And despite my crossed fingers and hope for the best, I enter week seven of injured wrist-itude with a new, equally neon-coloured cast.
I saw my arm for approximately 3.4456 seconds. I got to scratch one dry spot. Then it was back into fibreglass, at least for another two weeks, til the poking and prodding and testing of our marvellous health care system can figure out wtf is wrong with me. Because apparently, apparently, there might not have been a fracture at all. But: "Oh, scaphoids are pretty hard to tell my dear" and "I'm about 90% sure that it was fractured" and "Well you're still having a lot of pain right there, so there must be something"
I'm getting a little tired of guessing games when it comes to my health. I want my arm back, I want to go back to my full-time job, I want to be able to shower without a freakin' plastic bag having to join me (plastic bags, unlike other people, do not make good shower companions)...I am just frustrated at having been injured, and even more frustrated that this medical system has been jerking me around for SEVEN WEEKS.
Either it is fractured, or it isn't. If it isn't, figure out what's wrong. Being given guesses isn't good enough for me anymore, and when an xray tech brings me to tears because the pain is excrutiating as she's trying to get my wrist in the right spot for a (count it) fourth set of radioactive pictures of my freaking arm, I think it's a PRETTY GOOD SIGN that somethin' ain't right.
I'm not asking the hospital to know everything. I'm just asking for some answers, and maybe, maybe just a little less condescension in their tones when they talk to me. I'm not 2, I'm 22, and I know my own body. When something hurts, it hurts. Help me figure out why?
....In the meantime, I'm going back to my basically-pretty-happy attitude. Sometimes you just need a good rage post!
I leave you with a photo of my new bright green roommate--I promise I'm laughing about this all sometime tomorrow. Especially my guinea pig status.
Much love, everyone who sat through that <3