When I add up the trips I’ve made to the doctor this year, I start feeling my age. Things are wearing out. I track miles for IRS records, in case our expenses are big enough to deduct. So far this year, the little Prius has logged 296 miles going to the doctor and the dentist for various patchwork.
The latest trip was for a consultation on a cyst that has settled onto the joint of the third finger of my left hand. I met with the X-ray technician, who was a polite young man. “Ma’am, can you take off your rings?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, while tugging and pulling and coaxing and sliding and yanking on my ring. Nothing happened.
"That’s OK. Take off your watch, though.”
“Nah, I’m getting them . . . Aha!” I shrieked as they popped off my ring finger—my fifty-year-old wedding band and the newer ring with my grandmother’s diamond made for me after I shipped off the Glerum family ring to our eldest son for his fiancée.
“Now lay your left hand flat . . . with your finger extended. Uh . . . on second thought, can you curl up your hand into a fist, and then just relax your middle finger? Uh . . . what I mean is, can you extend your middle finger while you keep the other fingers down? Yeah, that’s it. Hold that pose!”
It isn’t everyone who's invited into an exam room, then instructed to make a gesture she’s been tempted to make at a lot of recent medical appointments.