Coffee, Jelly, and ASIA A

The food in the recovery room was surprisingly good for hospital fare. I recommend the omelet if you happen to find yourself there, though I certainly hope you don't! Just a little joke. I wish you safety and good health always.

The omelet itself was a decent size, neatly folded in half, and still steaming when it arrived. The inside was filled with melted cheese—probably a mild cheddar or something similar, nothing fancy—and little bits of diced ham. The ham wasn't overpowering, just enough to add a bit of saltiness. The eggs were cooked through, maybe a little on the firmer side, but not rubbery. It wasn't gourmet, but it was warm, filling, and tasted like actual food, which is more than you can say for a lot of hospital meals.

Along with the omelet, the coffee was a pleasant surprise. It came in the standard-issue, heavy, chipped ceramic mug, but it was surprisingly strong and dark, and actually tasted like coffee—not the bitter, reheated brew you often get in hospitals. It had a rich, almost nutty aroma that was a welcome change from the sterile hospital smells. The caffeine kick was definitely appreciated, a little jolt of normalcy in an otherwise unusual situation. It wasn't gourmet coffee by any stretch, but it was good enough to make me feel a little more human.

And then there was the jelly. It was one of those things I hadn't had in ages, not really since I was a kid. I can't even remember the last time I had jelly. It came in a small, individual plastic cup, and it was a bright, artificial-looking red color, probably some sort of generic fruit flavor. It jiggled when I touched it, and it had that slightly sticky, sugary texture.

It tasted… well, it tasted like jelly. Sweet and a little bit artificial, but not unpleasant. It was a bit of a throwback, a taste of childhood in the sterile hospital environment. It wasn't fancy, but it was a little bit of sweetness, a small comfort. It almost made me wish I could go back to that age, just for a little while.

Later that morning, after the breakfast, a nurse mentioned I'd be having a PT assessment. I didn't think much of it at the time. Physical therapy was just part of the post-op routine, right?

Hours later, the team arrived. They were younger than I expected, a mix of therapists and residents, I guessed. They moved with a practiced efficiency, their expressions neutral, almost detached. There was a brief, hushed conference at the foot of my bed before one of them, a woman with short brown hair, pulled out a reflex hammer and a pinwheel.

"Can you feel this?" she asked, lightly stroking the bottom of my foot with the pinwheel.

I felt nothing.

"Here?"

She pressed harder, the plastic of the pinwheel bending slightly.

Still nothing.

They moved up my leg, poking and prodding, asking the same questions, the "Can you feel this?" becoming a monotonous drone. I kept waiting for something to change—a tingle, a spark, anything. But there was just… nothing. A dull, empty absence where there should have been sensation.

I wished I could feel something.

Anything.

So I concentrated. I focused all my energy, my will, my desperation on my legs, willing them to respond. I stared at my foot, urging it to move, to twitch, to do something.

Nothing.

I closed my eyes and tried again. Maybe if I just thought hard enough, if I pushed my mind past whatever barrier was in the way, I could break through. I imagined the sensation of touch, the cool air against my skin, the pressure of the pinwheel from earlier. I tried to remember what it felt like—how a simple brush against my foot should register, how warmth or cold should spread.

Still nothing.

A strange hollowness settled in my chest. It was like screaming into a void and hearing no echo, no response. Like reaching for something just beyond my grasp, my fingers closing around empty air.

When they were done, they straightened up, their faces unreadable. They murmured to each other, using words I didn’t understand—dermatomes, reflexes, levels.

Finally, the woman with the brown hair looked at my chart, then at me.

"ASIA A," she said, the words clipped and clinical.

At that time, I didn't know what ASIA A meant.

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