I am ever amused by doctors. They always seem so sure they know the answer to every question only to look at me as if I just told them 2+2 does not equal 4. That is when they finally start listening to the answers to the questions they’ve asked me.

I have a bit of history with being one of the world’s greatest klutzes. Yes, it’s true, I can and will find the single thing I can bump into and do so, or find the single hole in an overgrown field to step into and wrench my ankle or some other such thing on a fairly periodic basis.

I am also not your stereotypical patient, as pain killers and I do not get along. I don’t like them because they make me feel awful and they do not like me and do not wish to inhabit my stomach for more than a few minor moments. As a result over the years of broken bones and injuries my pain tolerance has become rather high.

When they ask me how badly it hurts on a scale of 1-10 I usually say, “Ok, getting hit by a garbage truck while not in a car, that was 10, so that would put this around a....” Yes, I was hit by a garbage truck, and strangely only had my arm ripped off. But realistically that’s not bad considering it was after all a garbage truck. There were some complications to having that happen and all but for the most part once they got me put back together it wasn’t that big of a deal. I have 75% range of motion in that arm, and most of my digital dexterity still intact. On the weird upside the singular scar most people can see when I wear a tank top looks like an unlaced shoe. I kinda like it, adds character.

So the other day I finally broke down and went to have my hand x-rayed. I broke it ten days prior. Yes, it did hurt, and yes I knew it was broken the moment it happened. I didn’t go to the doctor because he was going to tell me I would have to put it in a cast. I groom dogs; I bathe dogs for a living, which means if I were to have a cast I’d have to deal with having to secure that hand from water for about 8 weeks. This is not something I really wanted to do, and tried to avoid. I broke one of the carpal bones, third from the thumb. These are the tiny ones at the base of the hand which apparently are difficult to break. Go me, for finding out how to pull that off.

I was grooming a dog and he mule kicked my left hand into the table while I was trimming his back toenails, and then proceeded to sit on my hand. The dog outweighed me by roughly 50 pounds, maybe more. I didn’t feel like lifting him after that to find out, so it’s a rough guess.

Anyway I did finally break down and go to the doctor; the first who I walked out on was rather unhelpful. I asked after he reviewed the x-ray if there was a secondary option to a cast, he replied there was but that they didn’t have one in my size so I’d be going to get a cast. After a very brief reiteration of the fact I was not going to get a cast, and his unwillingness to offer a secondary solution, I thanked him for his time and left, sans any kind of solution.

My husband after another week of purple swollen fingers made me promise to go back to see a doctor. I relented because if I am stubborn, he is more stubborn than I am. Scary I know, yet true. So I returned on the tenth day since the break and a week after my first lovely discussion with doctor number one. The second doctor was much more willing to at least consider the fact I didn’t want a cast. He did however decide he wanted to “feel the hand” and “apply a bit of pressure” to the area. Pressure as we all know when applied by doctors means “Be prepared, I’m going to hurt you to see how loud exactly I can make you scream.” He applied said pressure and I watched, albeit somewhat wide eyed but silently. He reported to me he didn’t think it was broken merely bruised. I grinned at the poor fellow, and told him to check my file, as the x-ray seven days prior said otherwise. He looked confused, and somewhat lost. I nodded and looked over at his computer screen to encourage him to go have a peek. Apparently the idea that a woman can have a broken hand for ten days and not freak out when he “applied some pressure” to the broken area was impossible in his thinking. Surprise doc, it’s not impossible.

So he did pull up the x-rays, and after a few huhs, a couple hmmms, and a rather surprised look or four he looked finally back at me, smiling back at him with my “I told you so.” look. He then realized it had been indeed 10 days, and not that afternoon that this had occurred. I had told him that earlier, but let’s face it it’s not like he was listening he was formulating his own ideas of how when and where this all occurred. Something along the lines of “While doing her nails an hour ago she dropped the nail polish on her hand and got a boo-boo, and unable to endure the pain she rushed here to waste my time for a simple bruise. She’ll be asking for percoset any minute now.” The reality was a shocker I suppose because he just sat there looking perplexed for about three minutes.

When he finally came around and spoke he said simply, “It’s been healing for a while, perhaps incorrectly, we need more x-rays to see if we have to reset it.” I sighed. Oh goodie more x-rays. At this point in my life I should glow like a kid’s light stick on the fourth of July from all the x-rays, bone scans and radiation I’ve had. Off to radiology I went with the lovely splint he put on so delicately you’d think my hand was made of glass. Odd considering it was only minutes before he was trying to push his thumb through my hand.

So it was healing fine and he read the x-rays, and we came to a mutual agreement that since it was working out well as is, no cast was needed and I could live with the splint which I could remove should I absolutely need to. Read as whenever I’m bathing a dog. I did find his face amusing when he started writing me out a prescription for some sort of pain reliever and I told him that I’d rather stick to ibuprofen, but thanks, and I had that at home already. He looked as if I just poked him in the belly. He just kind of stared at me, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again, closed it, and then finally said. “You have a very high tolerance for pain.”

I shrugged, nodded and said simply, “Pain itself won’t kill you. Besides, it reminds you you’re alive.” Looked at my hand, and swollen fingers back at him, nodded and said, “Yup, still kicking. Anything else?” He laughed and shook his head, and I left.

I told my husband of the whole incident, and once again asked him why it was that they never get it when I tell them that it does indeed hurt a lot, but I am not crying or freaking out. It’s pain, you learn to deal. My husband laughed, shook his head and told me once again, “Because that’s not normal.” I shrugged. Shocker there, I’m not normal. I responded simply by sticking my tongue out at him. This he found as further proof that not only was I not normal but in his term “bratty”. I categorically deny this. And I can because I have enough plausible deniability that I can get away with it, at least for the time being.

So once again I have confounded yet another poor doctor to reassess at least for that particular day his preconceived notions of how patients should respond. I wonder if he’ll actually consider it in the future. I hope so, at least because he seemed like a decent fellow and one I’d see again, and it’d be easier if he understood that whole thing the next time I fracture a bone, or some other like thing.