I think it might be the first time that feeling vindicated has made me want to cry.
I knew something was wrong with The Mayor's hand and I was right.
The surgeon saw him again today (only because I made a nuisance of myself) and determined that breaking his arm also caused medial nerve damage affecting the normal use of his thumb and forefinger.
According to the surgeon, the pain in his hand probably feels "like hot sprinkles."
[Now where have I heard that before, Dr. Brainiac?]
The doctor prescribed occupational / physical therapy.
[I don't understand which one or the difference between them.]
We have to take The Mayor once or twice a week until...
The doctor couldn't say for sure.
It could be for three months. It could be for two years.
The Mayor woke up this morning with generic body-goop oozing from his right ear.
Apparently, his ear drum decided to spontaneously combust.
[Because he clearly doesn't have enough going on.]
Between the ear and the hand, The Mayor and I spent all day in doctor's offices, waiting rooms and pharmacies.
[With one fly-by visit to the dollar store for coloring books and crayons to serve as waiting room entertainment.]
We finally made it home with half an hour to spare before we were due to pick up The Rooster.
Without discussion we gravitated to the dining room table, the coloring books and the crayons.
In silence, we chose a picture and colored it together.
In it's own ironic and macabre way, the picture we colored is hilarious.
Hmmmm.... Do you think we were both a little worn out?
Maybe a bit stressed?
[What is a picture like this doing in a kid's coloring book anyway? All the other pictures are of ducks, dinosaurs and dolls.]
good night's sleep * good night's sleep * good night's sleep * good night's sleep