Thursday, 25 September 2003 | Numbers

The number of _____ in the last two weeks.
doctor visits: 9
different medical institutions visited: 6
hours spent in a medical institution: 26
x-ray sessions: 8
x-rays taken: 40 (approx.)
accessories for my arm: 5
prescriptions filled: 2

The woman who removed my cast was undeniably stupid. She was also grumpy, defensive, demanding, and uncoordinated. She made me nervous. Her coworker, a woman named "Elba," seemed a little brighter and was moderately friendlier. Together, they tried to shove my damaged arm through a one-inch wide opening in the cast until I somewhat frantically convinced them that it wouldn't fit. Elba then came at me with a rotating saw and cut the plaster around my arm while I gritted my teeth.

As soon as the cast was off, I missed it. My arm wasn't the arm I'd remembered prior to the accident, and it wasn't healthy or flexible, like I'd irrationally hoped. Rather, it was red and lumpy and weak; it reminded me of a newborn baby, and it was just as unhappy to have left its womb.

My arm's new clothing is all black and is made of metal, foam, and velcro. Equipped with a hinge at the elbow, it allows me to flex and straighten my arm, to rebuild my neglected muscles, and to supply my arm with air and soap and water. It makes me look like I am part robot, and is far more eye-catching than the cast.

In the past day-and-a-half, I've reluctantly grown to like my new armwear. It is a much more lenient parent than the last, and it's remarkable how many more things I am now able to do, little by little. Earlier, I used my bad appendage to write down the details of (another) doctor's appointment before I realized: I'm writing.