I have a one-thumbed husband. Well, actually, he's two-thumbed, but only one works right now.
On Monday, which was eons ago, all his thumbs functioned. But then I went to Tara's for a glass of wine. Feeling domestic (or just thirsty), Bree decided to wash a wineglass for himself. The stem broke, impaling his palm, and I got a call: "Nat, I cut myself, and I can't move my thumb."
I won't disgust you with graphic details. Suffice it to say, we made a very dramatic entrance into the ER, bloody paper towels trailing behind us. The people who were there for the emergency head or stomach ache, looked us over suspiciously and moved a bit further back. We sat down and waited.
We were expecting a couple of stitches and an admonishing pat on the back. So when Bree emerged at 2:30 am with a cast up to his elbow, I was naturally surprised. Apparently, in a bout of exceptional aim and horrid luck, he'd severed the tendon in his left thumb.
The following day, we were referred to a top Beverly Hills reconstructive (plastic) surgeon. The waiting room was posh - two types of tea were served - and the clientele were predominantly female, awaiting their new noses and breasts. We should have known it was going to go downhill right then and there. The very qualified doctor quickly set up a date for the surgery, only to inform us she didn't take ANY insurance. However, she would cut us a great "cash" deal, if we were so inclined. We were not so inclined.
The rest of the day was spent trying to track down a doctor who did take our insurance and could squeeze us in before August. Find him we did, and Thursday morning we arrived at the outpatient surgical facility.
Several hours later, Bree returned, groggy, with his thumb held down by a snazzy, green rubber band. As we headed out to the car, his nurse had a final warning. "Don't use it as a sling-shot," she said.
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