Time spent in the orthopedic surgeon's waiting room is always a good chance to regain some perspective. By this point I look fairly normal-- I can sit in a chair for more than a few minutes without looking (and feeling) extremely uncomfortable-- and so I almost feel like a fake, needlessly consuming time and space in a place where the real injured bring their pain to the altar in hopes of being healed. Of course, a simple reach with my right arm for a magazine on the table next to me, or the recollection of that painful twist in my upper arm resulting from attempting to steer with both hands while in the parking lot, is enough to reassure me that I too have the unwelcome and unrequested right to be here.

Still-- I have no cast or bandage or wheelchair, and my bright pink scars are concealed beneath my clothing. What do these others-- the "real injured"-- think as they see me sitting here, apparently whole and healthy?
Suck it up. You're not that bad off. Clearly.

But I left Egypt because of this, a selfish inner voice protests. I have tragedy too.

Yeah. Well. Suck it up. After this appointment I will get in the car and drive myself to physical therapy. Tomorrow I drive alone to Fort Worth, and then on to Norman on Friday.
It could be worse.