The Pickleball Chronicles: Part III

After injuring myself playing pickle ball, and a trip to the ER on December 22nd, I returned to my parents’ home in Ft. Myers, FL with a red splint protecting my shattered wrist.  I don’t know why I chose red, other than that I thought it would be cute to wrap white tape around it so my arm would look like a candy cane.  (This never happened.)  I was also given some take home narcotics and instructions to see an orthopedist ASAP.

 Just when we were getting ready to leave the hospital, my husband, Mike, announced that when he looked inside the specimen cup used for storing the engagement and wedding rings cut off my finger, he noticed one of the side stones on my engagement ring was missing.  If you will recall, there was some intense arguing between Mike and the official Hospital Ring Cutter.  Also, I was settling into the good part of a Vicodin haze.  So, I wasn’t too upset about the missing quarter carat diamond.  I had bigger worries and stronger, drug-induced things to care about beyond an inanimate object, as sentimental as it may be.  I went back to where I was sitting and searched for the diamond.  I was helped by the original triage nurse and the ring cutter.  We couldn’t find it, and the general consensus of the hospital staff was that it had fallen out when I fell out on the pickleball court. 

By the time we got back to my parents’ house, my Mom had already called her friend Alan, the retired groinocologist (as my father would say) to get recommendations for orthopedists.  He had friends.  I was to call his friends as soon as I woke up in the morning, which I did.  Despite the holiday and last minute nature of my requests, I was able to get an appointment for late morning on December 24th. 

I was very tired by the time I had the appointment.  Sleeping was no small task.  I finally figured out that a giant, round, vaguely creepy stuffed turtle named Chubsy, originally purchased as a pillow/cushion to protect me from the ground up razor blades apparently used as stuffing on the second bus used by the 5th grade safety patrol trip to Washington DC last May was the best arm prop.  (You can find that whole story and enjoy some additional schadenfreude in my Amazon hot new release/bestseller Mismatched Shoes and Upside Down Pizza.)  Chubsy came with us to Florida because he is an excellent car pillow.  I took Chubsy with me wherever I went.  Still do.  To the movies, restaurants, doctors’ appointments – Chubsy is my faithful companion.  Pair Chubsy with my winter schmatta, a poncho with a hood that I knitted myself while watching hours and hours of continuing education video tapes, plus the hair I can’t blowdry, and pants only of the elastic waist variety, and you might find yourself thinking, “Wow!  She looks clean for an obvious untreated schizophrenic just rescued from her cardboard box/home under the railroad tracks.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  On the day of Christmas Eve I went to the one orthopedist who didn’t take off for Christmas.  (This is not the first emergency medical situation I have ever been in on December 24th, but that’s another story for another day.}  X-rays were taken again, and yet another X-ray tech said something like, “Holy Moley you really messed yourself up – come look at this!”  I went back into an exam room, where a P.A. came in and told me they were going to set my arm, but not to worry, they would numb it first.  By numb it, he meant stab a needle the size of my pinky finger into my already broken wrist over and over until he got tired of me yelling.  I thought he meant there were drugs in the needle, but it felt more like he was trying to sever the nerve.  Maybe both.

Then the doctor came in.  He explained that he likes doing things ‘old school’ by manually setting the bones and holding them in place with a cast going from first knuckle to mid bicep.  And so began the setting.  I was told to lie down and press my right side against the wall.  The PA and the doctor grabbed my arm and someone – the doctor? – began pulling and squeezing my arm in the way that you might pull and squeeze a tube of toothpaste to get the last molecules of minty freshness out because you are too lazy to rumbling in the closet for a new tube.  If the numbing, stabby needles worked at all, you’ll have a hard time convincing me.  I screamed like I was auditioning for the part of “expendable sorority girl #2” in a horror movie.  When the squeezing and yelling stopped, I discovered that I had remained pressed against the wall, but my legs were stiff and pointing towards the ceiling.  Not sure what reflex in my brain thought that would help.  Probably the same one that made me land on my wrist instead of my heavily cushioned booty.  I found it in me to laugh at my legs.  “You know,” the doctor said, “This is much easier if you pass out.”

“I’m trying!”  I yelled back as he started one more round of squeezing.  Eventually, it ended, and as a consolation prize I was allowed to choose the color of my cast.  Knowing I already had tickets to the Chik-Fil-A Bowl on New Year’s Eve, I decided to accessorize for the occasion and get a Duke Blue cast.  Go Devils!  Never let pain or stress get in the way of supporting a deserving team.

To be continued………………….