“Morning!” Is how this would have started when the first message came into the scrambled stack seen just before dinner. At morning in a western square state, it had been 25 under cloudy skies. I answered about it being 81 under cloudy skies now in the face of the oncoming front, a quick check showing it had been 54 when message was recieved therefore lost in the swirl of the wake behind.

I have no idea how this day came off the rails, and don’t remember much about morning. The usual procedural traffic passed with an attempt to accomplish a yoga routine and the upright seating session I had promised someone yesterday. It was interrupted by the repositioning of the Foley Reservoir and the feed tube which had become tangled in the night.

All the second-tier staff are relatively recent arrivals from West Africa and indistinguishable in hospital smocks and masks which provides a challenge in communication. I need to orient myself to them through the language funnel. This one appeared with a stern look over mask just after I gave up on an indigestable lunch.

She disapproved of my dietary judgement as I realized she was part of the release evaluation team. I changed my attitude from mild hostility to enthusiastic compliance. She asked if I wished to join her in the gym and I croaked an ebullient “Yes!” Then I was trundled off after a successful self-transfer from bed to chair. No foot rests were attached, so my legs were held up in discomfort on the roll down the corridor to the elevator with a brief respite, then down a floor and a roll over to the gym.

It was a quieter time there featuring some of the legitimately aged, with a discussion of dog walking in progress. Paid dog walking was a distinguishing metric to separate it from simple housebreaking. Mohammed was supervising and we got properly into parade formation, belt applied around chest and cinched around the chest and chair behind the walker in case of walking failure. Then OFF!

172 steps later we were back and inserted into the fifteen minute stationary bike routine in which I attempted to radiate enthusiasm while feeling like shit. Successful conclusion was marked by a chair dismount and limp vault back to the bed.

Now, dinner is here. Still the same steamed mess, this one featuring meatballs in some white-sauce, the usual mixed vegetable paste with a cheap soft dinner roll. I think there is more in the swirl, some of it helpful to understand my own, like the discharged male on the other side of the room. How did he get out in three weeks? I heard the word “fall,” and resume depth of wounding is a factor.

At some juncture in the jambled afternoon the stolid wound specialist had appeared. Not fat, or not exactly, but astonishingly gentle in her movements. It gave us both a chance to see the surgical and abrasion sites. The handbook edition of this will include startling color images not possible from iPad here in bed.

In sum, the right leg is now full flesh toned,with all sutures out and only the direct deep cuts rising to knock the clots away and looking healthy, The feet are now a matter of concern, but circulation has returned and despite some continued mild bleeding at points of abrasion the deep muscle fusion upstream has enabled the femoral arteries to resume their missions.

There may be hope in this thing. We will give it a try.

V/R
JR