This is the fourth day of having a ‘drain’ by my side and in my side.
Even at night it has been held close to me, yet at a safe enough distance - like an odd baby or an awful teeny-tiny twin.
I don’t want to crush it or to break our connection: a plastic tube still runs between us like an umbilical cord.
Always I lie on my back, hoping that my ‘drain baby’ won’t require any urgent attention.
My drain is now carried about (and hidden) in a canvas bag, which acts like a low-hanging sling for it.
Sleeping with a bag strap slung across my chest is really strange.
Maybe this could look like the behaviour of a nervous hostel sleeper afraid of being robbed in their sleep.
How tiresome.
I am looking forward to being robbed of this drain, and soon.
The support stockings are more of a concern.
To not wear them would involve the risk of blood clots.
To wear them involves, as I am discovering, the risk of strangely shaped calves.
The short sock-tights are tight.
My calves are being pressed into the two-tiered pressure of the material.
Definition to my ankles is being created, with a ridge.
This type of new leg is not what I wished for at all.
But the alternative is worse.
For a change, I would like to have 2 nice options to choose from rather than 2 horrible ones.
In hospital it seems that the choice between custard creams or bourbon biscuits is as good as it gets.
At least the support stockings are a lovely shade of green.
That’s positive.
And I am fond of both custard creams and bourbon biscuits, so there is never a disappointment with those.
