At the doctor's office. (from the Moleskine)
I'm going in • Inside now • Explained my problem to Sheila, a Brethren, cap-wearing nurse. It's nice to have Brethren nurses. Quiet, smiling, truly concerned. I know her smile is genuine, her concern real. When she hears my problem, she is troubled.
last night, a friend said, " I wish it were me with RSI instead, because I haven't your gift.
"No. No No No no. " I cried
- Now I wait alone for the doctor. Alone in this room I have been in so many times during my life. The bed over there, where Dr. Godshall tested my knee. The room where I have taken regular physicals. The same brown, drab room where I have taken vaccinations and tetanus shots. The same comfortable paintings I used to see when I was in middle school, in high school. The same jar of tongue depressors. But this time I am calm, waiting for what I cannot control.
After my visit, she carefully slid the splints from the box and asked me to lay out my left hand. Gently, she wound the splint around my thumb and strapped the velcro. Quiet kindness. From what I hear, a rare trait in medical facilities these days. But this is Lancaster County, and sullen apathy hasn't yet affected my rural area.
So now I sit with wrist splints, looking like a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger with these crazy wrists. Typing is slow and painful, but I have confidence from the doctor that my problem is likely not permanent. I can continue to work, but I need to be careful and stop typing for a while once the project is complete.