Black and Blue and Run All Over

Good morning, world. It's "Confession Time" to kick this post off the ground. There is a riddle that has always caused only confusion in this blogger. And last night, drifting to sleep on my exceedingly comfortable boarder's bed, at the age of fifty-five, I finally had the light bulb flash of understanding.

What's black and white and red/read all over?

A newspaper...

Ye Gods, that took a while.

I was led to this momentous understanding by the usual need I had for a short, snappy title to my latest post. I was trying to give an image of Michael's panorama of colours post-operatively after a very long yesterday. 

Take Michael's left arm for example. Think "Fifty Shades of Grey". After one unsuccessful cannula insertion into his wrist and another just below his elbow, he has a whole rainbow on just one limb. Prior to  Michael's stent procedure, I had no idea there were so many variations of this colour. I now have no need to discover any more shades of grey...

One of the joys of having a large garden hose shoved up both of his upper thighs is the constant attention the nursing staff pay to the catheter sites. Michael has had nursing and medical staff fascinated by his private parts. This has occurred on regular occasions in the afternoon and overnight whilst they checked for bleeding or swelling. Needless to say, these areas are also a cacophony of clashing tones to add to his technicolour body. Marvellous.

To top off his experience, Michael's bladder went on strike and refused to comply. Personally, I don't blame this behaviour. Initially, Michael's pain was a major issue, so after his pain relief took hold, he spent much of the afternoon snoozing and not drinking. And his lower abdomen has been prodded, poked, pushed and generally violated by wires and tubes and the three metal stents that have new homes in his aorta and iliac arteries. By the time the staff enquired about any liquid output, Michael's bladder has taken its bat and ball and gone home to Mum.

Hence the need, over the last fifteen hours, for bottles and measuring and repeated bladder scans. Michael's bladder received its own private ultrasounds every time he attempted a wee. We tried running water, warm water, a long shower and plenty of fluids to persuade his bladder to fall back into line. Just before seven o'clock this morning, we were given the All Clear that Michael's bladder had recovered from its shock and was playing nicely again.

Along with the gathering storm of his body's generation of colours, we also have the added dash, splosh, or drench of pink antiseptic from his belly button to his knees. This stuff is remarkably difficult to remove and I suspect that we shall have to allow the brilliant cherry colour to fade with time. Along with his vast array of bruising.

We are very much looking forward to departing Hollywood Hospital today, in spite of the staff's generosity of care and attention. And if Michael so much as sniffs a cigarette in the air, I shall remind him, in excruciating detail, of his most recent hospital stay.

My darling Michael, you have been warned.