06 February 2006

Gather 'round, for I have news.

Good tidings from Sheenatown (population: me). My hand is not broken! Huzzah!

I know that we didn't really think it was broken, as I have full range of motion with my fingers and whatnot, but it has been spectacularly icky and swelling for the past few days. And with the indignant order from one of my coworkers, I took myself uptown this afternoon to the doctor.

She was rightly impressed by the grossness of my hematoma. As will you be:



Unpleasant, n'est-ce pas? That ball was moving pretty fast.

And, I am aware that you're not supposed to touch it with your hands (seriously, like six people pointed that rule out to me after viewing my blue swollen claw). I was trying to get it to glance off my shoulder, but Tera was too fast (and I was too slow). I mean, at least I blocked a shot, right?


This is my non-disfigured hand:



And there's that pesky hematoma:


Yessirree. The doctor prodded a little, suggested I get out of the way of the ball next time (or perhaps choose a different sport), and sent me off to the radiologist.

I was at the radiology office for roughly a decade. Sitting there, listening to NY1 loop around and to the receptionists not answer the phone. Also, there were a couple of crazies. One older UES lady (made up, high heels, husband AND hired help in tow) was having mini-breakdowns every couple of minutes. This was upsetting. Also, there was a woman in a ravishing fuschia shirt with red leather vest combo that was performing the doctor's office equivalent of cherry-picking. She was just hanging around the door (where all the white-coated folks were), waiting to catch someone unawares so that she might ask them questions or demand to be next.

Though they both sashayed in after me, they were called to exam rooms before I was. Damn you, triage!

Finally, finally, I was in. A nice lady called out my name and proceeded to talk my ear off (in moderately broken English) and call me "Sweetie Pie." She scolded me for getting hit by a soccer ball. She was tiny and struggled with both the machine and lead apron I wore for the occasion. She also cross-examined me like Johnny Cochran about whether there was any way at all I could be pregnant and whether I signed the affidavit affirming that I was not.

We took some handsome photographs of my phalanges, carpals, and metacarpals (that's right, I remember biology). During this time she told me about Teary McCriesalot and how her nose did not show up on the X-ray because she had a nose job. Eeeeew.

Then, two minutes later, Sassy Technician whisked away my films to be read by the doctor, who set me and my non-broken hand free upon New York once again. They told me to be careful in the future.

In celebration, I came home and cleaned the refrigerator. Then I watched Happiness. That was kind of a mistake.

6 comments:

claire said...

oh man. it was way grosser on saturday night. what with the swelling and whatnot.

Joshua said...

yeah, that was dumb.
But I'm glad your hand's ok and disturbed that people who had nose jobs don't really have noses. Do they not show up because they no longer have a soul?

Sheena said...

Yeah, I think the fake nose has no soul. Man, I wish I'd seen that Xray film.

Though Sassy Technician arranged my hand in a variety of artful poses that made the films look pretty cool. She also said I did a good job holding said poses in a tone of voice that suggested I was a puppy that peed on the paper instead of the carpet. She rocked.

Sheena said...

Also, my hand doesn't hurt at all today! Huzzah!

Except gripping the subway pole for a long time. So I don't do that.

Joshua said...

I want a puppy.

Flushy McBucketpants said...

my advice is to just chop off your hands, then you won't have to worry about them.

also, "megging" is short for "nutmegging," which is a term in soccer that means "to kick the ball between the opponents legs." Ideally one would also move around the opponent and continue dribbling, but you have to be pretty good to pull that off. And, no, I don't know where the term originated from. It's possible it has something to do as a reference to kicking the ball below someone's testicles or "nuts," but somehow I doubt it. I suppose it could also have originated from some kind of "playing with spice" phraseology.