Back to the hand specialist today, and another new cast. Number four. But who's counting?
I opted for a black one today. First one was hot pink, then flourescent yellow, then purple. I've decided that basic black would not clash with whatever I choose to wear. Of course, while they were putting it on, another patient walked through the casting room with a camouflage one, and I wished I had known that was an option before I made my decision! Not really my style, but I would have loved to see Carey's face if I had walked in with one of those!
Ex-ray looked better today. They have the coolest digital ex-ray machine where the image shows instantly on a computer monitor, even as you're moving. Even I could recognize the changes in new bone growth today. Doc said that it would never look like my other hand...the knuckle won't line up with the others...but he doesn't think it needs surgery. That's okay with me. It's our differences that make us memorable.
That's why I can picture my dad's hands. He had nice hands. But I might not have had a reason to study them as I did if he hadn't had the accident that almost took off his little finger, leaving it forever bent and reddened. And now I can picture his hands clearly, folded on the table holding a cigarette, or dealing a hand of solitaire, or signing his name...he always waved the pen point back and forth over the paper before making contact and starting his signature.
So I'm not pouting about still being in a cast these days. Everything takes a little longer and is a little clumsier, but I'm adapting, and being more patient. And I hope that someday the kids picture my hands with the asymetrical knuckle and the little star-shaped scar. And I hope they remember them playing jacks or Hi-Ho-Cherry-O on the floor with them, and baking them cupcakes, and braiding their hair.