This Is Why I’m Not a Doctor

On Wednesday night, Marissa came home from practice holding her hand and wailing something about how, “I hurt my haaaaand, and (sniff, sniff) Carl doesn’t caaaaare!”
I looked at the offending hand.  (Ok, I briefly glanced at the hand, because I’ll admit, my tired butt was already laying in bed.)  I concurred with Jason’s decision to give her baby aspirin and an ice pack, and I let her crawl into bed with me for a while.
Problem solved.
Until the next morning, when she woke up with a hideously oversized hand that was approximately the color of an eggplant.  (That’s purple, for any of you who may be wondering.)  I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Evidently (sigh & mom-style eye roll), it’s not cool to gasp and say, “Oh, my God!  Your hand looks like a giant purple marshmallow!”  (Or so I’ve heard.)
Actually, I didn’t say that to her until a while later, because our sitter is the one who called me with the news that, indeed, there was something wrong with Marissa’s hand.
So, mommy called the doctor, and the doctor said…
“Holy cow!  That thing looks like a sausage!”  (Which is also something else that should not be mentioned to the kid sporting the new sausage finger.)
That same kid is now sporting a splint that runs from her palm to the tip of her finger, because it’s broken in two places.  Two.  Places.
I need to interject here and mention that I’m not a cold-hearted mom, and had I known the finger was actually broken the night before, I would have…well, I would have done something.  I don’t know exactly what, but something better than a baby aspirin and an ice pack.  (Maybe a shot of rum?  I dunno.)
But you have to understand, and I can explain, and all that jazz.  If you look back a few posts, you’ll notice that I’ve recently been dealing with the other daughter, who has either contracted every illness and ailment known to man or is the biggest hypochondriac I’ve ever heard of.  So I’ve been deflecting things like, “I might have heart problems” and “My whole foot is broken” and “I can’t breathe right” and “OMG!  Is that a growth on my ear?!?!”
So when I heard, “My finger hurts,” I sort of deflected it and decided it was probably ok unless it got escalated to a level that Micaela might have chosen, something like a cholera outbreak for example.
And now, we find out that the kid evidently shoved the bone through the growth plate in her hand.  I’m not sure where exactly that plate is, but anything involving bones and “shoving” and “growth plate” does not sound in the least bit pleasant to me.  Needless to say, I’m sensing a lot of specialists in our future.  And I’m also sensing medical bills out the wazoo…I know, I know, I’m no psychic, but I think those people have developed enough of a pattern for me to predict that they will soon request my first-born child as payment.
And dang, shoved it through the growth plate?  Could the doctor not warn me he’s about to say something that gross and maybe hand me a barf bag or something?  That’s gotta hurt.  I should’ve given the kid the rum.

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