In Progress - Part 2: The Beat Goes On

This was what I had feared most. This was my monster under the bed. "To salvage" means to save from peril, from complete destruction. My wrist is one step from annihilation. All those months under the gortex and fibreglass, it was disintegrating quietly. It had done everything I had imagined it could. And here it and I are, at least with a chance of salvaging.

Yet I also have a nagging feeling - could it have been this bad all along? In the coming days, still obsessed and preoccupied, I will cross-reference MRI results and doctors' notes. From a report done 7 months after my initial diagnosis, one sentence haunts me: The lunate looks very similar to the previous study done in December 2007.

I have not let go of my anger and sense of betrayal over my (lack of) treatment by the Victorian group of plastic surgeons. Even though I am now in the gifted and concerned hands of another surgeon, I cannot forget what has happened. Did Dr. D actually know this all along? Was this the reason for his arrogance and reluctance?

I know how petty and sad this seems. It is petty and sad. There is no end to my conspiracy theories. Nothing will satisfy my need for validation. My family, my friends, and my neighbours listen to me patiently. It will be many months before there is a letting go, a peace established within myself but also, significantly, with Dr.D.

In the meantime, my monster has not only reared his ugly, bony head, but is waggling his slimy tongue at me. Surprising even myself, and despite my suspicions and bitterness, I almost immediately begin coping, strategizing. The worst case scenario is being played out and there is nothing to do but accept it and move on. That is all there is.

A rant, a drink, and a few tears later, Elvira and I are on our way back to St. Paul's. Unfortunately, the day has progressed and with no known protocol for queue jumping, we wait with dozens of others until our need to get to the ferry terminal becomes urgent. I don't get to see Dr. G again this day but after five more hours in Friday afternoon gridlock and a ferry ride, I am home, exhausted, sharing the news with my husband.

There is also a voicemail from Dr. G. He regrets that he didn't get to see me again and leaves a detailed explanation of why he must do the salvage procedure and an insistence that I cast my right wrist immediately. It seems a small and natural gesture, this 3-minute follow-up call, but I recognize and respect it for what it is: an anomaly, a gift.

And The Beat Goes On:

	Sonny & Cher - The Beat Goes On .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine