Before I sat down to write this, I used the past half hour
I’ve been awake to check and re-dress the wound site (looks OK), to hand wash
my sling and hang dry it, and to piddle around with other light housework that
wasn’t too noisy. Inadvertently, I’m also being a creepy security presence for
the building. Having a light on behind me, and being this eerie-looking, black
robe clad, shadowy figure in the window (as would be seen from the view from
the parking lot) has made a couple of hooded sketchy-looking little bastards
quicken their step to disappear out of the alley way as they walked past the
building at this hour. I filled a glass of water, fitted on an ice pack, and
stepped outside onto the balcony, with my housecoat draped sloppily around me.
The sky had nothing interesting to display or reveal astronomically speaking,
but the air was at least somewhat soothing and refreshing. It’s rich and
saturated with the signature smells of early fall. I think about the one with
whom I’d like to share this moment with: be it with this same silence,
breathing this same air, or else for me to be simply absorbed in the pleasure
of listening to her talk. It was she with her good heart and positive attitude,
more than anyone, despite the distance between us, who has helped me to focus on
better things and helped give me the mindset to endure all this by myself.
I’m trying not to get hung up on the hundred other things
that put me in a peevish mindset that I’m encountering with losing full use of
an arm while trying to manage everything alone. It’s frustrating not being able
to do some things like: entering and driving my car**, flossing my teeth, opening
containers, tying shoelaces, or even simply putting on and fastening a regular
pair of jeans, or anything else requiring two arms and heavy lifting. I’m
trying to think of the comparisons and differences between this spell of
long-term recovery time, and the time when I came out of the hospital with impaired
heart and lung issues. This ranks as only slightly better: in that my energy
and capacity for activity is a lot more predictable, my brain isn’t being starved
of oxygen, and it’s nothing from which I could potentially collapse if I strain
too hard. If something does snap again, I can at least get myself to the
hospital more conveniently.
The issue with my circulation after having the hematoma
removed is still a little finicky. My coagulation (INR) numbers aren’t quite
right yet; my blood chemistry still needs work on being normalized (normal for
me). I’ve been given some extra doses of Tinzaparin injections for the next few
days for the time being to treat that. My stomach is going to look like a dart
board, with my bellybutton as the bull’s eye. That’s where the injections go,
and there is usually pronounced bruising around the injection sites. The palm
of my left is still a sickly shade of bluish purple and tender, but the rest of
the swelling and bruising along my arm has gone down substantially. There is
still feeling and (stiff) movement in my fingers, but I can’t yet pivot my
wrist at all. I haven’t dared to try flex arm yet without the doctor’s say so.
Thinking about all the bloody craziness I had to go through just to get
treated, I’m very disinclined to do anything that would put my progress in
jeopardy, and going through the hell of waiting to readjust my blood again, and
repeating another risk of a dangerous bout of internal bleeding, all for the
sake of preparing to get cut open again because of trying to do some
unnecessary and foolish movement.
I realize that my birthday is soon approaching. I hardly
think that I’ll be in a celebratory mood for it. I don’t really care to enter and
note the beginning a new year of life being at a state where I’m far from the
better version of myself. I’m scheduled to have my dermal stitches removed next
Thursday, and then getting an assessment and fuller picture of what to plan and
adapt for thence.
*- Since the day of my surgery, it wasn’t until yesterday
that I’ve really put some effort into doing some food prep. Operating a knife
one-handed is a test of my patience for sure. Handling a vegetable peeler and
food shredder isn’t much easier either. I managed to make some homemade soup,
and dabbled with East Indian food for my supper prep. I was just trying to use
up the stuff in my fridge and freezer, but maybe I subconsciously chose to make
Indian food to draw some lesson from it, because of the cultural etiquette of
handling and serving food with just the right hand. Offering or passing food
with the left hand is considered a major no-no. Some street vendors in India,
cooking for all the public to see, go so far as not handle or touch any food at all with the left hand while
preparing it. It would be bad for business if one is witnessed them touching
food with the hand, in their no toilet paper culture, that’s reserved for such
personally hygiene ablutions.
**- I just think that driving with half the physical
capacity, while one’s brain is doubly fogged with analgesics, isn’t a very
bright idea, even if I could successfully squirm into my vehicle without feeling
tortured.
