So remember how Fisher’s arm was sprained, not broken?
About one o’clock today, I got a call from the urgent care clinic. They’d had an official radiologist officially review Fisher’s X-rays, and it was that radiologist’s informed opinion that the elbow was, in fact, fractured.
I was dubious. "He seems like he’s feeling much better. He took off his sling last night and he’s using the arm just fine."
They urged me to bring him in anyway. "The fracture’s located just under the marker on the X-ray, and that’s why we couldn’t see it before. " (So why can you see it now?)
Jim agreed with me that we’d wait a few hours, or until tomorrow, and see if the arm was still bugging him.
We’d had a hell of a morning, which had resulted in me already leaving the house once to calm down for a while (I drove around, went to Multnomah Village, wandered through the West Hills and had a generally lovely time with lots of LOUD and aggressive music). I’d only come back as soon as I had because I was supposed to call someone early this afternoon about coming to his house to buy some Japanese maples. I duly called him, made the appointment to see them and headed out alone in the xB to pick them up.
Five, or maybe three, minutes after I hit the freeway, my phone rang.
It was Jim. "Fisher slipped and fell on the porch," he said, "and his wrist looks really swollen and messed up. I’m taking him to urgent care to have it looked at."
"I’ll be right there," I said.
"No," he said, "go ahead and get the trees. It won’t make any difference if you’re here or not."
And so, Dear Reader, because I am a cruel and heartless woman without a maternal bone in my body, I headed out to Beaverton and got my Japanese maples. One Acer palmatum "Bloodgood," one Acer palmatum dissectum which may or may not be a "Palmatifidium." They are Freakin. Gorgeous. And $25 each from this guy who propagates them for fun and sells the extras on Craigslist.
Then, as I was heading back into Portland, my phone rang again.
Broken. Fisher’s wrist was confirmed broken.
The elbow, however, was mysteriously not-broken once again.
And I had ample time to mull this all over as I sat in the World Cup cafe at Powell’s, sipping my gunpowder green tea (not nearly so nice as jasmine, which they had run out of) and nibbling a Mayan chocolate biscotti (not nearly so nice as the regular biscotti-flavored biscotti, which were inexplicably absent from the menu) and writing in my trusty Moleskine notebook and just kind of basking in the blissful childless solitude. Mother of the Freakin’ Year, that’s me.
So tomorrow it’s off to the bone-n-joint clinic once again, where Fisher will get another cast (though perhaps this time it won’t be quite so pink) and I’ll settle our outstanding bill from last time and we’ll all have ample opportunity to wonder if someone somewhere is calling CPS on us. ("He’s had how many fractures this summer?" "Well, either two or three. Nobody seems to know for sure." "And how did they happen?" "I can only tell you what he told me; we weren’t actually watching him when any of them occurred.")
Won’t that be nice?