Limp Wrist

Turns out age is not just a number.

*inserts all kind of gay related jokes*

Phew, OK, now that that’s done, let’s talk about how I fucked up my wrist and all the terrible things that followed.

I went to Osheaga a month ago and, in case being 10 years older than the average music festival attendant wasn’t already psychologically scarring, my body decided to set the record straight once and for all. So I hurt my right wrist by just sitting down on the grass, listening to Blondie, the only band that was older than me. That was peak middle age right there.

The day after it began hurting like hell but I figured I would solve it exactly the same way I do every time there is a problem in my life: I look the other side and hope someone else will solve it eventually it will get solved on its own. Yeah, this is my definition of adulthood.

Also, I didn’t want to deal with Canada’s shit healthcare system. That is the real reason for all official purposes, and I’m sticking to it.

I was fairly confident this would work out (because it always does) but, boy, was I wrong!

After three weeks of leading a miserable existence, I finally had the balls to call a physiotherapist. I got there and was handed a 70 pages-long form to build my profile on their database. I mean, cool, but, like, I am right-handed and if I haven’t been able to wash  my hair with it, I sure as hell cannot fill out 70 pages about myself and my medical history. Can’t they just go through my blog or my social media instead? Must one go through all this pain?

Honestly, sometimes I feel like fertilizing my mother’s egg was a big mistake.

Halfway through the form, they started digging in on my mental health with questions about how hopeless, lost, or depressed I had felt as of late. Unfortunately the rating scale did not include ‘A fuckload’ as an answer. Please note that my mental health struggles with even the most insignificant of things; I’m known for popping some Xanax after not finding my favorite dish on a menu anymore, so uneducated people might say I tend to overreact. I prefer to call myself sensitive and too pure for the harshness of this world, but you know, that’s just, like, my opinion.

But that’s not the point. The point is that, after all of those questions, they also asked me if I wanted to be treated for that. Uh, I mean, thank you, but how exactly is a physiotherapist going to help me? Oh, I know! By not making me fill out a long ass form with my aching wrist, perhaps?

So the doctor finally saw me and here is where everything went from worse to worst:

Doctor: How did you hurt yourself?
Me: I don’t know.
Doctor: When did it start hurting?
Me: About one week after my boyfriend left.
Doctor, about to have an Eureka moment: Wait, what? One week after your boyfriend left?
Me: Yeah…?
Doctor: How active are you in a sexual context?

Side note: ‘Actif’ is ‘Active’ in French, but it can also mean ‘Top’ in gay slang. Yes, this conversation happened in French.

Me, completely misunderstanding: Well, 50% of the time. Sometimes he does me, sometimes I do, sometimes we get a third person…
Doctor, horrified: No, I mean, how many times per week?
Me, ready for God to collect my soul and spare me the embarrassment: 3 to 5 times per week.
Doctor, feeling triumphant: Maybe you hurt yourself while coping with your boyfriend’s absence.
Me, offended at what she had just implied: Bitch, no, I jerk off with my other hand.

After that, she just told me to suck it up and wait till it fixed itself.

The worst part of this story is that the stupid healthcare system does not cover physiotherapy, so I actually had to pay just to be humiliated by this hoe. When will this seemingly infinite trolling cycle come to an end? No, actually, the worst part is that I am literally a handicap and I am still forced to work. This is not the Canadian dream they told me about.

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