I'd like to say, foremost, that I would LOVE to write about something other than my ankle. Really, I have all sorts of interesting things I think about, that I'd be all too happy to wax unpoetic about for far more than probably anyone would care to read.Unfortunately, those things tend to take a backseat when a part of your body is screaming bloody murder constantly. In fact, EVERYTHING takes a backseat under those circumstances, so my life has been pretty much dominated by this.
So after about 24 hours of nonstop "If you move it, it will hurt..." I decided to call up my health plan peeps to see what the dealio. Real quick like, they hook me back up with the butchers who gave me this cast in the first place.
Of course, surgeons do not work on Saturday. Some unlucky bastard -- my god, truly, how my heart goes out to him -- had to be on call in case some schmuck like myself calls up bitching.
And Dr. How-Dare-You-Interrupt-My-Golf-Game pretty much told me to stop whining and take the pain. Hey, we're doctors and you're not. Fuck you and your grinding pieces of broken bone. (Okay, so I'm paraphrasing.)
So I didn't want to necessarily run back to the ER, since the ER defers to the orthopedic guys as authority. But guess what? I can live with not being able to move for another two days, at which point, if I'm lucky, the quack who gave me this cast in the first place can squeeze me in once again (and I can once again miss work) OR I can go to the ER, where they will X-Ray me to at least try and assuage my fears.
Now, what would you do in my situation?
(Right right right -- let us mention, if we have not -- I shouldn't need surgery, but if it [the broken ankle] keeps moving I will. D'ya think maybe screaming pain means it's moving? I dunno...)
