The Stars and the Cookie Jar

So I have a clot in my arm!

My left arm, to be perfectly precise, only they weren't sure where it was until I went to the doc today (yes, Sunday) and now my left arm is mummified, immobilised and slightly sticky. I do not know why a pressure glove should be sticky.

On the good side, I'm wearing an elegant shoulder-length opera glove of  sorts, designed to keep my veins in my arm and my blood in my veins. On the bad side, it's sticky. White and sticky. By tomorrow, it will be gray and sticky. By Tuesday, when the hastily-scheduled surgery is, it will look as if I am unspeakably urchinlike and never bathe.

My boss is deeply unenthused.

In fact, I'd go right to oi, jerkwad! Yeah, I planned to get a potentially lethal clot, just to piss you off!

This is the first time he's treated me with anything less than respect -- and oddly, it's not for something work-related. I'd be hurt, if I wasn't so scared about stuff.

The nice Magneto-Coffin lady did explain to me that my lapses in remembering to, uh, do stuff in the past couple days is probably from little pieces of clot travelling along little venules to reside in the little blood vessels of my little, little brain.

Damn. That's not good. But in a way, it takes a load off my mind: in the past three days, there have been times where I just hold my head and go 'huh??' more often than I had in the three months previously. And, uh, there was the thing with the money and the microwave.

I thought I was getting Really Early Onset Alzheimer's.

Nope. Clot.