TBG's Finger Protocol - Part II

Since a couple of you – 25% of my readership! – took me to task for bringing the mood of this lightly-read blog down with all my personal medical wah-wah-wah, I've taken to tweeting machine-gun updates in real time whenever I end up back in the doctor's office.

Unfortunately, I know that some of you are morally opposed to Twitter. An understandable stance and one I maintained for a long time, myself – until I realized my new cell phone came Twitter-ready. The next morning, I was on a plane to Albany for a weekend in Cooperstown and sharing every uninteresting detail with a bunch of people I've never met. It's like I had two blogs!

Anyways, y'all remember what went down back in early August, right?

My left pinky finger had been in a splint for five weeks, when I was finally able to get in to see a sports injury specialist on September 9. After waiting 15 minutes past my scheduled appointment time, I was forced to borrow Mrs. Bootleg's "sassy Black attitude" and use it on the unsuspecting receptionist. Fortunately, it was available, as my wife only dusts it off on those rare occasions when we're at Target together and she demands this week's sale price for something she bought the day before the sale began.

Sadly, it didn't work for me, as the receptionist conspired with the medical staff to pull that "the doctor will see you now" bit, only to have me wait for another 25 minutes in an examination room. And, what kind of medical care did I get after 40 minutes of nothing?

Doctor: "OK, Aaron, let's have a look at that finger. Apart from cleaning and re-wrapping it, has your finger been completely immobilized since your injury?"

Me: "Well, my primary care physician took it out of the splint about 10 days after I tore the tendon. He manipulated it a bit. Tell you the truth, that hurt almost as much as initial injury."

Doctor: "Oooh, he shouldn't have done that."

For only a $25 co-pay, I got two minutes of doctor's valuable time and was told to come back in two weeks. It seems the "healing clock" started over when my primary care guy played "pull my finger".

This past Wednesday, I was told I only needed the splint at night. My pinky finger still has next to no mobility, looks like a swollen Lil' Smokie and stinks like an old corpse. I've also got specific instructions to "buddy tape" my left pinky and ring fingers together whenever I'm "anywhere around Jalen". Yup, those were his exact words. My son's reached the point where doctors are dispensing medical advice tailored to his very existence.

I'm just so proud.