“Oh God, this is terribly embarrassing,” I sheepishly admitted to the clinic nurse on the phone. I had urgently called my family doctor to discuss a recent pinky finger injury. Calling my family doctor is a three-step process usually; the receptionist will have a nurse call me back to assess the situation, after which I may or may not need to speak to my doctor. Well, the nurse had called me back and I was hoping we could just go straight into booking an x-ray without going into CSI-detail about how I may have sustained said injury.
After some triaging, we determined that my pinky finger was likely not deformed, broken, swollen, immobile, discoloured or in a ton of pain- THANK GOD. “All good, very good signs,” she said. By this time, I was only suffering very mild numbness and on a scale of one to ten (ten being I’m dying of sheer pain and will kill my husband shortly), I told her I was probably a one (if that), and only when I made a fist with that particular hand.
Then the inevitable question came up, “so, how did you injure your finger?”
I said a little prayer at this point and pleaded with the Gods to let this nurse see the humour in it all. “Um… I was *ahem* roughhousing with my husband last night, actually. *long pause* We, ah, we might have had a pillow fight?” As if I wasn’t exactly sure this had occurred: am I really a grown woman calling my doctor’s office about an injury due to child’s play with my husband? Is this my life? Did I just say those words? Her reaction, bless her heart, was one of amused empathy for a comical situation gone wrong. “So, how exactly did this happen?”
“Well, ugh, it all started when we decided to retire for the night. I asked my husband to help me bring up my water bottle but he ignored my request and bolted up the stairs without me. Then, of course, I gave chase and that’s when the pillow fight ensued.”
“Oh, kay…that’s great but I meant the injury, how do you think you injured it?”
“Oh yes, the injury! Sorry *nervous laughter*, you see, I tried as hard as I could to whip my husband in the face with a pillow but he put his stupid manly arms up in a defensive stance and I may have bent my finger the wrong way while trying to demolish his face?” Indeed, I remember the moment rather vividly. In that instant, I imagined I was Mark Wahlberg in the movie, The Fighter (except I’m female, a bit of a wuss and truth be told, I’m more of a crier than a fighter). Anyway, I was the hero underdog and my husband, the nemesis. My sole goal was to utterly destroy him and make him pay… you know, for bolting and not helping me with my water bottle. In real life, though, we probably looked like a couple of preteens at a sleepover haphazardly ducking and flinging our expensive down-filled pillows at each other while whisper-screaming (so as not to wake the baby), “no you stop, no YOU stop!”
Okay- I never gave the nurse all the details but if she were to distinctly ask me for the play-by-play of how and why this happened, that would be my answer.
My doctor eventually called me back the next day and the first words she uttered after the usual pleasantries were, “so, I heard about the infamous pillow fight.” I could hear her smiling over the phone despite herself and my cheeks began to flush thinking, I’m going to freakin’ kill him when I get home! After we laughed it off, she determined that I likely just strained a muscle in my pinky finger. She told me to call back in a week if it didn’t feel any better but she expected it would fully heal by then and wished me luck with the next pillow fight. What are the chances this wasn’t the water cooler story of the day in her office?!
What can I say… It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt, then it’s Game Over!