An Elbow Shouldn't Talk

I am early for my appointment, which is not unusual, and I am ushered somewhere I did not expect to go: a dedicated area just to the side of urgent care. Four of us are led in and seated on beds behind curtains. It has the faint air of a holding pen, though a clean and courteous one.A nurse checks my ID bracelet and places a stapled sheaf of papers on the desk-like trolley in front of me. My name is at the top. Naturally, I begin to read. It is a summary of my health history and the most recent findings of a nerve specialist: my body, rendered in someone else’s prose.The nurse reappears and is horrified. “You mustn’t read that! It’s for the surgeon.”“Well,” I reply, “you put it in front of me, it has my name on it, and it’s about me and no one else. So I don’t see the problem.”Off she sprints. It is clearly not a fight she wants to have. But the tone has been set, mostly in my own mind… likely, probably.A friendlier nurse named Shane appears, checks my ID once again (I am, it seems,…

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