Plaster Pete? No, Black Bart

Sometimes you just have to advocate for yourself. I am my own best advocate for sure.
Monday morning this week I was through with Clint, the Splint. (see below)
He had worn out his welcome.
From my sleep-depriveded perspective, the relationship had to end.
He was making life miserable.


I know better than to advocate for myself over the phone so I (carefully) drove myself to the orthopedic surgeon's office and very nicely said "Either someone here unwraps this thing or I will." 


I didn't think calling it Clint, the Splint would add to my case.


The nice lady behind the desk looked at her computer screen and said it didn't look like anyone was available. Maybe I could wait for my appointment on Thursday. We had a little discussion about 3 more nights with no sleep. She was really empathetic. 


She went to check with someone further back in the office. When she came back she said she was really sorry but I should probably wait until Thursday and under NO CIRCUMSTANCES was I to unwrap it myself. 


I looked at her with all the sincerity I could muster and asked, "What will happen to me if I do? Will I go to 'splint jail'?" (I am totally serious) Then I added very nicely, "I am here . . .and I will wait as long as I have to."


She looked at me for a couple of seconds and went back to talk it over again.


I can only imagine what she said. But she came back and said to take a seat and wait. . . 
I couldn't sit with Clint so I stood and swayed. (It's a thing we mothers do for comfort.)
Thirty minutes later this lovely smiling face called me back . . .


 (No way was I going to chance seeing the wires sticking out of my hand without my camera!)

I was prepared to plead my case but she said they would take the splint off, x-ray my hand and give me a cast. I confess wanting to hug her.

I didn't mention 'splint jail' and neither did she. . . 

You can skip the next series if you have weak knees for medical stuff. 

Barry would have been out in the hall for sure.

About right here I totally got why they didn't want me to unwrap Clint.

Notice the hardware. The dressing all stuck to it was apparently ruining my relationship with Clint.

So we proceeded to x-ray . . . You want my picture?  She was taking pictures of me . . . fair is fair.

Here's the one she took. . . .

I have learned you just have to ask for things . . . that is if you really want them.

Next stop the cast room . . .

This series is much nicer. . . 

So Clint was gone and I had a new friend for four weeks. Plaster Pete was really fiberglass not plaster . . . 

and he lasted four days.

Something about not splaying my skinny little fingers out when we were doing the cast . . . my thumb turning purple on the end when my hand got warm. . . etc.

I promise it had nothing to do with a neighbor girl assuming I chose Red for the Utes! 

What!? No!!

Any way today Plaster Pete was sawn asunder (literally) by Kendra the P.A and 'cast director' . . .

and replaced by Black Bart.

Here's hoping we get along better than his predecessors. Wish us luck.