@jeffreymcmanus No, your ignorant unintelligent prattle has begun to bore me
— A G Wetherington (@AGWetherington) October 30, 2012
Here’s a commemorative photo of my right hand, 13 months after I hurt it. Black and white always makes things look much more dramatic.
It still bugs me pretty much every day. It’s still uncomfortable to write with, and when I need to snap my fingers, I have to use my good (left) hand. Other than that, it’s OK — I can type with it no problem, which is the important thing.
Since I’ve been blogging about my hand injury here I should probably drop in a little year-end update for posterity. Since I hurt it back in September, it’s gotten slowly but steadily better, but it’s still not 100%. I still can’t snap my fingers with that hand without feeling pain, and it still feels tight when I close the fist, although it doesn’t totally hurt to make a fist anymore (that’s a big improvement over the past few weeks, actually). There was a wicked clicking sensation in the joint of the finger that would happen when I flexed the finger, probably due to the swelling; that’s mostly gone away in the past few weeks.
I do still have a nasty-looking C-shaped scar on the inside of my index finger that’ll probably be there forever, and I still have to spend a few minutes flexing the finger first thing in the morning when I wake up (it gets stiff and swollen overnight when I’m sleeping). It’ll be nice when I don’t have to do that anymore — it sucks to be reminded that your hand is messed up as your first sensation of the day, every day.
I’m blogging this more for myself than anyone else, but if you’re interested in reading the whole wacky tale, I made a category for it.
Went to the hand specialist again this morning. He said my finger was healing up pretty nicely and his nurse took the stitches out (which was a minor ouchie). Afterwards, he asked me to make a fist with my hand and I could not, which was unnerving. It seems like the swelling, combined with having the finger locked in place by the splint for two weeks, is making it too stiff to close all the way. He said that I need to force myself to open and close the hand over the next few weeks to get it back to normal working condition. Forcing the hand to close hurts but fortunately I have some drugs saved up for that.
On the upside, I’m back to typing with 10 fingers again at about 70% of my normal blazing speed, which is really nice — not being able to type normally was really bumming me out.
Went to an orthopedic specialist for my hand injury today and spotted a few amusing packages of stuff in his office, which I secretly photographed. Little did I realize that minutes after laughing at ‘Alumafoam’ he would be splinting my finger with it. Oh well, at least the new splint is slightly less bulky than the one I had to wear all last week before ripping it off in disgust on Friday.
In the future all things will be made of Alumafoam, I’m certain of it.
So this morning at 3AM Carole wakes up hearing noises. I check around, look downstairs, figure it’s the newspaper being delivered. Back to bed.
Up again at 6AM, this time the noise is coming from our closet. I go in there and spot something moving. Turns out it’s a small opossum.
I go out to the living room and we try to figure out what to do. I stupidly decide to whack the thing with the closest handy weapon, a curtain rod. I go back to the closet, whack, no effect, the little bastard pokes his head out to look at me mockingly. Second whack is much harder — and the sharp end of the curtain rod has now sliced open my right index finger at the base.
We go to the emergency room. The doc says I’ve nicked a tendon, but he can fix it, which is good news — the nick is vertical, not horizontal, so there’s little danger of the tendon being severed. He puts two stitches in the tendon and ten stitches in the finger, then puts my fingers and wrist in a splint and my arm in a sling. Woo hoo.
We have no idea what happened to the opossum, that little bastard.
Update: I bagged the li’l bastard on Wednesday morning thanks to a couple of glue traps and a teaspoon of peanut butter placed into a cardboard box in the kitchen. I then ejected him from our home (as opposed to cutting off his head and mounting it on a pike in the village square). I should mention I suffered more through this way more than he ever did (did I mention I got 12 stitches in my hand?), so those of you who said this was all karmic payback can bite my doughy white ass. That is all.