Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Broken arms are like having a socially appropriate limp dick joke at the ready.
Last Thursday, I broke my arm. I wish I had an eyebrow raising story on how this happened, but the reality is that my tale is more of a mix of every first draft of a Woody Allen movie script ever written and hanging out with your grandma. This is how it happened:
I'm somewhat merrily leaving my annual optometrist appointment, learning that I don't need to change my eye glasses prescription (side note: why I was excited about this, I'm not too certain. Perhaps I'm either more easily excitable than I thought or possibly I have been suffering from a lack of excitement in my life.). It should be noted that my eyes were still slightly fuzzy from the eye drops my optometrist used during the exam, so the fact that I thought there was only one stair when in fact there were four stairs was not a huge mistake on my part. Also, the lobby was dimly lit, so there is a huge portion of society (mainly the over 70 or cataract-stricken crowd) that would have made the same faux pas. But alas, I went airborn and the next thing I know my chin is hitting the marble floor below and I'm somewhat dazed, but not dazed enough to where I couldn't manage to drop the f bomb a couple of times and roll over on my back. Besides the fact that my knees were already bruised and my wrist and chin hurt like hell, I wrote myself off as klutz and headed for the subway.
I noticed that the slightest nudge to my arm sent shockwaves into my body as my fellow passengers swayed with the flow of the moving subway car. But still, I thought, nothing is seriously hurt. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I had decided that something was actually wrong with my arm, but at worst, it was a sprain. Then I tried to take my coat off. Now what can only be described as the most incredible pain you've ever felt but marginally better than what I imagine child birth to be like, I finally realized that my arm was seriously broken after trying to take my coat off. After successfully getting said coat off and realizing I could not properly extend my arm, I put said coat of painful death BACK on, called my roommate as I had no clue where a hospital was and after receiving his advice, headed back into the city to visit the Beth Israel Emergency Room on 1st Avenue and 16th Street. To make a long story short, I broke my arm at the radial head, which is just a fancy doctoral way of saying "Hey dumbass, you completely fucked your elbow."
For the past five days, I've had a splint and sling attached to my body. The sympathy was fun at first, but after you realize that going to the bathroom involves a 15 minute operation of knowing ahead of time that you have to pee so you have enough time to try to unbutton your jeans with only one hand AND THEN pull down your pants with only one hand, all the while trying not to jar your weak limb, you begin to think that the broken arm is the worst thing that has ever happened to you and must be punishment for calling that 10 year old girl on the show "Kid Nation" a cunt (She really IS a nasty bitch of a 10 year old! Watch the show once and you'll know what I mean!).
Yesterday, I had my first orthopedist appointment at Dr. Arscht's office in Union Square. One thing the receptionist doesn't tell you is that when you visit the office and are sitting in the waiting area, you have voluntarily entered the fourth circle of hell. Now I want you to imagine this: Think of every time you have ever gotten stuck behind an old person in line. It doesn't matter where - the movies, a fast food restaurant, a bank, where ever. Now think about how every action that is required of them takes at least 5 more minutes than it does anyone else on the planet. Also, I need you to envision how they ask questions about everything, even after being told for the hundredth time that yes, they can have a soda, but no, they have to fill up their cup themselves with the self-serve soda machine DIRECTLY behind them, and no, the soda machine is not over there it's OVER THERE, JUST TURN AROUND!. Now imagine taking those old people and giving them an injury that in some geriatric fantasy land means they can talk at a decibel normally reserved for sportscasters about how their bowel movements have never been the same since they broke X, Y, and Z. Now, I didn't go to medical school nor do I claim to be an expert in the field of human science, but I'm pretty confident when I say that a broken leg, elbow, hip, etc. DOES NOT effect your bowels and or their "movements." On the upside, I feel alot closer to Gloria of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn after over hearing the exact details of her bathroom habits for the past six months.
Lucklily for me, my diagnosis is better than Gloria's. To breeze over the subject, my bathroom habits remain unchanged (bonus!), and in even better news, I don't need cast. Now don't get me wrong, my arm is in a sad state of affairs but because the break involves the elbow, I must start physical therapy immediately to prevent a permanent loss of movement in my elbow. If you can see my sad, pathetically limp arm in person, you'll agree that you have seen better flexibility in your life. But hopefully, my crack team of physical therapists led by Esther will be able to get me in tip top shape again, or at least enough to where I can bend my arm without wincing. Also, expect a posting about me being hit by a bus in the coming weeks since I just dedicated an entire paragraph to ragging on old people.