They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab & I Said Yes Please, Thank You

"Abe Lincoln Needs Rehab!" Youtube.com

My physical therapy session will be tomorrow around the hour of noon. Instead of my usual lunch routine of  eating at my desk, listening to podcasts and writing gibberish, I’ll be retraining my wounded left wrist/hand to do all the things that used to be second nature to it. Fire off blazing wrist shots. Crush aluminum cans full of rocks. Play the harp like an angel.

                I’m excited to start physical therapy because it means I’m getting closer to putting this whole mess behind me once and for all. That will be awesome. No more mild wrist pain. No more medical devices attached to my dominant side. No more having to walk around with my cell phone in my right pocket because I can’t get it out of my left hip pocket in less than twenty minutes. God, it just feels so wrong. Phones aren’t meant to go there!

                Perhaps a certain level of trepidation would be acceptable in a situation like this. After all, this is a new experience for me and new experiences tend to be horrifying. But no, no trepidation. Not even a queasiness.

                This sharp deviation from my generally established demeanor may have you scratching your head. But there’s a reason for it. It’s the same reason Drew Barrymore doesn’t get nervous when someone needs her to put a movie on her shoulders and act it across the finish line.

                Cuz it’s in her blood. When stuffs in your blood, you don’t get nervous. Unless that stuff is like a really ghastly virus or some sort of burrowing insect. I’ll clarify, when stuffs in your blood and someone asks you to do said stuffs, THEN you don’t get nervous. Drew Barrymore comes from a long line of actors. Her grandfather was John Barrymore, whose status as a Hollywood legend has been impressed upon me by the older generations of my family. So acting flows through her veins. Her cells are all shaped like those comedy and drama masks.

Chainsaw hands and awkward showers: Wrist surgery fallout

Exactly how I'll look going in to work on Friday, 401ak47.com

I sit here a one-handed man. Well, I have both hands, but one is encased in a puffy cast. If you read last week’s blog, you know I don’t have a cool story behind my temporary cast-edness. If you didn’t read last week’s blog, I assure you the reasons involve a hungry crocodile, a boatful of honor student orphans and their service animal companions. It’s not cool and I’m no hero. I’m just a guy who did what needed to be done.

                Anyway, so on Thursday morning I underwent a procedure to correct the damage that had been done, whatever the cause was. Shockingly, I have a couple of thoughts on this whole process of undergoing outpatient surgery and I will present those to you now in bullet form: