So a nurse from the clinic called today. That was the first unusual thing, since the clinic usually doesn’t call about a broken bone or stroke or cancer results until a month after your appointment. She said, “you have a broken bone in your foot.” Uh, yeah, I sort of knew that. “Is it the fifth metatarsal?” “Well, yes.” Silence. “Is it the metatarsal itself, or the phalangeal-metatarsal joint?” Brief silence. “It’s the joint, isn’t it?” “Yes, actually, it is.” I love knowing anatomy.
“So what about the floating thing?”
“The thing the radiologist saw floating in the soft tissue between the 4th and 5th metatarsals.”
“Um . . . let me look in your file . . . uh . . . hmm. No, nothing on that. Wear the orthotic boot, put in a foam insert with a space cut out under the joint, and stay off it for three weeks. Buh-bye now!”
“OK, b-” click.
This proves, definitively, one thing. That poor people’s clinics are collaborating with the aliens. She never gave me a chance to confront her about the pedometer implant, but as soon as I can get them back on the phone, I’m going to sock it to ’em. That should be in, oh, say December.