My wife, hearing me moan about my sore forearm all day yesterday after I'd played golf in the morning, insisted on taking me to our doctor. I don't know what she said to get me an appointment on such short notice, but she was an RN, so probably knows the "code."
Dr. Smith’s nurse, a chronically cheery girl who looked about 16, told me that my BP and pulse were good, "for your age," asked me what I was seeing the doctor about (my wife told them over the phone, so maybe she was just testing me), and said the doctor would be in "shortly."
My wife read her book and I perused the handouts on benign prostate hyperplasia, prostate cancer, irritable bowel syndrome, and breast cancer, which I learned men can also get. Next time I'll remember to bring my golf magazine.
When Dr. Smith strolled in he sat down at a laptop and asked, "So what seems to be the matter?"
Don't these people talk to each other?
"I hurt my arm playing golf yesterday," I said.
"Well, you aren't going to get worker's comp for that," he said, with a chuckle. He typed something on his laptop. "Which arm?"
I pointed to my right, inner forearm. "I was trying to hit a punch shot," I told him. He typed something else, then came over to where I was sitting and grabbed my arm and squeezed. "Yow!" I said.
Dr. Smith ignored my expression of pain. "Bend your arm," he directed. "Raise it over your head." I grimaced as I raised my arm, just to show that I was trying. "Say ahh", Dr. Smith said.
I opened my mouth. The doctor said, "Just kidding."
"You have a strained forearm muscle. Probably the flexor carpi radialis. It'll get better in a week or so," Dr. Smith said, going back to his laptop to type something, probably $1500.
"What should he do for it?" my wife asked. "Besides stop complaining," she added,
unnecessarily, I thought.
Dr. Smith jotted something on a prescription pad. "He can take an anti-inflammatory, like Ibuprofen, or he can use this patch for local pain relief." He handed my wife the prescription.
"Any other complaints," Dr. Smith asked, edging towards the door.
"Just my golf game," I said.
"What did you shoot?" he asked.
"108," I said, rubbing my arm.
"Oh!" he said, coming back in the room and hurriedly scratching something on his prescription pad. "We better get a CAT Scan and MRI. Do some blood work. There's gotta be something more than a sore arm wrong with you."
He handed me the prescription and hurried out of the room. I looked at the prescription. "What hen scratching," I said, and handed it to my wife, who, having been an RN was used to deciphering doctors’ writing.
"It says,
Try Bridge," she said.
