The Jacked Up Finger

As you guys know, it's been forever since I've posted a blog.  For my fellow OCD type folks, it's been 47 days.  I'm sure some of the followers I had have moved on to greener and funnier pastures.   For the rest of you loyal, intelligent, amazingly interesting readers, here's a post (and I stick my tongue out at those of you who have left me, not that you'll see it because you're gone, but it makes me feel better).

I think we've all established that I'm a little uncoordinated, sometimes even a little unlucky.  If there had been a Most Likely to Trip on Nothing category in high school, I probably would have won hands down.   It's been this way all my life.  I also seem to be able to get the most amazingly obscure or strange sicknesses. My motto is if you're gonna do it, do it big.

Like the time I perforated my eardrum with a Q-tip.   I know, I know.  Q-Tips are from the devil. Don't put them in your ear.  Use a washcloth.  Use an ear candle.   Use your car key.

Whatever.

Nothing feels better than a little cotton swab swabbing out the ol' ear canal. I can almost have an eargasm, it feels so good.  Until it doesn't.

There I was one morning before work, cleaning out my ears, minding my own business, with no clue of the tragedy that was about to befall me.  As I had the Q-Tip in there swirling it about, I noticed that the mini-blinds were crooked.  There is nothing, other than liver, the word ain't,  and when people confuse they're, their and there, that I hate more than crooked mini-blinds.  We may be white trash, but you don't have to let the neighbors know it.  Fix the dang crooked mini-blinds, people!

I couldn't stand to leave the blinds that way, so there I was, cleaning and swirling my Q-Tip with my right hand and pulling up the mini-blind with my left, when tragedy struck.   I knocked the stupid decorative crap figurine off the window ledge.

Leaving the Q-Tip in my ear,  I went to grab the figurine with my right hand before it crashed on the tile. Unfortunately, my outstretched arm forced the unattended swab into my eardrum.  It was with a mighty pop, sudden deafness, and great pain and several curse words starting with the letter S that I realized what I had done.

Now imagine with me, if you will, what it is like to call up your boss and explain through your tears that you have to come in late, because you have just ruptured your own eardrum.

With a Q-Tip.

Imagine the muffled laughter you can hear from him.   Muffled because he put his hand over his phone or because I was NOW DEAF, I'll never know.

Imagine as well, calling the doctor, and the receptionist telling you she's sure you didn't burst it, because well, you just can't burst an eardrum that way.    Imagine going to the doctor and him telling you he's sure you can't rupture your eardrum with a cotton swab.  No one in the history of the world has done that.

Hello, Doctor.  Meet me.  The exception to the rule.

And then imagine him looking at your ear and saying, "Huh, who knew?  It's ruptured."

So let's flash forward together to March of this year.

A sweet friend of mine, Lori,  calls up and wants to go bowling.  Bowling?  Huge heavy weights being flung through the air?  Me?  What could go wrong?

Four months, two braces, four weeks of physical therapy so far, and two billion dollars later, I'll tell ya.

The ball could get stuck on your finger.  No, you will not fall down and fly down the alley.  This is not a cartoon.   You weigh more than the ball.   Instead, there will be a horrific rip and mighty pain and given my propensity for an occasional bad word or two, a curse word.

Then your finger could look like this.

Looks awesome, huh?

And like this..... Notice the awesome diagram for all you medical folks.

No, it's not my finger. No, not only dark skinned people are lucky enough to have a messed up finger.  These were just the best pics on Google I could find of fingers with my injury that weren't of jacked up old people.  When I was going through all of this, I never thought to take a picture.  I'll remember the next time I'm in pain and my finger is deformed to take a picture for you people.  Geez.

It's called a boutonniere deformity and apparently you get it because you are an awesome bowler.

Or because the ball gets stuck on your finger and as the weight of the twelve pound ball rips free from your finger to go straight into the gutter resulting in a 37 score for the game, it also rips and tears every damn  tendon in your finger.

Oh yeah.   Go big or go home, people.  Go big or go home.  Seriously, go home.  Don't go bowling.  That's the moral here.   Don't.  Go.  Bowling.

The awesome thing about this injury is it doesn't show up right away.   That would be too easy, right?   So when you go to the doctor and get xrays and MRIs, it doesn't show up.  No.  That's for easy things like broken bones.   THIS freakin' loveliness waits up to a month to pop up.  Sneaky little bastard injury.

There you are, singing through your life like Mary Poppins, twirling your umbrella, safe in your little world, thinking to yourself, "Self, my finger's not broken.   It's bruised.  The doctor said so.  Yes it's swollen up like a corny dog and hurts like Satan is doing the backstroke in it, but it's not broken.  Just bruised.  La.La La." And then you skip around some more in your ignorance, safe in the knowledge that your finger will be fine in a week or two. Except it's not.

One day your finger starts drawing up, and the next day a little more, and then a little more. The pain isn't getting better.  It's getting worse.  And suddenly, you can't straighten it anymore.  And you can't type. And you can't wash your own hair or wipe your own bottom.  And heaven forbid you hit it in the Mexican food restaurant on your purse, because you will lay down in the seat and cry like a little girl.   (I saw a lady do that one time.   Not me.)

So you go to a finger specialist who tells you that you have ruptured/torn/jacked up all the tendons in your finger and need to go to physical therapy or you might need surgery later.  And so you do.

And that my friends, is where we are today.  In therapy.   Oh, the irony.  For years, people have been telling me I need therapy.  I just don't think this is what  they meant.

I've got a brace I'm wearing supposed to be wearing all the time.   The goal is to make my finger flat, straight, and stiff.  This will make the tendons longer.  Another four weeks in it should do.  Then I'll be in therapy for another four weeks to fix the stiffness and the fact that once it's been in a brace that long my finger won't bend. First, it wouldn't straighten.  Then, it won't bend.   Good times are being had here, people. Good.  Times.

In the meantime, I'm going to start working on blog posts.   Slowly, but surely.    I've got a ton of stories built up.   It's kind of like constipation.

If I don't get them out, I'll explode.

And we wouldn't want to have to read a blog post about that.