I'm wishing I didn't have that narcotics-make-me-puke gene, because I could really go for some opiates right now...ow ow ow.
Typing hurts.
The hand surgeon took the splint away and said to use my hand, because, y'know, if you keep making that face it's gonna freeze that way. Or in this case, if you keep that swollen purple finger sticking out straight like that, you'll never bend it again, at least not without surgery.
It isn't bending...it is still too swollen...but I'm trying. And holy mother of the flying spaghetti monster does it hurt.
I go back Monday so he can look at it again, then I start physical therapy. I keep thinking back to my first physical therapy session after my knee surgery, the one where the therapist got out the protractor and said "Let's see your range of motion." So I bent my knee as much as I could, and he said "Pretty good, let's see if we can-" *CRACK* and you could hear my wail of agony in Seattle.
So between now and Monday I'm going to use this hand as much as I can stand, and I'm following the directions to soak it in warm salt water with a little hydrogen peroxide (he also took the stitches out, and after the first soak I did see some drainage. Not, thankfully, of the purulent discharge variety, although they are still sufficiently concerned about infection that I get two more weeks of Augmentin...time to find the probiotics, because one carton of yogurt a day is not going to cut it against broad spectrum antibiotics of that level...so I'm hoping that whatever drained will make the swelling go down.)
Ow.
I know this whole thing is my own fault and all, but I'm going to keep whining anyway. At least it will keep my fingers moving.