This is the lovely Nurse Moses I keep talking about.
Slightly tearful goodbye yesterday.
After a two-week hiatus, I returned to see the dermatologist.
I think her name is Dr. Kimonye, but to my mind she will forever be Dr. Caligari, because her consulting room is Cabinet No.6.
She didn't say much, just wrote me a prescription for some cream to help hydrate my skin and told me to come back in September. Apparently, you can't tell if scars are going to be permanent for at least three months. I have some pretty big lumps in my fingers that don't look like they're going anywhere anytime soon, but she said sometimes they can just disappear. She mentioned something about silicon injections if they don't, but I think I'll cling to a vague sense of hope for now.
I can type perfectly well now, and each day I'm getting a little bit better with the knife half of a knife and fork (I'm a left-handed knifey). Still can't play a tin whistle, but who knows. Fingers crossed (I can almost do that).
It was really sad saying goodbye to the staff. I've been going there every three days for two months. They've all been so lovely to me. Took in a large tub of sweets for everyone, and a wee gift for Moses. So grateful to them for everything they've done. Even the Soldier of God, he did make me smile.
Did almost ended up back in hospital the other day. Bought sausages from Nakumatt. I think someone only read the use by date for frozen storage, and they were in the chilled section. A week out of date and green.
Even the cats won't eat them.
Did I mention I have a couple of kittens that hang out in my garden now?
No, I won't. I can't. It was far too upsetting when I left the country last time. I refuse to adopt kittens again. They look terrified of me, anyway. Except for one black kitten who quietly watches me and waits for me to put down milk before sneaking up when I leave. It looks a little bit like Sula.
I still chopped up my veg, but used bacon instead.
|C'mon onions, you bastards. Who's crying now?|
In final news, guess who feels like a complete arsehole?
Saw a missed call from chap in a cassock over the weekend. I tend to have my phone on silent whilst working, so don't pick up messages until the evening. He'd only just left Rwanda, and hadn't said anything about coming straight back. I just thought he'd given his SIM to someone and they were testing out numbers (honestly, that's a fair assumption here). So, I didn't bother calling back.
Yesterday, just out of curiosity, I sent a message via Facebook explaining that I'd had a missed call.
Turns out his dad died.
He's in Goma sorting out his affairs, but flew in via Kigali.
Still causes me brainache. Someone can think to call you when they land, but can't send an SMS or Facebook message to say they're here, or why? I still feel like a bit of a shit, but that mitigates the guilt slightly. Of course I would have answered if I'd known.
I have no idea if he's coming back through Kigali, but I've said I'll cook for him if he does. What an awful thing to happen. I think he told me once that his dad wasn't well, but I didn't know how unwell. I hope he didn't buy the land in Kigali to move back here and take care of him.
|Erm... perhaps not the best advertising slogan ever conceived.|