Last Wednesday, my colleague René, a motorcyclist from Cologne, called in for a visit. It was far from an ordinary visit: after several weeks spent almost exclusively at home, I finally got back on the road, quite literally. Thanks to René, I was able to take the car out for the first time since mid-December. The following morning, Thursday, he kindly drove me to the orthopaedic centre for my routine appointment. Afterwards, I went to see the hairdresser, something that was
Over the past few weeks, my schedule has included one fixed, unavoidable appointment: twice a week, I visit a wound-care specialist. It is a routine I had not planned for, but one that became necessary after a complication related to a stitch. The stitch could only be removed with difficulty and, to put it very concretely, it left a cavity in my leg. In such a situation, simply placing another stitch would be counterproductive. It would create a closed space, ideal for the
Once again, fate seems determined to persevere with almost admirable consistency. Since my last surgical procedure on 5 January, an unexpected situation has arisen: out of five scars, approximately one centimetre of one of them stubbornly refused to heal. Until recently, the approach had been cautious and conventional. During my follow-up appointments, the wound care specialist limited the treatment to careful cleaning and the application of a honey-based healing ointment. A
