"I'm glad Shawn peanut buttered your phone yesterday."
Wherein Jack went to the doctor.
And it turned out to be more interesting than it might normally be. Because Jack has the talent of turning normal situations into weird occurrences.
It has been settled on that my rib is broken, cracked, or fractured. Mostly it just depends what I'm doing at the time you ask me, and how conversational I am. All of the above fits, though it seems to lean more toward an actual break and not a crack because the way the bone is sticking out. Not that I'm studying my bones, since I have no interest in anything medical and still grow queasy at the sight of my own blood.
The doctor called it a fracture. I don't know the difference between a fracture and a break and I didn't care to ask him after he poked and prodded it and left me in more pain then when I first climbed up onto his table. For some reason a man jabbing you in your broken rib and asking if it hurts ruins all further desire for conversation.
I mostly just call my rib broken, because I hate the way fracture sounds. Sounds more painful, and as if the little bones in my body are doing nasty things to my insides, which is kind of what it feels like.
But that isn't the point of this story.
The point is more the actual doctor visit and the waiting room.
By Sunday, eight days after my rib began to hurt, I figured it wasn't just bruised as I first thought. I've gotten bruised insides before and this felt completely different. After talking to some friends, and having friends contacted a broken rib expert, everyone figured in the very least it was cracked. I figured the same and kind of wanted to leave it at that. A crack I could man up about. I could still convince myself I was fine, go on walks, maybe a hike or two, even go down to the beach and run through the snow and fly my kite.
This is why I shouldn't be left without adult supervision.
The broken rib expert thought all of the above was a bad idea, even though he had no idea I had any of it planned. He suggested I go to the doctor, and I agreed that I should, though I never said I would. I have this thing with doctors. They have needles. They poke you when you're sore. They have needles. Most insane madmen pose as doctors and stick people with needles. And they have needles. I try to avoid them at all costs. Not always my wisest course of action, but I'm not known for my wisdom.
I was in a lot of pain by Sunday, and after hearing it might be broken feared the dreaded warning most people give with broken ribs. "Don't let it puncture a lung." I had a bad image of myself drinking tea and then gasping for breath. On top of the pain though, I just wasn't having a very good day and by Sunday night a friend caught on and decided Psych was in order.
The plan was for me to go over and watch Psych, then come back to my place where I'd be picked up in the morning to be taken to the doctor. (I didn't know I was going to the doctor until that moment and still considered backing out of it.) That was until I got to my friend's house and they saw how much pain I was in.
And this is where I pause to explain the PJs. By the time I went over to my friend's house I'd already put on my pajamas because I had no plan of going over until they invited me over at eight. I didn't feel like trying to get back into my clothes, and since I thought I'd be back at my place in an hour I didn't pack myself anything to change into later.
Now you now the PJs. Also I wore my cloak. My Ranger cloak over my Tintin pajamas. And my nice slip on shoes. Without socks.
When my friends insisted I spend the night with them just in case I got worse, the plan became for us to wake up early, swing by my place where I could get dressed, then go to the doctor.
I think you get where this is going.
The waking up early worked. But then there was the business of starting the car and warming it up. And my sore rib. And the fact it hurts to change clothes. And the fact there were two sick people in the house with me who needed to see the doctor too. Somehow, in this round about way, we trooped to the doctor with half of us in our PJs. (There were four of us. I and another girl in our PJs, her parents were dressed.)
We left really early and were one of the first there to spend our time in the waiting room filling out all that paper work which is likely burned when patients leave because when they go back they have to fill it out all over again. Once we were done we had the fun task of sitting and waiting, and waiting, and waiting. But my two friends who were sick were coughing a good deal, and therefore had to put on masks. (The surgical kind.)
I was over my cold by then. But I had a tiny cough which showed up sometimes and I fought because it hurt like mad to cough. Unfortunately, when I get nervous, my throat tickles. And I was nervous, because I was in my PJs and cloak and the other patients thought I was insane - but mostly because the nurse behind the counter was judging me over my lack of medical insurance.
And I began to cough. Next thing I knew, I was strapped down with a mask...which I had to keep on even after I stopped coughing for the rest of the visit.
Do you know how much attention you can draw in a doctor's waiting room with a surgical mask, Tintin pajamas, nice shoes, and a Ranger's cloak? Don't to mention the fact I was doubled up and shifty trying to find the impossible position to sit in which wouldn't hurt my rib?
Quite a bit. I drew so much I started to smirk at people from behind my mask, a talent I didn't know I had.
After that of course came the poking, the fractured rib announcement, the order not to lift anything for a month, and the fact that I somehow managed to break my rib without having any real clue as to how I did it.
Do I have talent? You bet your best shiny button I do.
I also got a nice reminder that I have the greatest friends in the world - who have been looking after me since the doctor visit. (My two sick friends were declared to have phenomena, so we've kept each other company in our agony by laying about and moaning in pain.)
But....I think I had more, but now my battery is dying so I have to dash.
Quote is from Psych, something Shawn's dad said to Lassie.
And it turned out to be more interesting than it might normally be. Because Jack has the talent of turning normal situations into weird occurrences.
It has been settled on that my rib is broken, cracked, or fractured. Mostly it just depends what I'm doing at the time you ask me, and how conversational I am. All of the above fits, though it seems to lean more toward an actual break and not a crack because the way the bone is sticking out. Not that I'm studying my bones, since I have no interest in anything medical and still grow queasy at the sight of my own blood.
The doctor called it a fracture. I don't know the difference between a fracture and a break and I didn't care to ask him after he poked and prodded it and left me in more pain then when I first climbed up onto his table. For some reason a man jabbing you in your broken rib and asking if it hurts ruins all further desire for conversation.
I mostly just call my rib broken, because I hate the way fracture sounds. Sounds more painful, and as if the little bones in my body are doing nasty things to my insides, which is kind of what it feels like.
But that isn't the point of this story.
The point is more the actual doctor visit and the waiting room.
By Sunday, eight days after my rib began to hurt, I figured it wasn't just bruised as I first thought. I've gotten bruised insides before and this felt completely different. After talking to some friends, and having friends contacted a broken rib expert, everyone figured in the very least it was cracked. I figured the same and kind of wanted to leave it at that. A crack I could man up about. I could still convince myself I was fine, go on walks, maybe a hike or two, even go down to the beach and run through the snow and fly my kite.
This is why I shouldn't be left without adult supervision.
The broken rib expert thought all of the above was a bad idea, even though he had no idea I had any of it planned. He suggested I go to the doctor, and I agreed that I should, though I never said I would. I have this thing with doctors. They have needles. They poke you when you're sore. They have needles. Most insane madmen pose as doctors and stick people with needles. And they have needles. I try to avoid them at all costs. Not always my wisest course of action, but I'm not known for my wisdom.
I was in a lot of pain by Sunday, and after hearing it might be broken feared the dreaded warning most people give with broken ribs. "Don't let it puncture a lung." I had a bad image of myself drinking tea and then gasping for breath. On top of the pain though, I just wasn't having a very good day and by Sunday night a friend caught on and decided Psych was in order.
The plan was for me to go over and watch Psych, then come back to my place where I'd be picked up in the morning to be taken to the doctor. (I didn't know I was going to the doctor until that moment and still considered backing out of it.) That was until I got to my friend's house and they saw how much pain I was in.
And this is where I pause to explain the PJs. By the time I went over to my friend's house I'd already put on my pajamas because I had no plan of going over until they invited me over at eight. I didn't feel like trying to get back into my clothes, and since I thought I'd be back at my place in an hour I didn't pack myself anything to change into later.
Now you now the PJs. Also I wore my cloak. My Ranger cloak over my Tintin pajamas. And my nice slip on shoes. Without socks.
When my friends insisted I spend the night with them just in case I got worse, the plan became for us to wake up early, swing by my place where I could get dressed, then go to the doctor.
I think you get where this is going.
The waking up early worked. But then there was the business of starting the car and warming it up. And my sore rib. And the fact it hurts to change clothes. And the fact there were two sick people in the house with me who needed to see the doctor too. Somehow, in this round about way, we trooped to the doctor with half of us in our PJs. (There were four of us. I and another girl in our PJs, her parents were dressed.)
We left really early and were one of the first there to spend our time in the waiting room filling out all that paper work which is likely burned when patients leave because when they go back they have to fill it out all over again. Once we were done we had the fun task of sitting and waiting, and waiting, and waiting. But my two friends who were sick were coughing a good deal, and therefore had to put on masks. (The surgical kind.)
I was over my cold by then. But I had a tiny cough which showed up sometimes and I fought because it hurt like mad to cough. Unfortunately, when I get nervous, my throat tickles. And I was nervous, because I was in my PJs and cloak and the other patients thought I was insane - but mostly because the nurse behind the counter was judging me over my lack of medical insurance.
And I began to cough. Next thing I knew, I was strapped down with a mask...which I had to keep on even after I stopped coughing for the rest of the visit.
Do you know how much attention you can draw in a doctor's waiting room with a surgical mask, Tintin pajamas, nice shoes, and a Ranger's cloak? Don't to mention the fact I was doubled up and shifty trying to find the impossible position to sit in which wouldn't hurt my rib?
Quite a bit. I drew so much I started to smirk at people from behind my mask, a talent I didn't know I had.
After that of course came the poking, the fractured rib announcement, the order not to lift anything for a month, and the fact that I somehow managed to break my rib without having any real clue as to how I did it.
Do I have talent? You bet your best shiny button I do.
I also got a nice reminder that I have the greatest friends in the world - who have been looking after me since the doctor visit. (My two sick friends were declared to have phenomena, so we've kept each other company in our agony by laying about and moaning in pain.)
But....I think I had more, but now my battery is dying so I have to dash.
Quote is from Psych, something Shawn's dad said to Lassie.
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