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.
Hospital Coffee: Apparently It’s Not Just for Drinking
Unfortunately, my mother is back in the hospital. She’s been there since last Sunday, but thankfully, she’s doing a little better every day.
Today I walked into her room and immediately smelled coffee.
Not just coffee—the room smelled like somebody had opened a tiny artisanal café next to her hospital bed.
So naturally, I asked her:
“Did you get coffee?”
“No.”
Okay…
Then I spotted this.
A coffee filter filled with a giant pile of dry ground coffee sitting on the counter.
Apparently, this is hospital-grade Febreze.
And I’ve actually seen hospitals do this before. Instead of spraying a bunch of chemical air fresheners around patients, they use coffee grounds to help fight unpleasant odors.
And considering some of the things that can happen in a hospital room…
that coffee has a very important job.
Forget Starbucks.
This is Stinkbucks.
☕ No espresso machine.
☕ No steamed milk.
☕ No $7 caramel macchiato.
☕ Just a mountain of Folgers standing between you and whatever happened five minutes ago.
And really, hospitals could probably make this even cheaper.
Go to Costco. Buy the biggest, cheapest can of ground coffee available. You don't even need actual coffee filters. Throw some grounds on a couple of paper towels and suddenly:
Room 312 has notes of Colombian roast with subtle undertones of “we're not going to discuss what happened in here.”
It works.
Instead of walking into a hospital room and immediately thinking, “Dear God, what IS that smell?”
I walk in thinking:
“Ooooooh… is there a coffee shop nearby?”
There isn't.
That's just the hospital fighting stink with breakfast.
And now I have a completely different concern:
If I stay here long enough smelling coffee…
someone better bring me a donut. 🍩☕😂