Can You Tell Me How To Get to Sesame Street?

searchBill, who is a lawyer, was scheduled for rare hearings downtown Tuesday and Wednesday. I saw him off with a kiss and a smile, expecting a quiet day.

I sat down with my book, and after a bit, noticed that my wrist was beginning to hurt. Well, not just hurt. Throb.

On Saturday afternoon, following our train ride to Glenwood, after we had checked into our hotel, I had noticed the beginnings of some pain in my wrist. I thought carefully, but couldn’t come up with anything that I had done that would result in wrist pain. Sure, my walk to the dining car was somewhat ungraceful, but I hadn’t taken a free fall face first into the aisle, saving myself only by breaking my fall with my wrist. Hadn’t happened.

So I ignored it.

But it didn’t go away. In fact, by Monday afternoon, I noticed that not only was it hurting, it was swollen as well.

Again, I thought and thought, but couldn’t come up with a reason for a sprained or fractured wrist.

So I ignored it.

But as I sat in my chair yesterday morning feeling increasing pain in my wrist, I decided it warranted a visit to a doctor.  I called my doctor’s office, and after they finished laughing hysterically, they told me I might get in to see them sometime before the 2016 Summer Olympics in Brazil.

They suggested an urgent care near their office.

I know you think I’m going to tell you a horror story about waiting to see the doctor in urgent care, but the fact of the matter is, beyond hearing the two receptionists talk unceasingly about food, it all went pretty well. I filled out my ten thousand forms (thankfully, it is my left wrist and I’m right-handed), and was called in very quickly to the examination room.

It wasn’t long before a man walked into the room.

“Hello,” he said, as he entered. “I’m Dr. Bob.”

Dr. Bob? Was I on Sesame Street? I can’t have a serious conversation about my medical condition with someone who calls himself Dr. Bob.

Anyway, Dr. Bob looked at my wrist, prodded it a bit so that he could see me wince in pain, and asked me about any accidents I may have had. When I explained that I couldn’t recall any accidents, he said, “Do you think I should I take an X-ray?”

Seriously? He’s asking me? I have degrees in journalism and communications, not orthopedic medicine. I throw up at the sight of throw up. I never got a grade above D+ in any science class I ever took. And he’s asking me if he should do an X-ray.

I think he sensed my annoyance when I said, “Dr. Bob, I don’t know whether or not you should take an X-ray. Do you think you should take an X-ray?”

At the end of the day, we (since now I’m apparently his medical partner) decided against an X-ray at this time. He sent me home with a splint and thesplint suggestion that I make an appointment with a hand specialist for a week from now that I either make or break, depending on whether or not I’m still in pain.

I think Dr. Bob might have earned his medical degree from Dr. Bob’s School of Medicine for Animals and Big People Too.

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