Heh. Turns out he broke his hand.
For a week, this kid had a broken hand. One of the metacarpals, no less. His hand really started to hurt today, and the school nurse said we should take him to a doctor. "Okay," we said. And that's the result. He's in a splint for 3 weeks or so.
Man. Talk about tough.
Although, when I busted my wrist a few years ago beating up a dresser, I didn't do anything about it, either, mostly because I felt I deserved it for beating up a dresser (in a tantrum you wouldn't believe). By the time work convinced me to see someone about all the bruising and swelling, there wasn't much anyone could do about it. It's fine now, anyway, and I don't know what I'd do if it happened again. I am under the probably inadvisable philosophy if I can deal with the pain and discomfort, I should just deal. This after a SERIES of hospital visits where they found nothing (even after being struck by a car). It was only because I could not walk that I went to the hospital earlier this year for tearing apart my foot at Shmoocon.
I hate hospitals because they always feel cold and I always end up getting some ENT infection floating around. Plus, I have now had three relatives die due to neglect in hospitals, twice they lost Christine at Reston Hospital, there's that "how my son was born" story, and I am sure one of these days, if I go in with a boo-boo for a knee, I'll die because of a secondary infection I got while in a coma from an overdose of something no one tested I was allergic to, and they'll lose my body for days, and in my grave will be a homeless guy named Stan they substituted.