I am fine, but unrecognizable. According to the surgeons, I’m going to be swollen for weeks this time. I can’t leave the house like this. You should see me. I am monstrous. I’m still icing, which I need to get back to.
But I’m mad at Rite Aid right now. I went there after the bone graft and asked the pharmacists in the back if they have arnica cream, which I was told might help with the swelling. “Aisle 7,” I was told. I spent a few minutes looking for it and gave up. I went back to the pharmacists. I was holding an ice pack to my face I should point out, and I was already completely swollen up. I asked them to please let me know where in aisle 7 I should look, hoping one of them will actually show me. One of them answers me, but I had trouble hearing and understanding her. She repeated what she said two more times and I still can’t tell what she is saying and she is now mad at me! The other one finally said, “First aid,” which is what the other person had been trying to tell me. (It sounded like “prostate” to me, maybe the pain killers were just starting to kick in?)
But that was the extent of their help. I’m standing there swollen, in pain, with an ice pack to my face and all they can manage is two more words to help me. And, they’re acting like I’m annoying them. Thanks a heap, Rite Aid. (Actually, I do realize they can’t walk everyone to the product they’re looking for, and I wouldn’t be writing about this if they hadn’t acted so put out about it. But I was the one in need of first aid!)
Bleeck reaches out. Poor Bleeck. But poor Finney too. This kitten is a handful. (A wonderful handful.)