It Comes in Threes

24 Mar

In December I went to a surgeon to drain a cyst that I’d had on my wrist for about two years (sexy).

 I was shocked when he told me that the cyst was likely caused by a partially severed tendon in my hand. I had no recollection of any injuries I’d sustained over the years, and sure, there was occasional pain in my hand, but it was sporadic at best. “I could certainly drain it for you, but if we don’t fix the root of the problem, the cyst will likely return.” I scheduled surgery for the following month to repair the tendon and deal with the cyst once and for all. 

The procedure ended up taking twice as long as expected; apparently the cyst was a fatty mass (sexier) that needed to be sent to pathology instead of merely drained, and my ulna bone is 3mm too long, which is what caused the tendon tear (friction). This information was relayed to me as I was coming out of anesthesia, and my surgeon, whose demeanor implied he could really use a shot (seriously- he did not look ok) informed me that my wrist was “A mess” and that we’d have a lot to discuss during our follow up visit. I had ten days to ruminate on all the possibilities of what “A mess” entailed. 

During my much anticipated follow-up, I was disheartened to see that I was put into a room with about eight other patients- all of us sporting bandaged arms/hands, sitting on our padded exam tables, with only a potential curtain (none were drawn) separating us all. After an hour of waiting, my Dr., who apparently was responsible for everyone’s check up, entered the room and began at the opposite side. We could see and hear the other patients, which not only seemed wrong, but also in no way HIPAA compliant. “I have a feeling I’m about to be his problem patient,” I said to my boyfriend, who was there for emotional support and/or to restrain his one-armed, extremely frustrated girlfriend from going postal on her unsuspecting surgeon. Then he approached. “So, how’s the hand?” And then I shot him…with my eyes, which were now daggers. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.” “Well, I think it would be wise to put you in a cast for a few weeks, and then some physical therapy after that.” “What about the bone that’s too long and the cyst?” I asked. Fortunately the mass was benign. “Will I need surgery to shorten the bone?” When he said it was highly likely, and answered “yes” when I asked if all this could’ve been done in one procedure, I lost it. “So you mean to tell me that now I have to pay for another surgery, more anesthesia (they bill you separately for that), more PT and will need even more recovery time, because you never gave me that option?” That is when he did a bit of backpedaling, and insisted that surgery may not be necessary after all. “The fact is, you’ve lived your entire life this way and never had an issue till now. Let’s see how you do after you heal and get back to your normal activities before we decide on that approach.” I cooled down- I even apologized (which made one of us), but not without explaining that the way he left me hanging after my surgery scared the crap out of me. His matter-of-fact approach didn’t exactly scream empathy, but hopefully he’ll think twice before doing that to someone else.

The funny thing is, a couple weeks before my surgery I walked into a pull-up bar, which was on my closet floor of all places. I bruised my ankle bone to the point that I couldn’t walk on it for  three days. I even went to urgent care, who informed me that I had no broken bones, but if I wanted to know what was wrong, I’d have to go to OCR in Loveland for imaging. By this point, my friend Jessica, who’s also a massage therapist, worked her magic, and I was able to walk on both feet yet again. I had feared being in a position where I was only going to have one hand and one foot, had it not healed in time for my surgery. 

Through it all, my boyfriend has been there- taking me to every appointment, being my emotional punching bag when I feel overwhelmed (sorry baby), fetching me whatever dinner I happen to be craving and buying me a bitchin’ knee cart when I couldn’t walk. 

But we were about to receive news that meant he was gonna need me to be his rock, and our roles were about to be reversed…