Deformed Banana

My girlfriend says that if I talk about her in my blogs, she won't have sex with me anymore.  So since the use of her name is banned, for purposes of this blog entry, I'll use the name Banana, and talk about what happened to her instead.

Banana, a fictional person whom I'm making up and who is definitely not the woman I love and who rocks my world, phoned me the a few afternoons ago, frantic and in pain.  She had been a couple of blocks away, riding her ladder, and she called in despair, saying she had broken her wrist.   

As I drove over to the accident scene, I wondered how she could be sure it was broken.  Maybe it was just a sprain.  But when I saw it, I knew Banana was right.  There was no pretending.  Her forearm was shaped like Zorro's "Z".  And she was obviously in excruciating pain.     

We rushed to the Pabst Hospital Emergency Room, where Banana was immediately admitted, though it was 45 minutes or so before she was given anything for pain.  She was white and pale and in agony, unable to do anything but clutch her arm to her chest. 

On the ride to the ER, Banana had insisted that she was going to say that she fell off of a ladder because she didn't want the health insurance people to find yet another reason not to pay -- they pulled "pre-existing condition" on her last time she needed help.  If the health insurance company had some silly idea that she was, for example, riding some kind of mammal on someone else's property, they might decide not to cover her injury or try to sue somebody that didn't deserve to be sued, or who knows what.  Insurance companies are evil.

At the hospital, Banana was asked by at least ten different nurses and doctors how she hurt herself, and she told each of them she fell off a ladder.  One nurse asked if I had beaten her up, and I offered to leave the room so Banana could give an honest answer.  Funny thing is, at least one doctor asked her directly "Did you fall off a horse?"  It might have been that the shirt she was wearing was covered with pictures of horses, or maybe it was the hay in her hair, or possibly the manure on her shoes.

I've heard the word "Deformity", but I didn't realize that it was a medical term used to describe "a major difference in the shape of body part or organ compared to the average shape of that part".  I guess I knew that, but I had this idea that it was something you were born with, not something you could earn with the help of gravity.  Anyway, I didn't appreciate that word being used to call my girlfriend's anything anything.  I thought I might tell the nurse "Your mother knows all about deformity."  And if everyone hadn't been so damned professional and nice, maybe I would have muttered it under my breath.

Here a  picture of a deformity.  I did take pictures of Banana's deformed wrist and arm, but I won't post them because one of the People of the Internet might identify her by her freckles and notify her I wrote this and then I'd never get a Lovin' Spoonful again.

Banana's was worse.

So at the ER, the tech took a lot of x-rays, and eventually a doctor came along and while wiping down Banana's arm quickly set it, in response to which she screamed in pain and called him "Mother!Fucker!" and flailed wildly.  The doctor took in stride.  Probably, he deserved the scolding for being sneaky, and probably he'd been called worse.  To his credit, I suppose, Banana reported that her pain and discomfort eased substantially due to decreased pressure on the nerves.

The docs put a splint on the break, doped Banana up with a last shot o' Morphine and sent us home after a couple of hours.  I took Banana back to the hospital for surgery the next morning, which turned into a long day (but is there any other kind in a hospital?).  She was seen by a tall, dark young fellow of indeterminate ethnicity named Doctor Palmetto-Bugga, who recommended surgery and got it.

Banana will never pass through a metal detector again without having to explain the metal plate in her wrist.  Unfortunately, the doctor did not give her any bionic upgrades like a built-in smart phone, or an assault laser.   

Now we're home, and Banana is resting peacefully on a pillow made of Percocet.  She insists that I'll have to do the dishes for awhile, which I'm happy to do and she could have just asked.  She didn't have to put herself through all of this pain just to get out of doing laundry and stuff.

 It will take several weeks for her to heal, but I know she'll be okay.  Soon enough, she'll be itching to crawl out of bed and go outside and get back on the ladder that threw her.     

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