On December 23, I broke two fingers while cycling through Hollywood. I was coasting downhill on the streets of L.A., when I hit something in the road that sent me and the bike down hard. I heard the crack of bone, but during the long and painful ride home (along which I debated whether or not to go to the E.R.), I talked myself into thinking they weren't broken. It wasn't until the next night, Christmas Eve, that I realized I definitely needed to see a doctor.
I waited until Dec. 26 and headed to an Urgent Care. From there I went to a hand specialist. This bright guy put a splint on the middle finger but told me my index finger wasn't broken and I needed to keep bending it or it would get stiff. Though painful, I tried this until my follow up visit. I waited over two hours in the waiting room before he finally saw me. He glanced at the middle finger, said it was fine, and was getting ready to leave when I stopped him. I told him I was worried about my index finger since it had been two weeks with no improvement. He scheduled an appointment with his colleague.
Two days later and another hour long wait in the cattle-like waiting room and his colleague shocks me with the news that I need surgery! Looking at the new X-ray, I felt he was right, but after enduring the mis-diagnosis of his colleague and feeling railroaded into the surgery, I decided to get a second opinion. Regardless, I wasn't going to let these people handle my surgery.
I asked for referrals and found a very good doctor who was also covered under my health plan. He confirmed the need for surgery, but he went over several different procedures and we discussed which would work best. I felt much better and scheduled the surgery. (Without surgery, my range of motion was only ten percent and I was in permanent point. With surgery, I should regain 70-100%. I'm hoping for the hundred.)
Two days before surgery, I got sick and had to delay for another two weeks! I finally had the surgery last Tuesday, six weeks after the initial accident. I won't lie, it was painful. I'm writing this entry very slowly with my left hand while I'm high on pain meds. Forgive the typos.
Because I splintered the bone, they had to remove the bone fragments and replace the missing bone with a piece from my wrist. So my entire hand is a grossly misshapen balloon.
Meanwhile, it seems as though everyone I know is falling under some kind of gypsy curse. One of the few things I was really looking forward to was shopping around my new horror comic that I created with artist Garrett Eisenheim. Last week Garrett informed me he was diagnosed with throat cancer.
As if that wasn't depressing enough, my friend Joe's father had a massive coronary on Monday morning. Fortunately, he was rushed to the hospital in time and is recovering as well as can be expected. Then last night Joe fell on black ice and may have broken two or three fingers on his left hand.
Also in the past two weeks: my friend Angie discovered she needed emergency root canal and my buddy Mark threw out his back.
I don't know which gods I've angered (Scientologist's demi-beingTom Cruise?), or which gypsy overseer I may have slighted, but whatever I've done, just let me know and I'll offer whatever sacrifices are needed to appease you. Only please... make it stop!