The stitches of the last four excisions were removed today. Mehdi himself carried out the procedure. In his dark scrubs and mask he looked like a particularly genial and, dare I say, cuddly, ninja. I said as much. “Have you not seen us in scrubs before?”
No. Everything is changing. Checkpoint Charlie at the door. Screens and shields everywhere, scrubs, sparse seating and yet an air of frantic activity that seemed greater even than before, when the waiting room was crowded.
Taking out the stitches hurt far more than putting them in. Mehdi noticed me grimace, though holding stoically still.
Well, maybe I winced. A bit. “Does this hurt?” he asked, poking a very tender spot that did indeed make me wince. “I thought so. It’s a bit inflamed”.
He found some soothing ointment to rub gently into the scar. He told me it was healing well enough, though I had pulled a couple of stitches. I thought so.
Free, now, of medical appointments now until my next spot check, though the renal team may want to see me soon.
It’s exactly seven days since I last shopped, so I called in to Woodford Woolworths for onions, lettuce, tomatoes, and instant mash. No instant mash. Now this is a bloody crisis.
I noticed at the checkout that other shoppers were successfully buying such things as two cans of beans, two of corn, two of something else, and couldn’t help thinking that this branch of Woollies at least has got its algorithm for identifying miscellaneous items all sorted out. That made me think of beetroot, but I did not go back for some.
Then on the way home I remembered I had gone in there for mash and a replacement can opener. Mine doesn’t work any more. I could have bought the veges at Aldi.
I couldn’t open the beetroot anyway.