Things that are difficult to do with a cast: everything. It took a solid week for me to adjust to having a heavy, 70’s-style plaster cast on my arm. Even the simplest tasks became daunting chores. Getting dressed, riding the bus, opening doors, washing my hair – everything took longer. I kept all my shifts at the Alamo, and actually enjoyed working there more with a broken arm than I did without. All my coworkers were amazing about helping me with every aspect of the job, and the customers were nicer and less careless in their drunken stumbling around the bar. Though I hated wearing that God awful thing, I considered myself lucky. It happened to my left hand, it happened in the winter when I didn’t have to deal with the summer heat, and I was alive.
After six weeks, it was time for my now-flimsy cast to be changed. My friend Pachu agreed to take me to a free clinic at 5 in the morning to wait with me and translate anything I might not understand. After two different clinics and seven hours of waiting, we still hadn’t seen a doctor and I couldn’t take the wait anymore. Two days later, my friend Freddy went with me to a different free clinic. Once again, hours of waiting without success. Later the that week, I went to a different hospital and, for a small fee, saw a doctor within a few hours. According to my incredibly handsome doctor, the new x-rays showed that the Bolivian doctor hadn’t quite set my arm right and I would need surgery immediately. He sent me to buy a Velcro, removable cast to wear until I could find a surgeon.
As both a drama queen and a hypochondriac, saying the word “surgery” to me in a hospital is similar to screaming the word “bomb” in an airport. After convincing myself that they weren’t going to have to cut off my arm and that in no way would the end result to this be death, I bought my new cast and went home to call my parents. They always know how help me gain perspective on injuries that I’ve managed to drastically blow out of proportion.
Over the next month I visited – no exaggeration – six different doctors. Naturally, every one had a different opinion. One thought my arm still needed some time to heal followed immediately by physical therapy, while another thought surgery was not only necessary but should be done immediately, while most of the others had opinions somewhere in the middle. Every doctor gave their own little twist to make their opinion different from all the others.
My wonderful friend Paco was borderline restless in his efforts to convince me to go to his doctor. After five doctors and five opinions I was worn out. I still couldn’t turn my left hand face-up and knew that I had to get a final answer somewhere. So Paco and I went to see the man he believes to be the best hand and wrist specialist in the country. One last x-ray and the doctor said I was fine. I could get surgery if I wanted, but with physical therapy I would have full movement in my wrist within a few months. Perhaps it was because I wanted to believe him, but something about the way this doctor spoke made me feel like this was the final verdict. As I’d been racked with fear that I was going to have to leave Argentina due to surgery bills, I was relieved to the point of tears.
I have almost complete movement back in my wrist, though certain movements are still difficult. I haven’t been doing my physical therapy nearly as much as I should, so I write that lack of movement off as that. A physical therapist who comes into the Alamo every Saturday has taught me new stretches and says that my wrist is healing fine, just slowly.
This was, once again, an experience that helped me realize how lucky I am to have such amazing friends down here. Pachu woke up at dawn and sat in a dirty clinic for seven hours with me, without complaint, and we never even got to see a doctor. Freddy also took me a free clinic at 5 a.m., after a long shift at work, without success. As soon as Megan heard I might need surgery, she told her office about my situation. She and several of her co-workers spent roughly two hours setting up most of my doctor appointments, most of them free because the doctors were friends or family members of her co-workers. Paco was insistent that I get advice from someone he trusted and knew would give me an accurate diagnosis. He went with me and helped me stay calm when I started talking about going home. And, as always, Meredith was a saint. She helped me with the little day-to-day things that I couldn’t do on my own and tried to help me keep my dramatics to a minimum.
The wrist fiasco was long, expensive and miserable. But it made me realize how lucky I am… for more reasons than one.
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