I made the mistake of going out Christmas shopping last Saturday – I’d be happy to tell you what I bought but on the off-hand chance my wife drops in before Christmas the surprise would be spoiled.  Huge volumes of traffic everywhere which inevitably results in people driving like complete idiots.  Case in point:  on the left-turn light, the rocket surgeon in front of me pulls a U-turn across 4 lanes of McLeod Trail to end up stuck almost parallel to where he was only now he’s stuck in south-bound traffic instead of north-bound.

I complete my left-turn now behind a new Volvo wagon.  Half way up the street he flicks his left turn signal on and I’m thinking this guy has another 200 meters to go before the parking lot entrance is there and start moving to the right lane so as not to get stuck behind a guy trying to turn left across 2 lanes of Christmas shopping traffic, into a mall.  The Volvo inexplicably dekes to the right, its left signal still flashing before snapping back to the left to make a U-turn.  I abort my right lane transition as it appears unnecessary with this new trajectory of his.

As he swings left and I curse his stupid left-right-left maneuver (what’s with that – why must people use a slow-motion Scandinavian flick when they’re making a turn?) I can’t help but notice he’s talking on a cell phone.  He can’t help but notice he’s pulled into the path of an on-coming truck so he slams on the binders.  I am officially following too close at this point having anticipated a successful U-turn on his part.  Collision is imminent and thanks to his left-right-left he’s actually taking up more of the lane than if he’d just been going straight.  In what is best described as a fluke and instinct, I wrench the wheel to the right, hard right, and miss the Volvo by a butterfly’s breath but am now heading for a curb at speed.  I snap the wheel back to the left and feel the front end push in the gravel along the curb before pulling us back into safe(ish) territory.

Disaster averted, my wrist explodes in agony having been twisted and bent against all warning feedback and at that moment I’m convinced I’ve broken it further.  It occurs to me at this moment that had I not avoided him, it would have been me with the ticket for following too close.  The Third Idiot.

It feels like a lifetime since I’ve been for a ride.  I haven’t looked at the Rescue Bike in weeks and this weekend’s dump of snow isn’t doing anything to help that.  I’m still very torn of course – ride through the snow when the opportunities present themselves, or forego the studded tires and winter wear in favour of a reliable and predictable stationary trainer.  The battle rages on.  My legs and lungs are dying for a ride.

I had my two-week follow up session with the hand specialist last week.  This time I was prepared – I knew where I was going, I knew where to find parking and I knew where to pay.  Arriving early this time I managed to be in the reception area a solid twenty minutes early.  Know what that means?  You get to listen to the cast saws buzzing away for twenty minutes.  The waiting room was all but empty by the time I was finally called in and given a new waiting spot.  I was privileged to better hear the screaming, buzzing cast saws from my new perch but seemed no closer to the actual doctor who could be seen pacing back and forth across the open room avoiding eye-contact with any of the waiting patients.

Finally – the doc is in my cube.  He pokes at my metacarpal V – the “in-the-palm-pinkie” bone – and gets a confused look on his face.  Now I’m confused – this is supposed to be fairly routine.  “How long ago did you break it?” he asks, a quizzical look on his face.  “3 weeks” I answer, “it was a nice Thursday afternoon the day before Remembrance Day”.  He hems and haws for a moment before loading up my X-rays and then he understands.  Metacarpal V was broken and healed untreated 16 or more years ago.  I’m here for my problematic pisiform.  Or my triquetral…whichever.

He picks up my hand again and starts prodding with remarkable accuracy now that he’s back on track.  Yep – that’s the spot the really hurts when you jab your fingertip in there, thanks for reminding me of that.  Now that I’m fully awake and tuned in he reminds me again with a slightly less painful jab and the caution “this will continue to hurt for a long time”.  I’m not sure if he means the immediate pain he’s just inflicted or my wrist in general but I nod in understanding lest he jab me again.  “Three more weeks and I’ll see you again, and then we should be done” he says as he gets up.

And that’s it.  The entire session lasted less than 3 minutes, drawn out to such lengths thanks only to the slow computer pulling up my X-rays.  An hour off of work, fighting traffic and paying for parking for just a 3 minute visit.  Hardly seems worth it.  On the other hand he did manage to induce both an endorphin rush as he jabbed my broken bits and the knowledge that all is well (but the pain is going to haunt you indefinitely).  I’ll take what I can get.

I am oh-so-tired of this splint however.  I know – millions of people around the world would love to have an inexpensive, removable prosthetic device in place of a cast.  It’s convenient in that you can remove it for cleaning, so you can shower, to just let your arm breathe – and for all that I’m genuinely grateful.  It just doesn’t fit comfortably except in one or two resting positions, it makes “mousing” difficult though I do have both left and right mice on my computers, it makes typing difficult and most annoyingly of all, it makes picking up my kids a carefully executed maneuver.  Still – better than a cast…but a cast would get me out of dishes more effectively.  What?  I’m just saying…