By now, you should know my thoughts on men vs. women while they are sick. I crack jokes about it just to keep myself from crying when my husband takes ill. Case in point:
This past week, my wrist started to really bug me. I hadn’t done anything to it, but there was certainly something wrong. So by Monday morning, when I couldn’t even move it, I headed into an orthopedist to get it checked out. After several XRays, and the doctor doing a bazillion tests on my hand and wrist, he said, “You have an injury in the top of your wrist affecting the lunar bone. It is supposed to be right up next to the neighboring bone, and yours has a big gap. Did you fall on it really hard? That must really hurt.” I told him I hadn’t remembered doing anything at all, and yes — it did hurt. He wanted to cast it to make sure I was not using it, but I told him I was just going to use a Rollerblade pad I had at home. (That was just quick thinking — I actually went to the store and picked a wrist bandage up.) So now I am into my second of many full days of wearing this ugly thing.
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Okay — so great story and all, but the moral and real point of this whole essay is that apparently I am tough as nails. Want more proof? How about the fact that my wrist started to bug me on Thursday, and cleaned the entire garage by myself for five hours on Saturday. Did it bother my wrist? Yes. Was it going to make the sweet things in my life as happy as clams? Yes. See — tough as nails. Want even more proof? I am typing this aren’t I?
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