I'll Bet Fergie's Lady Lumps Aren't Where Mine Are

I am a red-headed, green-eyed, left-handed, adopted female. I'm not sure what percentage of the population that makes me - but I'd venture to say, it's probably pretty low. My mother told me I was special.

I'm a competitive person. And it is true, I can be an over-achiever when I want to be. But this is getting ridiculous.

Way back in 2004 when I developed a mysterious case of tendonitis in my left elbow (the only elbow that matters to me), I went to the doctor who said: "98% of my patients get full relief from physical therapy."

So I went and tugged on stretchy bands, squeezed play-dough, and twisted my forearm into a pretzel for months. Apparently, I was in the other 2%.

The doctor told me "98% of my patients who fail to get relief from physical therapy find success with surgery."

So I went under the knife in December 2004, had a rotten Christmas, and was black and blue until Valentine's Day. And I still had to go to physical therapy 2 or 3 times a week for months. Wha? My PT told me that "98% of his clients find complete relief after surgery combined with a few months of therapy."

Yeah, right.

Eventually, I just got tired of going to see Mr. Therapist, though he was a pretty sight indeed. And if you've read even one of my previous posts, you know I like me some cute boys, so I must've been bored to flunk out of PT. Once again, I had found myself in that pesky 2% that did not find success after surgery combined with physical therapy.

I put up with the pain for another year until this past spring when I could stand it no longer and went to another doctor for his opinion.

"98% of my patients find success after this other kind of surgery."

Oh what the hell. I had to eventually be with all the normal kids, right? A person cannot be special all their lives, can they?

So under the knife I went.

I endured some serious swelling, scarring and general ickiness from April until well, now. You remember the photos, right? Eeeewwww. Yeah, it hasn't changed much and checking my calendar it's been almost 4 months.

BUT - I haven't mentioned it here, because I like to think I'm a good sport and also, if I didn't talk about it, then it wasn't bothering me.

Right?

Wrong-O.

When the swelling finally went down, I had this weird goose-egg floating around just under the skin. It didn't hurt but sometimes it would make my forearm go kinda tingly, so I went back to the doctor and he said "98% of my patients don't get this fluid during the healing process, but apparently you are in the 2% who do."

Duh. Welcome to my world.

So he drained some gook out of there, charged me $100, patted me on the behind and sent me on my merry way. Well, maybe he didn't pat me on the behind, but as you recall, I had told him loudly whilst still under anesthesia that he was hot - so I was fantasising that part. Heck, for my $100 I want a little fun, so sue me.

Two weeks went by and I was feeling like a normal kid - one of the 98% - until one day someone said "what's that?" and pointed with disgust at my elbow.

DAMMIT. Back to the 2% club.

Three more times.

Yes, three more times. That makes $400 and no pats on the behind.

Today I gazed longingly into his eyes as he syphoned off another 8 ccs of fluid from my hump / lump and hoped he would say that all would be fine now and I would be part of the 98% again.

Alas, maybe. That's right - maybe.

If I grow another lump / hump, he thinks I might be allergic to the dissolving stitches used under the skin and he might need to "go in there" again to fix this. And how often does that happen to his patients?

2% of the time.

Special isn't so fun anymore.