On How I Tweaked My Hand...

© shoutingforha

I wrote a post last week about how my son was forced to endure cruel and unusual punishment. His horribly mean Mom made him try on all his clothing to see what actually fit. The result was a well organized closet and dresser, and a bag of clothing that I donated to ARC.

What I neglected to tell you in that post was that I suffered an injury as a result of that torture. The boy, who was trying to remove a pair of his jeans, fell over like a tree when his feet became entangled in the pant legs. Unfortunately for me, he fell directly on my right hand.

After the immediate popping sound and intense pain that followed, my hand felt moderately better. I went about my business for the remainder of the day, chocking up any discomfort to the fact that a 72 pound child crushed my hand.

As the days passed, the pain refused to subside. In addition to the acute pain in one specific spot on the side of my hand, I began to have a dull ache that covered the entire back of my hand. Any movement would make the pain worse.

My hubby and son kept telling me to go get my hand checked out, but I refused. Part of me was worried that I would be required to wear a cast or other apparatus thus restricting the use of my hand. I am right handed, but am in no way ambidextrous. I often joke that my left hand could be removed with little or no effect on my way of life.

I also have an extremely high tolerance for pain. I passed a 4 mm kidney stone two days before the boy was born and was accused by the on-call physician of faking it because I apparently wasn't writhing around enough, but that's another story. As a result, I sometimes have a hard time determining what pain warrants further inspection.

Today I bit the bullet and went to see the hunky Dr. W. at the Bone & Joint Clinic. Yes, that's the same Dr. W. that fixed my boy's finger when he severed his tendon in December. The boy begged to go along so he could show Dr. W. his completely healed finger.

After a few x-rays and a quick examination, Dr. W. informed me that I had a partial tear of the tendon that attaches to the base of my 5th Metacarpal. I was thrilled to learn that nothing was broken.

Dr. W. fit me with the ever so attractive brace you see in the picture, and told me to come back in four weeks if my hand doesn't improve. The brace is surprisingly comfortable and doesn't impede the use of my hand all that much. It just keeps the injured tendon stationary so that it can heal.

My boy finds it rather amusing that my hand has been rendered partially useless. In a gesture of goodwill, he offered to help me button and zip my pants if needed. While I was appreciative of his generous offer, I politely declined.

I think I will try to wait until I'm about 92 before I ask the child to help me get dressed.