Dialysis is, by its very nature, a fairly solitary exercise. It is not really an activity you can engage in with your friends, like going to Alton Towers or having sex, unless all of your friends happen to be in end-stage renal failure as well (in which case you are a social retard and don't deserve any real friends). When at hospital, I aim to be as reclusive as one can be when surrounded by a ward full of dialysing patients and assorted doctors, nurses, cleaners, porters, visitors...I am not the gregarious, outgoing, lovable munchkin I am in my every day existence, though that may be hard to believe. I am the Scrooge of Astley Cooper ward. I am the SAS of dialysis: I get in, I get the job done, I get out and I try not to die in the process. I set my facial expression to Do Not Disturb and essentially try to forget I am stuck in this ghastly place with these awful people.
Over the years, I have in fact enjoyed the company of friends during dialysis sessions. Actually, "enjoyed" is probably too strong a way of putting it. As nice as it is to have someone with whom to pass the time, I have learnt the hard way that the company of the cast of "ER" is vastly more pleasurable than anyone I may actually know.
Darling Fiona, an incredibly dear and loyal friend, is never, ever allowed to come to dialysis again. She waits until the nurse comes to tend to my machine before making such startling announcements as "Man, I really need to get laid" or "This guy did the freakiest thing to me the other night..." Thank God most of the kindly Phillipino nurses only have a causal relationship with spoken English. This is when the male nurses aren't neglecting my care to chat her up or she starts happily chatting about AIDS whilst the Black, African nurse is mopping up the blood on my arm.
My family is also banned. My mother jumps every time the machine alarms and really does not go to great lengths to hide the fact that she's bored - I usually end up sending her home after she's commented on how trashy all my (beloved) magazines are. My older brother is simply repulsed by the whole set- up ("Uugh, cover up your arm," he instructed me the other day, "it's disgusting").
The nail in the coffin, however, was having my ex-boyfriend join me for a couple of sessions. After a year and a bit of dealing with dialysis and the disease by myself, it was a massive relief to have someone to finally share the burden with. Theoretically, that is. In reality, he hated every second of it and didn't hide it. He hated hospitals (fair enough, I suppose) and we eventually argued about him coming. He gave me the "I'll come if you want me to" line from where I had nowhere other to go than: "Only if you don't mind coming..." Which, of course, he did mind. A lot. I think he came to perhaps two sessions and I felt so guilty I spent the whole time apologising and never made him come again. In retrospect, there is something a bit off-kilter about that scenario.
Perhaps I was just unlucky, because this certainly isn't the case for every dialysis patient. One of my fellow patients is a middle aged woman, she must be late fifties-ish with immaculate hair and a neat, stylish dress sense. This marks her out from all the other middle aged women on the unit whose hair is, by and large, falling out, and whose idea of dress sense is putting on clothes. This woman is also remarkable because her husband accompanies her to every session.
Every single Monday, every Wednesday and every Friday, for four hours and counting each time, her husband sits with her. Sometimes they chat. Sometimes they sit in amiable silence. Often, he simply lets her sleep whilst he reads the paper. He brings her something to eat, and they nibble on tasteless sandwiches together. He is obviously utterly devoted to her. There are not a lot of things that I take pleasure in at dialysis but watching those two together is one of them. The disease has not just chewed up her life, but his as well. In essence, he is suffering with kidney failure too: he may not have the needles in his arm, but he voluntarily commits to the monotonous dialysis sessions in the grim surroundings of the hospital, for no greater reason than that he loves her and wants to support her along this often turbulent path. It is an immense sacrifice, borne, I would suspect, out of a long, happy and respectful relationship together. I, too, have felt the sense of incredible helplessness we all encounter when someone we love is in pain and we can do nothing notable to help. It may seem a simple gesture, but he is profoundly easing her suffering, just by sitting beside her.
At least, I assume he is her husband. He could be some guy she met on a dialysis fetish website.
Over the years, I have in fact enjoyed the company of friends during dialysis sessions. Actually, "enjoyed" is probably too strong a way of putting it. As nice as it is to have someone with whom to pass the time, I have learnt the hard way that the company of the cast of "ER" is vastly more pleasurable than anyone I may actually know.
Darling Fiona, an incredibly dear and loyal friend, is never, ever allowed to come to dialysis again. She waits until the nurse comes to tend to my machine before making such startling announcements as "Man, I really need to get laid" or "This guy did the freakiest thing to me the other night..." Thank God most of the kindly Phillipino nurses only have a causal relationship with spoken English. This is when the male nurses aren't neglecting my care to chat her up or she starts happily chatting about AIDS whilst the Black, African nurse is mopping up the blood on my arm.
My family is also banned. My mother jumps every time the machine alarms and really does not go to great lengths to hide the fact that she's bored - I usually end up sending her home after she's commented on how trashy all my (beloved) magazines are. My older brother is simply repulsed by the whole set- up ("Uugh, cover up your arm," he instructed me the other day, "it's disgusting").
The nail in the coffin, however, was having my ex-boyfriend join me for a couple of sessions. After a year and a bit of dealing with dialysis and the disease by myself, it was a massive relief to have someone to finally share the burden with. Theoretically, that is. In reality, he hated every second of it and didn't hide it. He hated hospitals (fair enough, I suppose) and we eventually argued about him coming. He gave me the "I'll come if you want me to" line from where I had nowhere other to go than: "Only if you don't mind coming..." Which, of course, he did mind. A lot. I think he came to perhaps two sessions and I felt so guilty I spent the whole time apologising and never made him come again. In retrospect, there is something a bit off-kilter about that scenario.
Perhaps I was just unlucky, because this certainly isn't the case for every dialysis patient. One of my fellow patients is a middle aged woman, she must be late fifties-ish with immaculate hair and a neat, stylish dress sense. This marks her out from all the other middle aged women on the unit whose hair is, by and large, falling out, and whose idea of dress sense is putting on clothes. This woman is also remarkable because her husband accompanies her to every session.
Every single Monday, every Wednesday and every Friday, for four hours and counting each time, her husband sits with her. Sometimes they chat. Sometimes they sit in amiable silence. Often, he simply lets her sleep whilst he reads the paper. He brings her something to eat, and they nibble on tasteless sandwiches together. He is obviously utterly devoted to her. There are not a lot of things that I take pleasure in at dialysis but watching those two together is one of them. The disease has not just chewed up her life, but his as well. In essence, he is suffering with kidney failure too: he may not have the needles in his arm, but he voluntarily commits to the monotonous dialysis sessions in the grim surroundings of the hospital, for no greater reason than that he loves her and wants to support her along this often turbulent path. It is an immense sacrifice, borne, I would suspect, out of a long, happy and respectful relationship together. I, too, have felt the sense of incredible helplessness we all encounter when someone we love is in pain and we can do nothing notable to help. It may seem a simple gesture, but he is profoundly easing her suffering, just by sitting beside her.
At least, I assume he is her husband. He could be some guy she met on a dialysis fetish website.
Comments
Post a Comment