Attack of the maniacal needle

Recently I had to visit an orthopedic office to see why my elbow seems to have mutinied on me. I dressed with care, wearing dress boots because of the snow. I was a little late, and sailed into the office.

If you have ever been in an orthopedic office, you know that the people there have some serious injuries. They are limping, if they are lucky to be walking at all. They are holding their arms or head at an awkward angle. Their limbs are swallowed up by bandages, slings, casts.

I had none of this. All my limbs were intact. I didn't look like I had been run over by something large and menacing. My clunky boots announced to all the good, honestly ill people in the waiting room that there was an impostor in their midst. I felt that they would rise up and throw me out if they could.

As I made my way from the sign-in desk to a chair to wait my turn, I felt the reproach of all those casts and slings. I started holding my arm against my body, as if it might, if left unprotected, suddenly detach itself from my body and clatter to the floor. I threw in a grimace or two for good measure.

When my name was called, I slunk out of the waiting room, still holding my arm as awkwardly as I could. The doctor informed me that I most likely had tennis elbow. Leave it to me to get a sports injury while being a couch potato, I thought.

The doctor thought a cortisone shot might help, and after explaining the risks -- none of which sounded any more dangerous than getting out of bed in the morning -- I agreed. He left the room. 

A young man soon brought in a tray containing the shot and jar of whatever was going to go in me. He placed it on the examining table and assured me the doctor would be in shortly. Perhaps it WOULD have seemed shortly under normal circumstances. But the doctor didn't return for at least 10 minutes, during which time I kept glancing at the shot, and with each glance the shot seemed to have inched closer and looked more menacing.

There are instances, documented in certain types of literature, of inanimate objects launching an attack upon unsuspecting individuals. In Peanuts, for instance, Linus's blanket, typically an item of reclusive temperament, can often be found attacking Lucy. I say hurrah for the blanket, but I digress.

Calvin, too, was occasionally beset upon by nonhuman things with nefarious intentions, such as his bike, suds in the bathtub, etc.

I believe strongly, therefore, that had the doctor not entered when he did, the needle would have launched itself off the table and plunged into my elbow. 

But it did get the upper hand at last. After administering the shot, the doctor began to tell me how to care for my elbow after I got home. As he talked, his head grew fuzzy. His mouth appeared to be moving, but to what purpose I couldn't tell. I abruptly informed him that I was about to pass out. 

I had one last look at the needle before lying down on the examining table, and I know it was smirking.

As I eventually made my way back through the waiting room and out the door, still woozy from the injection, I consoled myself with the thought that finally, I looked like I belonged there.