And I waited in the waiting room. (Redundant, yet poetic, don’t you think?) I observed each person’s hands and arms as they checked in. Many bandage sightings later I was called back, but not before I asked a man next to me, “Have you told her?”

“Told her what?”

“That it’s not nice to point.”

He laughed because her pink cast had her pointer finger in the ‘Look-at-that!’ position.

I saw many other interesting cover-ups. Then I saw the one I was wondering about. A middle digit wrapped and extended. Poor thing. I thought I heard a plethora of jabs about my thumbsicle, but this finger was pointed and poignant. She had it tucked near her body to avoid flipping anyone off. I took no offense when it wandered my way as she walked up to the desk.

I had stuck my thumb in it a week ago, and no plumb was retrieved. Today I sat in a hand-and- elbow-ortho-office. The medical field is more specialized than I thought. If my earlobe happened to get pancaked in a wood splitter, would I end up at a lobeiologist? Probably.

The person who peeled back the layers of bandage had nine years of experience. After two and a half bottles of isopropyl alcohol (I had to look it up) she hit skin and stitches. Tweezers were used to pluck off wandering strands of gauze. Then she told me about playing the game OPERATION! with her kids the night before. She crushed them. She took out the wrenched ankle with precision and cleared the whole body of -ectomy-worthy parts without a buzz or red alert! They didn’t stand a chance, and I’d wager they’ll be in therapy not many years hence.

On my way out I saw a guy with a cast on his hand shaped into a hang-loose gesture. I hoped it wasn’t too loose.