I leave for an appointment with my surgeon in seven hours and twenty two minutes. But it’s hard to get excited about it. I got excited about it the last time, because she told me that I’d only have to wear the neck brace for four weeks. Ok, perhaps I was a bit optimistic, but you might be too if you had to wear this thing. Communication is never the strength of a surgeon – what she intended to say was that I could then move into a soft collar unless I was walking around outside, but I still had to wear the damn thing for at least another six weeks. Which brings us to today.
Our last appointment was not exactly a premium experience. She had cancelled our previous appointment with barely a half hour’s notice. When I was finally able to reschedule she was three hours late and took a call in the middle of our conversation. Seriously. She answered none of my questions – just told me to wear the collar an additional six weeks and get X-rays done. I had to ask my questions to her assistant, who shouted them down the hall to the doctor’s disappearing back.
Of course, there’s no more pain. The surgery seems to be a success, so I feel like a schmutz for complaining. But there’s also no more skin around my neck. It’s rubbed raw from this damn collar and I wouldn’t mind looking down now and again. Or to even have a reasonable expectation of what the hell is going on.
I mean, surgery is hard enough. Do I have to be constantly reminded that I’m the least important person in the room? Christ.