Dupuytren's #6

Post-op day 8 …

St. Anley attends the ‘dressing clinic’ at his local infirmary in hopes of being relieved of a very heavy splint and having his stitches removed.
This time only the volunteer in reception asks me for my personal details. Everyone else knows who I am.
Was my earlier behaviour that memorable?

I wait patiently in a waiting area occupied by unfortunate people whose trauma is clearly much greater than my own.
Mrs. St. A. accompanies me … because she is concerned for my wellbeing?
No, I just want her take take some photographs!

Nurse F**** appears. She crosses herself and genuflects whilst calling out, “Saint Anley!”
“May my wife come too?” I ask.
“Of course,” replies Nurse, “But will she be OK with the sight of blood?”

Nurse gently cuts away the outer bandaging and removes the plaster slab. “That’s a weight off my arm,” announces St. Anley. Beneath this is some dressing material impregnated with something that looks like boiling pitch.

This is pulled away to reveal …

Now, that's what I call a Z-plasty.

“Oh, it’s not healed yet,” exclaims Nurse.
“I’ll get the doctor to take a look.”

Pretty lady-doctor appears who, to St. A’s disappointment, doesn’t want to know his phone number.

• “No, it’s not completely healed,” she agrees.
• “Can you make a fist?”
• “Ouch!”
• “Now spread your fingers.”
• “More ouch!”

She proceeds to evaluate my sensation and concludes that my pinkie is completely numb, and there is a patch of my palm that has no sensation.
“That’s fine,” she says, “That will recover.”

Mrs. St. A. summarily takes another photo because she has to depart; she has better things to do.




Goodbye, dear!

The stitches are left in place.
Nurse applies a new, clean dressing ...

“Come back on Tuesday to see the hand-therapist.”