Saturday, 11 October 2003 | Range

It's a much more social place than the gynecologist's or the dermatologist's or almost any other doctor's office I can imagine. In the orthopedic doctor's office, people compare their bone injuries like trophies and are anxious to exchange stories. One woman sitting across from me, determined to communicate despite limited English, pointed to body parts to indicate what was wrong with her before asking me: how? "Bicycle," I responded, and she made a face that meant "pain."

I was wrong about Wednesday would be like. My favorite nurses were nowhere to be seen, and no stitches were tugged through my skin. In fact, they tell me, the stitches will fade into nothingness all by themselves. Smart stitches.

It was on Friday that I gained permission to undress my arm, to let it hang there, fragile, bent, and naked, and to take my first normal shower in a month. My hinge will still be part of my life, however, and I assume the consequences of that will continue: Terminator/robot comments, curious glances from strangers, and questions.

My mirror tells me that the back of my elbow has a smile that is ugly and crooked, but instead of being upset, I'm mostly curious and timid. Curious, because this is the first I've really seen of my new elbow, and timid, because I actually feel that, like the Terminator, I'm made of something nonhuman; I worry that if I bend my arm too far, that my seam will rip and my metallic bones will poke out of my flesh. Today I told my physical therapist something to that effect (I neglected to mention that in my imagination my bones were metal), and she smiled and assured me that wouldn't happen.

According to a giant plastic protractor that was compared to my arm, my current range of motion looks something like this:

She told me that by the end of the visit, I'd gained 10 degrees, but I think she was being generous.