#pain medication tw

[chronicsymptomsyndrome]

Can we please for the love of god stop telling teenagers they’re too young to have aches and pains. Can we please stop being dismissive about these things. Fakeclaiming is disgusting period, but it is exponentially harmful to youth. Just because you didn’t start hurting until your 20s or 30s or 40s doesn’t mean every teenager complaining of chronic pain must be lying. I learned the hard way that if kids are invalidated enough about this, they will just learn to accept constant pain as a fact of life. And then they will need surgery they can’t afford in ten years bc it turns out constant pain is NOT a fact of life. At any age.

p.s. same goes for mental health

[fallenstarcat]

“well it’s good your tests came back normal!”

no. it’s not.

a normal test result doesn’t mean i don’t have symptoms anymore. it just means we’re no closer to an explanation.

i’m still struggling. my symptoms are still getting worse. we just don’t know why, also meaning they don’t take me seriously.

a normal test result is not a a happy thing when disabled.

[youngchronicpain]

It is okay to need pain medication to function with your chronic pain. It is okay. I promise. I know everywhere you turn pain medication is demonized. I know that it is scary to talk about. It is okay to be grateful that you have access to pain medication. Pain meds have greatly improved my quality of life and I wouldn't be able to live my life outside of my bed without them. And that's okay!!!

[hellyeahsickaf]

The way addicts and chronically ill people are dehumanized is so exhausting

The normalization of this shit in medical and casual settings is genuinely mind boggling. Addicts and disabled people go through so much bullshit. I've dealt with many fucked up doctors when I just needed help

I had a kidney infection, some months back. This is always extremely medically urgent, and I was likely only hours from sepsis. I went to the hospital reporting my pain to be a 9/10. 9 because my 10 was gallstones. I experienced severe malpractice at the hospital and the doctor reported exams that never occured and false information while making me wait with nothing more than tylenol to hold me over (didn't touch the pain) and bring my fever down but that's a whole other story

They did however, deny me the pain medication I needed until it was time to go home. I'm deathly allergic to NSAIDS, but that's something an addict might say so they witheld pain relief because they'd rather me suffer just in case I'm a different kind of sick. An entire night, maybe 6 hours in the ER and they couldn't give me anything, not a small dose of morphine or one norco even a few hours prior to take the edge off of the pain while I was curled up shaking and crying. Just in case I was an addict looking for my fix, and my suffering was just withdrawals and good acting. In that case maybe I deserved it and should be denied my humanity. God forbid in that case I'm so desperate to alleviate unbearable withdrawals that I spend all night in the ER crying. Not the first time I've experienced red tape just to get relief from excruciating pain

But whatever. As per protocol I was asked to follow up with my pcp. So a few days later I called to set an appointment, but I'd also run out of norco and desperate to relieve the pain I asked if I could be filled even enough for a few days, until the pain was bearable. I had difficulty walking, laying down, and I again, can't take most pain relievers. The receptionist was nice and understanding, actually got me in touch with the doctor because she wanted me to be able to get my refill. Probably heard the pain in my voice even. She believed me

She transfers me over to the doctor and I tell him I'd like a follow up and ask if he could fill my painkillers. I would've acceped a no from him, I just needed my follow up. He asked about my condition, I told him my diagnosis and how much pain I was in

And he laughed.

Got a real hoot out of it, like he had me all figured out. Like he caught me trying to cheat the system. I must be trying to get high or make some money with a few days worth of norco as i'm nearly in tears from the pain even while calling

He tells me through his laughter "I don't prescribe painkillers for 'kidney infections'" saying it with a mocking emphasis on those words, as if I'd said "stubbed toe". Follows with "Yeah haha, bye." and hangs up on me. No follow up like I called for. Needless to say I no longer have a pcp but truly if he thought I was an addict trying to take advantage of him he should have still treated me professionally. Maybe not cackled when I said my pain was excruciating for a start

I just don't understand why the hell so many doctors can be so apathetic to people's suffering. Addicts deserve better and so do disabled people- whether you think they're addicts or not. The assumption that we're lying, trying to trick them and are feigning pain to do it is disgusting, listening to your patients is so important. And if that were the case they could have some sympathy and ask themselves what it would take for someone to go those lengths, take such drastic measures and go through that trouble to obtain those substances.

Addiction is not a moral failing. Many disabled and chronically ill people unfortunately rely on medications that have addictive properties. About 80% of heroin addicts first misused prescription drugs. However only about 4-6% of those addicted to prescription drugs switch to things like heroin. And instead of help or compassion for people who just need help (addicts or not), they just figure we're one in the same and treat us like subhuman degenerates, leeches on society. And I think people need to change how they view addiction. Doctors need to change how they view addiction

[buried-in-autumn-leaves]

Not to be chronically ill on main but if I get one more doctor tell me the tests came back normal again as if its GOOD news Im gonna make it everyones problem.

[strawberrycat18]

When other people say they’re dizzy, they mean ‘phew! My equilibrium is a bit off! In a just a few moments I’ll be fine!’

When I say I’m dizzy, I mean something very different.

I mean that I can see black spots in my vision, and I can’t tell if this is going to be the time I pass out.

It means that the world is swimming underneath my feet, stretching and distorting like an obstacle course even when it’s just a straight, flat path.

It means there’s so much pressure in my head and not nearly enough.

It means that I can feel my heart speed up and beat harder, trying to adjust to the new gravity, just because I’ve shifted slightly.

It means I can feel the nausea rising in my stomach and the bile come up my throat.

It means that walking is a challenge. Getting a snack is a challenge, going to the bathroom is a challenge. Sitting up is a challenge.

So, when I say I’m dizzy, I’m trying to dumb it down so that you can understand a fraction of what I’m feeling. Not that I’m not feeling it. On good days, it’s a hindrance. On bad days it stops me doing anything. Stop telling me that ‘just being dizzy’ doesn’t make me ‘that disabled’. You barely know the half of it.

[decora-kai]

Yk i wish medical professionals could actually act fucking professional and understand that being in constant pain is not something that 'everyone has' or 'just growing pains'. I want them to recognise that I'm not just a whining kid who wants attention, or an unhealthy kid who just needs to exercise. It fucking pisses me off. I'm also pissed because I feel like my level of pain doesn't warrant any help compared to others. I know some people with chronic pain are bed bound 24/7 and because of fucking medical gaslighting I feel like I'm not worthy of a diagnosis because I'm not also stuck to bed forever. Like Im with my chronically ill friends who have to deal with such bad pain that they probably will never be able to leave their house and I feel for them, but just because I'm not 'as bad' as them doesn't mean I'm just a pussy bitch.

[shitolodise]

[atariaaren]

i was planning on drawing more panels, but i began to lose steam by the time i finished the 11th one ^^;;

[rigormortisangel]

the grief living with rare conditions only discovered later in life sucks. i spent my whole life in pain and not knowing why. i spent my whole life being called useless, weak, stupid, faking, told i wasnt working hard enough or just being straight up punished for not being able to keep up with other kids.

why did you hit me and throw me around? i was slowly dying. i couldnt eat food or walk properly. why was i punished for that for years? i needed help i needed meds i needed surgery not bruises.

[sillysecretwriting]

Sometimes I love just how nonchalant doctors informing you that you have been diagnosed with a life-altering chronic illness are. Like when I got diagnosed for POTS, the doctor asked for my symptoms and had my tilt table test results already which I had had to wait a month for. And this dude (doctor) is just like, "So you have POTS, here are some things to do". He did not tell me what that meant in terms of my life, whether it was permanent or not, or which symptoms aligned with that (I have more than one chronic illness, so that would have been very helpful in seeking other treatment), or tell me if he was going to follow-up. And so I asked, "Will it ever go away?" and he was like "Well, sometimes people feel better in their forties". Like great, I have at least two decades and probably the rest of my life being incredibly disabled with this illness that I was pretty sure I had, but you are confirming it for the first time, and you don't seem to care enough to actually explain what that might look like. That was a day I finally had to confront what the rest of my life would look like for me, but it was just another day in his life and he certainly acted like that.

The healthcare system is weird.

[ijwrsmff]

What's Wrong?-Law x Reader (Appendicitis)

A couple people requested this on my archive, while requests were open, so here's this! I don't really know what trigger warnings to use for this? So just in case.

Tw: reader in pain, medical procedure, reader has a fear of needles.

It started off harmless enough, but it just seemed to keep getting worse…what began with cramping along your mid stomach, has expanded and gotten more painful. It wasn’t too bad, to begin with. You brushed it off as a strained muscle from a fight, but your suspicions it was something more serious was nagging at your mind. The pain was becoming unbearable, but you tried to hide it…especially from your boyfriend. 

You knew it wouldn’t be easy, seeing as he was the submarine’s doctor. He had pushed, making sure you were safe after every fight. Law immediately knew something was up, when you barely said a word after the fight and went straight to your own room. You had almost always stayed in his room, you should have known he’d pick up on that. He did tend to be overly observant. 

There wasn’t even a knock on the door, he just walked in to see you laying on your bed. He walked up to it and crossed his arms with a cocked eyebrow. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong now?” Straight to the point as always. “You’ve been acting differently. Not spending as much time with me or the crew, and you seem to be distracted during our most recent fights.” 

You gulped and sat up in bed, trying your hardest not to wince. “Just…feeling a little tired…is all…” It was a terrible lie, and you both knew it. You tried to back it up by continuing, “Not really feeling up for fighting, it’s no big deal! I probably just have a cold or something!” While smiling at him, you tried not to look at his face. Another clear sign you were straight up lying to him. 

“Uh huh…” He walked forward, closer to you and you leaned back. “Then you should have come to me. Even though that’s not the case.” He reached a hand to your forehead, “Hm…you do actually have a bit of a fever though.” He felt around your neck, and didn’t seem to find anything swollen. “Still, you’re coming to my office. Let’s go.” He turned to walk, and he fully turned back when you didn’t go to follow him. 

“N-No it’s okay! I’m fine!” You gulped, knowing he probably wouldn’t drop it this time. He could be so stubborn…you loved him a lot though. Your love for him made you feel bad for hiding your pain from him, but what if he had to give you a shot? Or IV? That fear triumphed in your mind. “I just need some rest is all!” He glared, and you realized your mistake. He didn’t like when people claimed to know better about their health than him. 

“Come on.” He walked back to you, and went to pick you up but the sudden movement caused a sharp pain to shoot through your abdomen. You practically screamed, not expecting it at all. Even Law looked surprised, and he let go instantly. You could tell by that look in his eyes, that his “doctor mode” was already activated. 

“What’s wrong? Clearly it’s more serious than some cold. You don’t even hardly scream like that when wounded in battle.” He looked you over as much as he could without touching you again. He didn’t see any clear signs of injury, and there was a distinctive lack of blood on you or your clothes. “Lay down.” He was much more careful this time, and aided you into a laying down position. 

You looked sheepish, and embarrassed when being caught. “I just…no needles. You gotta promise me that…” You tried to relax, but the pain was throbbing at this point. He felt around your neck, down to over your heart and he stopped there. 

“Your pulse…it’s escalated substantially.” He continued, and lifted up your shirt slightly to put pressure on different places on your stomach. He didn’t even promise not to use needles, and continued, “I can’t promise that. Not until I know what’s wrong.” Once the pressure went over your lower abdomen, you hissed, which had his eyes shoot up to your face to gauge it. “Shit…” He muttered, and you could see a battle in his eyes. 

“Shit? What? Is it bad?” Your fear spiked, and you tried to wriggle out of his grasp but he held you firmly in place. “Law?” His eyes were a mixture of fear and irritation. Either at you, or whatever was causing your pain. You weren’t sure which one would be more ideal in this situation. Whichever it was, you didn’t want to be in more pain like this for a longer period of time. 

“It’s your appendix. They’re close to bursting, and that can be fatal. I have to get them out. NOW.” He waved his hand, and the room appeared. “Stay still or this’ll hurt.” He was completely focused now, hand drifting across your abdomen until reaching where he knew they were. “Take a deep breath in…” You did as instructed, and you closed your eyes in preparation of the pain.

It didn’t come, and when you opened your eyes he was standing above you, examining your appendix that he held in his hand. He turned to glare at you. “Do you know how serious this is? You could have DIED. Understand?” His eyes softened when you looked at him with guilt written on your face. “Look…just come to me next time. And every time after that. I…I know you’re scared of needles, but it’s better than how much pain this must have caused.” 

“I’m sorry…” It was all you could say, and you rubbed at your abdomen instinctively. It was definitely still sore, but after he took them out it was already better. Not perfect, still…but better. “I know I shouldn’t hide things from you…in my defense I didn’t know how bad it could get.” You reached over and took his hand, and he gave a small smile for a moment before going back to his usual neutral look. 

“We can work it out. Just tell me your symptoms as they happen. I can give you an answer for almost anything.” He sighed, and rubbed the back of your hand as he sat next to you. “I won’t even use needles if I can help it.” He wanted to say those words, but he was rarely the first to initiate it. But his words made the message clear. Even if he didn’t say it often, you knew. 

“I love you too, Law.” 

[ravousisfamous]

was anybody going to tell me that chase tried to dom a patient into signing consent forms??

[hellyeahsickaf]

You know how you look back at past shitty connections, friends, family dynamics, and relationships and you're like "I can't believe I let them treat me that way"? I think it hits differently with disability because when you're disabled you don't always even know that you're being mistreated and/or abused in regards to it.

I know statistically disabled people are more likely to be abused but sometimes there's an additional type of abuse that's hard to identify even in hindsight because no one tells you how abusive it is.

But ableist abuse relating to your disability can look like:

Pushing you to do things beyond your limitations despite their awareness of them.

Blaming you for the "inconveniences" brought on by things beyond your control (ex: missing a movie because you had to wait for your pain meds to kick in).

Not allowing you to take breaks or antagonizing you when you do.

Bullying or making fun of things you can't help like gait, a lisp, an embarrassing symptom.

Trying to "cure" or "fix" you, often framing it as "helping" you. Sometimes they look similar and you might be able to tell by their reaction towards lack of improvement.

Holding over you the things they have to do for you (cooking, cleaning, driving, working, etc).

Giving ultimatums that demand things of you that you can't do (getting a job, keeping up with multiple chores).

Using insulting terms, language, and/or slurs that you have not permitted them to or in a context where there is intent to harm you.

Interrogating you about your disability or trying to find discrepancies between your experiences and what they've heard/read/seen about it.

Implying or saying anything along the lines of you faking, being lazy, or exaggerating. Reducing you to a hypochondriac, saying you enjoy being disabled because you seem to like having things done for you, or that you're lazy or abusing them by depending on them for things.

Asking you about it not to learn more, but to use it against you in some way.

Having a martyr complex, acting as if they're a hero for giving you the support you deserve.

Calling you a burden, implying you to be one, or treating you like one.

Acting like you owe them a debt, sometimes even demanding some kind of repayment. Keeping track of money they spend on you that you won't be able to pay back, feeling entitled to things like control, sex, a portion of government benefits, etc.

Self victimizing. They act like you being disabled causes more suffering to themselves than you.

Accusing you of being addicted to your medication. If you genuinely develop an addiction a normal response is concern not rage, finger pointing, etc. if you don't have one baseless claims are very harmful

Trying to force you to stop "depending" on things you need like medication and disability aids

Comparing you to others that are doing "better" than you. Maybe showing you inspiration porn of someone with no legs for example doing incredible things- which is great for them but the "I don't let my disability stop me so you can do anything" shit is harmful. Some of us will get very unwell if we try, and some just can't.

Trying to make others also see you as dramatic, faking, or lazy. Often embarrassing and mocking you as well.

Withholding things you need like medication or disability aids as a punishment

Saying your disability is karma or something inflicted by a divine entity/religious figure. Maybe as punishment for not praying, being queer, or something else they disagree with.

Saying that it's a result of being "promiscuous"/LGBT. For instance if you have HIV or ME/CFS that was a result of something like mononucleosis ("kissing disease").

Shaming you for things related to your disability beyond your control or expressing embarrassment over these things. including but not limited to: appearance (general but also things like say a lupus butterfly rash or weight gain/loss), having to lay down in public (ex: with POTS), inability to keep up with hygiene, etc.

Lacking boundaries and acting as if they are entitled to information or intrusion of your space/belongings due to the power they hold over you and assistance they may provide.

Implying/saying you're living an extended vacation. Maybe one they say they wish they had because they have to do x y z while you "sit around"

Abandoning you solely for your disability (ex: because you can't hang out, they don't want a disabled partner, think you're faking, etc)

Note that someone doing one or two of these things a few times doesn't always mean they're abusing you (also depends on which). It's about the patterns and frequency of this behavior as well as refusal to improve once aware that they're hurting you. People who care about you don't want to hurt you and the normal response is to do their best not to repeat the action that negatively affected you

There are more examples and you can feel free to list some

✨This is about physical illnesses and disabilities, please don't derail✨

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XX)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... A LOT of readers google what an "ostomy bag" is! Danny reestablishes his comfort with the Arabic numeral system!

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

The next time Diana comes to visit her charge, her gloves are blue. Her scrubs are a pale pink. She is given a new face mask, and a new hair net, and walks through the double doors without needing to be buzzed in.

Alright. Perhaps the boy is not genuinely “her charge”. Still, he is hers to protect and to keep; although her position is, officially, as security to the medical team working with their young patient, the medical team knows as well as she does that the boy does not genuinely intend harm.

Is he prone to outbursts? Perhaps, but very few of them are powered. It is entirely understandable too, according to the mental health professionals on board the Watchtower: trauma affects how well one comports oneself and how one interprets their environment. They may see things, hear things, or misunderstand things, and believe they are under threat. The circumstance makes for a great deal of residual fear and mistrust.

Diana was once raised amongst communities of women with few untouched by battle fatigue. She recognizes the signs of lost time and of reawoken fear. She understands what battle-weary warriors are truly fighting against.

A doctor and a nurse mumble a greeting as Diana passes by them. “Morning, Wonder Woman.”

“Good evening,” Diana returns, eyes crinkling. One nurse visibly glances out the window—and then smiles, sheepishly, having forgotten their location in space. Time zones on the Watchtower are often…flexible; Diana, however, has only just returned from her day job. “How is the patient?”

A doctor jerks their head towards the monitor. It is only ever left on if no one else is in the room; privacy is key to recovery. The active monitor means that the medical team has left him alone for now. “Take a look. You might have to go kid wrangling again, Ma’am.”

Alright. Diana obliges them.

On the monitor, in little stick-figure form, are three figures, all sitting or crowded around the room’s singular bed. Her patient sits in his little white gown, legs still as ever, as Impulse drapes himself across the bedspread, and Robin (ex-Robin? Third Robin? Doesn’t he have a new name now?) stands at the bedside.

The Speedster wiggles, mouthing out words she can’t hear without a microphone. Robin is focused on something in his hand—a tablet, perhaps? If Impulse is chattering into the air, then Robin is short on answers; her charge, in comparison, looks back and forth between them, likely unable to understand what the two are up to.

Diana’s mask catches her sigh. “Busy, are they?”

“Do you think you can hold the red one down long enough for a refresher on proper PPE usage?” the doctor begs. The question appears to be genuine. “They just zoomed in a little bit ago. We’ve been trying not to disturb them, but without masks and gloves…”

…Her charge was still at risk for possible contamination or infection, as they couldn’t get consistently accurate test results on his immune system. Diana hummed. She could see the problem.

“I shall. Buzz me in, if you will.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

The door clicks open. Diana strides through, unafraid of teenagers or similar ilk, and content with her position as designated scolder.

And, to his credit, the Robin at her charge’s bedside recognizes Diana’s lack of enthusiasm with the situation, and winces with artful precision. Silly boy— as if Diana would believe that any Bat would be ashamed of breaking a rule if they had already chosen to break it. She cannot help but be fond of each Bird’s eccentricities in their own ways. Robin hides the contraband food in his hand behind his back.

Impulse, however, hardly notices her approach, draped over her charge’s casts as he is—a whiteboard in his hand, furiously scribbling away at whatever attempt at communication he has decided to test today. Having met several male teenagers in her recent years, there is a decent chance he has been drawing genitalia as well.

Diana politely coughs into her mask. The gesture is entirely performative. Robin responds by hiding a separate can of energy drink—opened—on the side table behind him, in the hopes of hiding it from view.

Impulse, who failed to notice her arrival, continues to scribble. Occasionally there will be a burst of superspeed, but it will be in contained little bursts. He likely either wants to preserve the marker, or he is taking more care with his attempted art than usual.

Her charge looks up.

His eyes are still a concern—glazed with a green film, they jitter back and forth ever so slightly when he tries to focus on any one object in particular. He hasn’t indicated any discomfort with his eyesight, however, so it hasn’t been addressed beyond documentation.

The crack in his face—from two inches above his white, nebulous hairline and trailing down to his chin—is visible evidence of an injury or gouge of some sort, with new pink skin all around the edges as the only visible sign of inhuman levels of healing. Diana has seen a number of scars, and a number of healed, gaping wounds, but it is occasionally unsettling to set eyes on her charge and see the still-healing brain matter, skull, and inner sinus cavity through a viscous, green, not-quite-organic wound filling material.

There seems to be a consistent rate of healing, though. Diana can only hope that recovery is possible.

“Good afternoon,” Diana greets softly. Her charge’s discolored fingers flex as his face turns to look at her. “Are you well?”

His green-tinged lips part and then come together again. He’s not not paying attention—he listens very well, and has begun to use certain words in English to compensate for his need for communication. That being said, Diana has little idea what he is and is not capable of understanding.

Impulse, however, finally recognizes the newest occupant in the room. “Wonder Woman! Uh—we totally had permission to be here this time! Promise!!” he offers, immediately switching from someone gleeful to see her from someone remembering their misdeeds.

Diana is very lucky that her mask covers her fond smile. If it is her job to be stern today, she ought to live up to the task. “Did you, now?”

Impulse beams sheepishly, and rolls off of the casts of a bemused half-alien boy. “Yes! Remember last time when the nurses all said I could ‘come whenever’ and ‘bring a friend’ and—“

“You were asked to buzz in ahead of time and put on your protective gear?” Diana finishes, wry. Before she is able to scruff him appropriately, however, the superpowered boy is already gone and back—now with an askew hairnet, an upside-down surgical mask, and gloves a size too large for his hands.

“So I did that!” Impulse protests, the mask moving unnaturally over his face. “Look! All dressed up!”

It is a well-intended last minute effort. Alas, it would all be for naught. Diana scoops up a squawking speedster by the nape, and a now-blinded-by-a-misplaced-surgical-mask Robin, and trots them both back to larger medical.

“One moment!” Diana tosses back to her charge, who is, understandably, concerned.

Still. It takes Wonder Woman, two nurses, and a paraprofessional to successfully sanitize and gear up an uncooperative speedster. Robin sulks through the entire process, but capitulates to it with more grace.

Her charge’s green eyes shine and his fingers curl around his few personal possessions as Diana returns to him his companions; she wishes, so dearly, that she could ruffle his pale hair. “All done!”

The teenaged heroes sprawl across his bed just as casually as they had before—if better prepared for their environment. Robin largely gives her charge his space, careful not to impede where he isn’t wanted, but Impulse freely shares affection that her charge, at least, does not visibly deny.

Diana has her own routine to complete. She heads for the intravenous injection bags, pulls out a fresh one, and cracks the seal. After that, it’s shaking to mix the concoction and a fresh replacement.

Impulse grabs one of the toys off of her charge’s side table and brings it into his lap. The board is tilted, and all the slotted-in pieces fall out. He spends some time sorting them by shape, and then by color, until her charge lifts trembling fingers to pick them up, very carefully, one by one.

She’s impressed. His pincer grasp recovery has not been consistently smooth sailing. “Excellent work,” she praises.

Robin looks up from his tablet. Impulse looks back at her and beams. Her charge gives her a brief look, observes that she doesn’t need anything from him at the moment, and gets back to sorting the little pieces back into their allotted slot.

Impulse rests his chin on the steel arm bar of her charge’s cot. The pose seems…uncomfortable. “Hey, Tim. He got them all right.”

Timothy Robin taps away at his tablet—no doubt taking down documentation of his own. Diana can’t help but feel affection; every Bat and every Bird is so nosy, but if she wants to actually see those notes on her charge, she will have to press Batman for them with a reasonably-sized threat.

“Really?” Robin asks, eyes on the screen. “Do you think the pieces were matched based on color, or actual understanding of the numerical system?”

Diana looks down, line in her hand as she reconnects the intravenous bag. The toy in her charge’s lap is a mock clock face. Each of the numbers is printed onto the removable piece, in different cut-out shapes, and painted different colors.

The atmosphere changes. The air itself tastes different—something like electricity sparks on her tongue. And then it’s gone.

“No, he’s looking to put the clock face back in order, specifically,” Impulse confirms. Ah. Speedforce. Diana should have been able to recognize the feeling by now. “He’s kind of annoyed, actually. It’s like a baby toy.”

“Well, it is a baby toy.” Robin taps away.

“Yeah, that’s why it’s annoying. He knows he should be able to do it.”

Impulse buzzes again, and her charge hums, stuffing his flat hand between the board and the sheet until he can tip it over without grabbing at it. He repeats the same process, the only difficulty stemming from his shaking grip and his shaking eyes.

The urge to pull him close and pet his hair is understandable, Diana reminds herself, but not conducive to his long-term comfort. She smiles at him, as best as she can behind a surgical mask, and discreetly checks his drainage bags to see if they need replacing while she’s already close.

“All’s well,” she declares at last, finished with anything that isn’t social. Thankfully, having two teenagers in the room takes care of her charge’s most frequent issue—boredom. She claps her hands together, and her charge looks up at her, eyes vibrating. “Do you require anything?”

Her charge looks at her. Her charge looks at his friend. “Ouatair?” he tries to enunciate, tongue thick against the green-filled split in his hard palate. “Pleese?”

“Ithinkhewantssomewater,” Impulse rushes to translate, but Diana already knows this request. The water provided is chilled in a refrigerator, and it takes no time for her to find sanitized cup and straw—steel, so as to be safe when dropped, and relatively uncrushable, with a handle for simple gripping.

She presents it to him grip-first. His expression is grateful, and frustrated. No warrior wishes to be in the position of needing constant. Diana can understand the wish to do things on his own.

“Soon,” Diana offers, voice a whisper. “You’re already better off than before.”

Her charge grumbles into his cup. His tongue, half-green, finds the straw for him; he chomps down on the straw, slurps as loudly as he can, and sulks.

Teenagers. Diana finds herself unable to understand how Bruce has so many of them, and understands perfectly well how easy it is to take on a child in need and make them your own.

The cup goes back onto the side-table, half-empty.

“Hey,” Robin starts again. He puts his tablet to the side. The white board is pulled out of Impulse's hands and goes onto her charge's lap, and with only a little whining. “How’s this?”

Her charge mumbles something neutral. His eyebrows scrunch together, but he takes the offered blue marker from Impulse and lets the boy uncap it for him.

“Yeah, it’s more adult or whatever,” Impulse encourages. Her charge sticks out a green-mottled tongue, but takes the marker to the white board and writes. Robin peers over his shoulder to watch. “It’s just the alphabet. A, B, C, D~!”

Her charge hums the tune back to him, continuing seamlessly where Impulse left off. The teen hero beams.

Diana stills.

“Yeah, you got it!” Impulse encourages, and peeks over the edge of the board to see her charge hard at work. His letters are wobbly, certainly, and there are some that he misses, but the alphabet song is a longstanding English-language tradition. He know it. He knows it by rote.

“You missed the ampersand,” Impulse points out. Her charge scowls through the fissure in his face.

…There is no reason for Diana to get excited. Yet. Robin-the-former is already jotting down his own notes, pleased with his observations. There are many reasons and many ways this teenager might have picked up the song. J’onn famously picked up on Earth’s radiowaves before being transported to Earth; this could be further evidence that her charge has some connection to Earth, or it could be a connection to something more bizarre and unusual.

There is no shortage of unusual events these days.

And, of course, Diana runs out of things to do. She smooths down her charge’s blanket, which he hardly notices in his frustration. She refills his water. She is tempted to go grab her copy of The Art of War from her bag in the other room, which she has read before, but which she is rereading at behest of Bruce’s newest initiative: Tactical Book Club. She is optimistic about the opportunities for further education this will provide her comrades-in-arms, if not underwhelmed by the reading material. As long as the teenage heroes are in the room, Diana is obligated to remain with them, in the event that the danger level might…fluctuate. A book would give at least the semblance of privacy to the three.

Her charge makes a noise. “Hay!”

Diana looks up. In shaky hands, resting on his lap, he holds up a largely complete alphabet. There are one or two shaky letters—thorn, which is fairly common, and eth, perhaps less so—but otherwise carefully drawn, very neatly done.

“Excellently done,” Diana praises. The alphabet is a triumph of the physical work it takes to heal.

Her charge beams through his craggy face, buzzing with delight.

"I dunno," Impulse teases, upside down on her charge's legs. "They're kinda wonky."

The boy's face scrunches, smears the color away with a swipe of his arm, and draws something else.

The board shakes with his exertion as he lifts it back into place on his lap, and Diana allows herself to sigh, audibly; sure enough, as she had expected, there is a misshapen, blue, cartoon representation of a penis.

Robin full-on cackles with surprise, but Impulse falls of the bed with laughter.

Unfortunately, it is now Diana's job to figure out how to scold a teenager, and one who speaks no known language besides. Based on the resulting expressions she earns, Diana is unsure if the scolding works, but. Well.

...She tried.

[ink-asunder]

Sometimes being disabled is metaphorical tunnel vision. For every small action, there's pain and fatigue on the other side, so you overthink and procrastinate every move you make. You put on real shoes instead of slippers for the first time in 6 months and wonder if it was always this hard to tie your shoes? You're not sure exactly what's different, but you just remember it being... easier.

At a routine appointment, your doctor lectures you about deconditioning instead of ordering physical therapy or diagnostics for your worsening neck pain. You can try again in 4 months.

You look up deconditioning later, but all you can do is wonder why they haven't come up with a term for a disabled person acclimating to their severe pain and limitations to the degree that they can't even tell exactly in what ways their disability affects them anymore.