be it known that I typed this whole thing with nothing but my left hand

I suppose that, considering the rate at which news travels when carried on the wings of those dear people that I am blessed enough to refer to as my friends and family (especially family), by now my most recent tragic adventure is common knowledge far and wide. Nevertheless, since I can hardly allow such an occurrence to go by without my documenting it, I will now proceed to revisit it and provide you all an insider's view of the events.
It was Tuesday the 25th of March. Being witnesses to the fact that March does indeed appear to be going out like a lamb and feeling that such a beautiful afternoon would be wasted by merely burying our noses in our books, Michael Ann Burgan (would that her last name were jello...just say it to yourself out loud) and I decided to go to a nearby park and play frisbee. The sun was shining, the grass was...greenifying and all the world was lovely as we played. Then, when I wasn't quite expecting it (that's what we'll go with anyway) Michael threw the frisbee to me. It was a bit out in front of me and I, realizing my physical limits, knew that were I to merely run to where the frisbee was heading, I would never reach it in time. Thus I found it prudent to leap into the air in a desperate diving attempt to lay hold on the flying disc before it reached the ground. Lamentably I was unsuccessful and the frisbee gracefully floated to the ground. I, however, being somewhat less graceful than the frisbee, landed with a fairly awkward "whump." As I sat up and began to pick grass off of my clothing I happened to glance at my right hand and found that something was awry. My ring finger seemed to be a bit out of place. Whereas one's right ring finger is usually situated parallel to the rest of the fingers in the hand, mine was currently rotated roughly 90 degrees clockwise from where it should have been, thus forcing my pinkee to bend down. Also, for some strange reason, the knuckle that usually sits at the base of this finger, appeared to have been swallowed up within the depths of my hand. None of this seemed to be quite natural so I looked up at Michael's laughter filled face and I calmly proclaimed, "So I think my finger is broken." As she came to my side she acceded to my assessment of the situation. After consulting with Mom, it was decided that I should have a professional look at it.
Luckily for us, Michael's roommates Marissa and Christie happened to be at the same park engaged in a friendly game of tennis. And so we approached them and asked, "Hey do you guys want to go for a drive?" As the situation was explained to them, Christie amiably offered to take us to the E.R. After a short stop at their apartment and the Brick Oven to drop Marissa off at work (I might add that all this time I was calm as could be and quite fascinated by this new arrangement of my hand) we arrived at the E.R. As I went through triage (I felt like I was on M*A*S*H at this point, what with triage and all) I suppose that I wasn't considered to be too serious of a case because I was told to go sit in the waiting room and I'd be called. So I returned to the waiting room and Michael, Christie and I proceeded to chat the evening away all the while watching as our fellow "sickies" were admitted one by one for treatment. After a while of this we were nearly the last people waiting. I say nearly because there was a pair of sick Elders from the MTC. Poor blokes.
At last I was taken back into that area where all the action takes place and I was immediately the hit of the E.R. I was X-rayed first of all, but after that it seemed as though there was a never ending supply of doctors, nurses, student interns and firemen who wanted to see the kid with the finger that was all, for lack of a better word, skiwhompus. Though my finger was beginning to perturb me somewhat, I was more than happy to display the fruits of my labors to all interested. Though I couldn't help but to wonder what all the other patients were doing as their doctors were checking my finger out. I can just imagine some chap bleeding out of his eye sockets who's doctor hears the commotion in my room and says this sanguine invalid, "Hang on I gotta check out the kid with the messed up finger," as he dashes out of the room. But I digress.
At last the tide of onlookers was stemmed and Dr. Hooker (I kid you not that was his name) came in and delivered the prognosis that we were all waiting for. My finger...was broken. yup. And considering the peculiar positioning of my appendage he (thankfully) deemed it necessary to numb my finger before putting it back into place. And so one of the nurses who had been particularly excited to see my finger enthusiastically volunteered to do the numbing. And so she did. I must confess that the needle and the numbing liquid was quite painful. Yes quite painful. At this point another doctor asked if I wanted my friends to come in. I said sure, and so he went to fetch them. I mention this because at the exact moment that Michael and Christie were walking in, Dr. Hooker had seized my discordant digit and was wrenching it around in every which direction in effort to align it with the others. I myself had chosen not to witness this display, but from the looks on their faces as they walked into the room, it was apparent that it was a gruesome scene. At last Dr. Hooker decided he'd had enough fiddling around with my finger and went off to order another x-ray.
Once again we were left to wait. As we did so, we commented on the various strange objects in the room. Perhaps my favorite was the jaw screw that was ever so clearly marked and sat at the ready. As we waited, one doctor in particular kept poking his head in and saying the strangest things. He told us jokes that were so lame that we barely mustered the motivation to provide him a courtesy laugh and, well, generally came off as a little bit queer...in the old fashioned definition of the term that is. You know...strange. On one of his little visits (we were sitting in that room for quite some time) he said something rather disconcerting. He said that he curious to see what they did with my finger. He mentioned that they had this thing (he was very vague as to what he was referring to) that they didn't use all that often but that I was a perfect candidate for it. And with that he refused to say any more and left. We were left to wonder anxiously what it could be.
Anyway, after a while we were invited out into the hall to look at the x-rays. Again it was affirmed that my finger was broken and that I might, if things didn't go quite right, require surgery. meh. And so as we mozied on back to the room, a girl with a rather wild look in her eye rolled by in a wheel chair, looked up at my x-ray and proclaimed for all to hear, "DAAMN, HE DOESN'T HAVE A PINKIE!!" (so it appears on one of the x-rays) Needless to say we laughed quite heartily at that one.
At last a student intern came in to the room and wrapped up my hand gave me my instructions, x-rays, and prescriptions and finally, three hours after we had entered, we were allowed to leave the hospital.
Later on, as we were enjoying a form of root beer float at Katy's house, the numbing agent began to wear off and I became more acutely aware of that which had transpired within my hand that evening. Remembering that I had been given a prescription for painkillers, I decided that it would be prudent to fill it at this time. Thus we borrowed Katy's car, and since I was unable to drive with my hand in such a state, Michael graciously offered to drive me to Rite Aid. The wait being an hour and a half long before my drugs would be ready, we decided to get dinner to kill the time, neither of us having eaten a thing all night.
At last I got my drugs and we headed for home. And so, nearly 7 hours after this adventure started with a simple game of frisbee, I popped a couple of pills and slipped into the sweet oblivion of a dreamless sleep...only to be awoken 5 hours later by a searing pain that tore through my right hand.