Here We Go Again

Pardon if my typing is sub par. I'm only using 9 dingwrs. Oops. Fingers.
It was all going so well this morning, the soap making. I mixed up the oils and lye solution. I waited, played the piano. Then I mixed them with the wand blender, a vicious little device that apparently causes more injuries than any other piece of kitchen equipment. I'm not sure how it happened. One minute I was scraping out the extra liquid soap around the blades of the blender as I do every time. The next second ...

It was nearly comic to be walking quickly across the pasture to the garden to find Adam, just as he did with me about 6 weeks ago. Sigh. I know, I know. We need a caregiver, as one friend pointed out. I thought, clearly this injury is not as bad as Adam's fingers then, so let's just try the nearby Urgent Care. Urgent Cares are good, right? Their sole purpose, apparently, is to refer patients on to the E.R. after getting a co-pay out of them.
But I wasn't sent from the Urgent Care. I chose to go. After the P.A. hunted for and struggled into his unfamiliar gown, and had fumbled in several drawers hunting for the right syringe. After his assistant had nervously reminded min several times where various pieces of equipment were that he clearly hadn't used in months. After his nervousness and jesting about having never done the  procedure before. Yes, was this the man I was willing to allow to stitch up my index finger? I think not. Particularly after they couldn't find a pan to put the iodine solution in -- he told her to just find a urinal tray. Hmm.
I'm a pianist. You might not know it by how I treat my hands, but in fact I am concerned about their care. The P.A. was also rough; he hadn't given me any pain relief, but he handled my finger like he had. I imagined how clumsily he might do those very important stitches. I hesitated. Then I called for Adam, who was taking a nap in the waiting room.
I knew he would be my out. One cringing look at him behind the P.A.'s back, and he knew I wanted out of there. Nothing against the fellow. I'm certain he is good at informational medicine and diagnosis. But how often does he stitch up a deep laceration on a dearly treasured piano-playing finger? Once in a decade? I wanted a confident P.A. who did it several times a week.
The co-pay at the Urgent Care was $40.
The co-pay at the Minor Emergency was $600.
Gulp. But we went, and willingly. I will pay it off $25 a month, like millions of other Americans, and that's not a big deal. But that's an aside -- the point of healthcare should be the state of my finger, not the state of my bill, right?
It's not pretty, but I believe she did a very good job. Two lacerations. Eleven stitches. Antibiotics. No pain meds. Evidently it is not considered bad enough to need them? It's still quit numb.

 I have a splint to prevent my bending the finger and putting strain on the stitches.

As she stitched up my finger, I prayed a thanks to God for competent medical personnel who do this work day in and day out. Thankful that I didn't have this injury a few hundred years ago when it could have killed me. In spite of the cost and the worry, how fortunate we are to have access to care and the choice to be made well.