The Stars and the Cookie Jar

Wow. That was unpleasant. They didn't tell me I was going to be awake for that bit. They really could have knocked me out. Gurgle.

They pulled ten pounds of fluid off my arm. Unfortunately, they do not do this by putting my arm in the dejuicer a la Violet Beauregard; they just use a really large needle and tap one like a keg. For as long as it takes.

The white glove has been exchanged for some extremely firmly applied hospital-issue ACE Bandages, so that my elbow might bend, and also so that I might not look like half of me was having dinner at Buckingham Palace, while I am at work. I have not called Fearless Leader and told him the good news, that his work horse has been repackaged to look like she just has a sprain, and can run on it.

When I come home from work, alas, the white glove is back on, and will remain with me after surgery until They Say So. I wish the things came in black -- thromboembolism stockings come in black, I saw some in the supplies closet -- I need it to come in black, for work. Even my carpal tunnel brace -- the real, heavy duty kind, laced up my arm like a cross between gauntlet and corset -- comes in black, albeit special order. I wonder if it would hurt anything to lace my carpie, loosely, over the whiteness of the glove, and thereby preserve its whiteness for something more than twenty minutes on the floor at a Starbucks.

Chicken Italian sausages are quite good (the schaechter in Atlanta sent some over with this fortnight's glatt meat, as samples, to my shul) but they come in plastic casings, which you have to peel off. Not an appealing thing to do to food, even if it tastes good.

copperbadge , I need one of those 'Dear Body...' icons of yours, but with a suitably Gray's Anatomy-esque rendering of a heart and its dangling tentacular bits.