I realise it has taken a while for me to update you on my finger surgery on Tuesday and I imagine you are simply gagging to know how it went. I’m sure you’ve all been camped out at your computers since then, pressing refresh with increasing desperation.
Well, I’m typing this without the use of my right index finger, because my index finger is so swathed in bandages (a fact that led me to make an utter twat of myself but more on that later) that it is about ten times it’s normal size and therefore not particularly keyboard friendly.
And yes, I really do mean bandages, as in the stuff that comes on a roll and is stuck down with pink plaster stuff, also from a roll. No, I didn’t know hospitals still used that either as I was under the impression that it was not 1974 anymore, an illusion that was further shattered when the nurse told me I’d have to come back in two weeks to have my stitches out. Eh? Don’t they just dissolve these days? Apparently not.
You may think I have overly high expectations of my local hospital, but 9 months ago at the very same hospital I had a caesarian, a procedure which is a tad more major than a mere finger bump removal in anyone’s book. After the caesarian I had dissolvable stitches and a thing that was just a large waterproof plaster, which was actually removed the very next day by a no nonsense midwife who declared it unnecessary and ripped it off there and then. Yes, ow.
So anyway, I know you are only still reading to find out about how I came to be a twat (well more so than usual) so I’ll get on with it. As I mentioned, I was kind of just expecting to be given a plaster and sent on my way. I was not expecting a gigantic comedy finger. It sent me into a spiral of panic, triggered by the surgeon saying to me “you must keep this clean and dry for two weeks.” I imagine this is his stock line which is usually met with the response “OK doc” or something equally benign, and not a slightly stroppy: “well I can’t because I’m starting swimming lessons next week.”
Back on the ward, things went from bad to worse as I failed to get any perspective on the situation whatsoever. “I can’t have this bandage!” I raged at the poor, poor staff nurse. “Why didn’t they give me a waterproof one? Is it the 70s? I have a baby to look after you know! How am I supposed to give her a bath? How am I suppsoed to change her nappy? What are they thinking of giving people these ridiculous big bandages in this day and age???” etc etc and on and on until she, after a good ten minutes of silently wanting to headbutt me, gently reminded me that it was possible to cope without the use of one finger for two weeks. “After all,” she added brightly “plenty of people don’t have index fingers and still manage to have children!”
And with that, shame descended upon me, and spent the rest of the afternoon apologising, which probably made her want to headbutt me even more. The best thing she said was something you don’t really hear from a nurse these days, since they are all about paperwork and targets and getting the job done, with minimal actual caring (but that’s another day, another subject). As I sat feeling embarrassed and silently apologising to all the parents without index fingers out there, she said “It will all seem different after a cup of tea” and off she went, to put the kettle on.