Recovery Update: Three Body Parts, Three Different Definitions of “Healing”
Another day, another round of “What exactly is my body doing now?”
The good news is that all three things I’ve been watching seem to be moving in the right direction. They just apparently have very different ideas about what the healing process should look like.
👁️ The Eye: Still Red, But No More Special Effects
The eye is still noticeably red and looks irritated, but the biggest news remains the best news: no dot. No bubble. No floaters. No eclipse. No horizon.
After everything I was seeing following the silicone oil removal, I’m perfectly happy with boring vision.
I’m continuing the eye drops and keeping an eye on the eye — yes, I said it.
💪 The Scraped Arm: Welcome to Crust City
The arm continues its transformation from open road rash into what looks like an archaeological excavation.
It is DRY. It is CRUSTY. It is SCABBED.
There’s also that whitish, flaky skin around the edges as everything dries out. At this point, I’m basically waiting for the scabs to decide they’ve overstayed their welcome and fall off on their own.
It may actually look more disgusting now than it did when it happened.
But underneath all that crustiness, it seems to be healing.
Do. Not. Pick. The. Scab.
I’m saying that mostly to myself.
🩸 And Then There's the Fistula Arm...
My fourth fistulagram was yesterday, and today the access site looks remarkably uneventful.
The little incision is there. There’s some bruising and discoloration around it, but compared with everything else going on with my body, this one is almost disappointingly boring.
The dissolvable stitch is doing its thing.
Still no Hello Kitty Band-Aid. 🎀
Apparently vascular surgery has excellent balloons but a terrible selection of designer wound care.
So today's scorecard:
Eye: still red, but the visual special effects are gone.
Scraped arm: crustier than ever, but healing.
Fistula arm: bruised, sore, stitched, and recovering.
None of it looks particularly glamorous.
But I'll take ugly and healing over pretty and getting worse any day.
Recovery Update: No Dots, More Crust & Where’s My Hello Kitty Bandage?
Today’s medical status report involves three different body parts, three different stages of recovery, and one serious complaint about the hospital’s lack of premium bandage options.
Let’s start with the good news.
👁️ The Eye: The Dot Is GONE
No dot.
No mysterious air bubble.
No little object floating around my field of vision.
No floaters.
After watching that little dot shrink from something noticeable to about the size of a Euro 1-cent coin, to a pinhole, it has finally disappeared.
My left eye still looks a little bruised and red, and every once in a while it hurts. I’m continuing with the prescribed eye drops and letting the healing process do its thing.
But considering that not long ago I was describing my vision as vinaigrette, then an airplane horizon indicator, then an eclipse...
I'll happily accept boring vision.
Boring is underrated.
💪 The Other Arm: Welcome to Crust City
Meanwhile, the arm I scraped during my disagreement with my prosthetic, gravity, and the carpet continues its transformation.
At this point:
It's crusty.
Very crusty.
We're now waiting for the scabs to do what scabs eventually do—dry up, peel off and reveal whatever exciting new layer of me is underneath.
I'm resisting the temptation to help them.
No picking.
At least that's what I'm telling myself.
🩺 And Then There's the Fistula Arm...
Today was also Fistulagram #4, so my dialysis-access arm has joined the recovery party.
It's a little sore tonight, which isn't particularly surprising considering somebody was inside there earlier today inflating a balloon.
The procedure site has a stitch that is supposed to dissolve on its own.
Very sophisticated.
Very medical.
Very boring.
Because I have one complaint:
Where is my Hello Kitty Band-Aid?
Seriously.
I've had four fistulagrams.
I've had dialysis.
I've had eye surgery.
I've been poked, prodded, scanned, stitched, and ballooned.
At some point I believe I've earned an upgrade from Hospital Beige.
Give me Hello Kitty.
And before someone corrects me...
Apparently, Hello Kitty isn't actually a girl.
At least that's what I've read.
Sanrio has famously described Hello Kitty as a little girl character rather than a cat, which somehow raises approximately 37 additional questions that I'm not emotionally prepared to address tonight.
She looks like a cat.
Her name is Kitty.
She has whiskers.
But apparently we're supposed to accept that she's a little girl.
Fine.
Whatever.
Just put her on my Band-Aid.
So That's Tonight's Recovery Scorecard
👁️ Eye: No dots. No floaters. Still a little red and occasionally sore. Drops continue.
💪 Scraped arm: Crusty. Scabby. Waiting for nature to handle demolition.
🩺 Fistula arm: A little sore after today's fistulagram, complete with a dissolvable stitch.
🎀 Hello Kitty Band-Aid: DENIED.
Of everything happening with my body right now, that last one may be the greatest medical injustice of all.
I expected better.
Fistulagram #4: The Balloon Ride Nobody Asks For
Tomorrow morning, Tuesday, September 8th, I get to experience something that has become a recurring event in my dialysis journey:
Fistulagram #4.
If you’ve never heard of a fistulagram, you’re not alone. It’s a procedure where a doctor injects contrast dye into your dialysis access (my AV graft), takes X-ray images to see how blood is flowing, and if they find a narrowing, they inflate a tiny balloon inside the blood vessel to open it back up.
Think of it as calling Roto-Rooter… but for your bloodstream.
The goal is simple: improve blood flow so dialysis can do a better job cleaning my blood three times a week.
Now here’s the part that usually gets people’s attention…
I don’t use anesthesia.
I don’t take pain medication.
Why?
Because I want to drive myself home afterward and get on with my day.
That doesn’t mean you don’t feel anything.
When they inflate that balloon…
Oh, I know it’s there.
You can actually feel the pressure as it expands inside your arm. It’s one of the strangest sensations I’ve ever experienced. It isn’t unbearable, but it’s definitely one of those moments where you think:
“Yep… that’s happening inside my arm.”
My instructions are the usual pre-procedure fun:
🚫 No food after midnight.
🚫 No drinking after midnight.
⏰ Arrive at the hospital at 6:30 AM for a 7:30 AM procedure.
🩺 About 30 minutes for the procedure itself.
⏳ Another 30 minutes getting prepped and recovering before heading home.
And yes…
If I accidentally eat after midnight…
I’ll turn into a Gremlin.
(Okay, maybe not medically accurate… but it makes following the instructions a little more entertaining.)
Hopefully this will improve the flow through my graft and make dialysis treatments run more efficiently.
I’ll let everyone know tomorrow how Fistulagram #4 goes. Hopefully the balloon and I will continue our strange little friendship… and hopefully it’ll be a while before we’re reunited again.