On the plus side, maybe Lifetime will make a movie about this whole saga. Starring David James Elliott of course!

Good afternoon everyone!

You know that part in those Lifetime TV movies or Readers Digest stories, or Mystery Diagnosis  (The one show Oprah didn't destroy in her hostile take over of Discovery Health Channel.)  when the sufferer gets a name for their pain?  And they seem relieved, like now that they have a name they can battle whatever it is.

I guess I'm not the kind of person.

I got a name for what ails my hands.  Didn't make me want to fight, unless kicking my doctor in the shins counts.


 If you haven't read the post about my trip to my Dudley Moore impersonating doctor, go ahead and do so right now....we'll wait.


Okay, everyone up to speed?  Great.

So after getting NOWHERE with the doctor last night, except for paying for $30 copay, and a prescription  (I haven't picked that up yet....sorry, I already have a VAT of Aleve.  I'll get to the prescription some time this weekend.  For that matter, I have leftover Vi codeine from when I had a tooth infection.  I don't need any stinking Naproxin!)  I went back to work and waited for the official diagnosis.  After all, remember, my x-rays were far too difficult for the DOCTOR to read, we had to wait for the radiologist to read them.

And now, drum roll please......

I have "MODERATE DEGENERATIVE CHANGES IN BOTH THUMBS."  (My left hand is worse than my right.)

I asked the nurse just what that meant.  Not that I'm a moron, I can break down the words easily enough.  But what did this diagnosis mean, for me?

"It means, sweetie, that you're getting old.  You just have to live with this."

First of all, there are only a handful of people who are allowed to call me Sweetie.  Most of them know me, or are related to me.  The others are the top five on my "Celebrity List." 

Second of all, and this is really important.  I'm 43.  I'm not 93.  I've not had an injury to my hands that I'm aware of, other than the wear and tear of my years of office and shipping work.  It's not like I've been putting in sewer pipes in the cold.  As far as those who work with their hands go, I've had it pretty easy.  My grandmother doesn't have this problem!

"So it's not arthritis, or carpal tunnel?"  asks I.

"Nope, sweetie.  (again)  You're just getting old."

I'm sorry, do I have steam coming out of my head?  Yes, yes, Sarah is full on into a rage now!

I have a litany of things I have wrong with me, all things that I can take care of in due time when funds or the inclination arise.  But very few of my issues involve actual, continuous pain.  I'm never going to be a supermodel or a professional figure skater, so there's really no rush to getting a lot of the work done.  But I am a writer, an office worker, a mom, and a volunteer.  I need my STINKING HANDS TO NOT HURT!

Yet here's this nurse, blithely informing me that I will be, at the age of 43, living with a degeneration in my hands that can only be medicated it can't be stopped.  So why try?

As a side note, she did mention, "Well, I could give you the phone number for Ortho if you'd like.  But I wouldn't do anything until we see if the naproxin can mask the pain."

YES, I would like very much!


Oh and thank you medical professional, for telling me to wait while my stomach and liver are torn apart(Because didn't a study just come out that this stuff messes with you?) by something that's NOT FUN.  Let me wreck my innards with fun food and tequila, please. 
 
My very next phone call was to Doris at Ortho.  Doris is my new BFF.  She listened to me for a full two minutes, (or, longer than my doctor did last night) while I repeated the conversation with the other nurse.  Then she laughed a little bit.  I've never heard a better sound.  This was a laugh of disbelief.  "Okay, let's get you in to see our hand specialist," she says.  "I think you've done a very smart thing making this appointment."
 
So my friends, in a litter more than two weeks' time, I will again be trekking my rear to the doctor's office, only this time, I'm going to see someone might have an inclination to help.
 
Of course, between now and then I have to schedule a mammogram.  Happy Dance of Joy!
 
So on that note, my friends, have a groovy weekend.  It's just Skippy and me.  Hubby and Peaches are across the state eating smelt.  (For those of you who don't live in Wisconsin, it's a fish.  It's yummy.)  I doubt Skippy will emerge from his lair, and I'm going to be writing.  So it's a great weekend for me!