There are some things in this world, like miracles and those texts to his ex your boyfriend swore he never sent, that have to be seen to be believed. Sure, you've heard tell of them; maybe the brother of the gardner of your neighbour even swears blind he witnessed one. Yet until you set your very own eyes upon it, faith alone is not sufficient to convince you that such a phenomenon is real.
However, today, I had the rare and dubious pleasure of seeing one of these improbabilities in action, first-hand. Sometime last year,I was offered the chance to see a physiotherapist in order to discuss partaking of some exercise. During dialysis. Dialycise, if you will. The premise is that a set of pedals is affixed to the chair and the dialysis patient sits there cycling for some of their session (four hours would see Chris Hoy struggling), the benefits of which include increased fitness and reduced propensity towards DVT. And dying, presumably. Perhaps it is required training for those wishing to participate in the transplant games? (I would imagine they are used for some sort of time-trail qualifications). At the time, I (of course) declined the offer, once I had stopped sniggering long enough to catch my breath. I already look enough of a knob during dialysis: curled up, immobile and covered in Digestive biscuit crumbs without adding some furious and comedy static-pedaling into the equation. The nurses half-heartedly tried to hawk the idea to my fellow dialysers but from what I could ascertain, they were rebuffed at every attempt. Incidently, it is worth noting that the majority of my dialysis cohort find it an exertion to dribble, let alone engage in a moderate amount of low impact exercise. I suspected Dialycise may be just a mere fallacy, and thought no more about it.
Until today, that is. Initially, I noticed a physio in her uniform of black slacks and white polo shirt scuttling around the ward but today is Wednesday, aka magazine day, and I was too engrossed in this week's Heat to care or notice what was going on around me. Then, I saw it, out of the corner of my eye: the sporadic flashes of the black pedals as they whirred round and round, like a deranged, kamikaze bee repeatedly hitting a closed window, trying to escape. Incredulous, I leaned forward: my next door neighbour was Dialycising. It wasn't a joke or a ploy or a piss-take: Dialycise exists, in all its bizarre, comedy glory.
I was somewhat disappointed to see who it was pumping the pedals, however: Youngish Middle Class Lady (I may need to give her a more snappy moniker). I feel akin to YMC Woman because she doesn't need to be wheeled in and out of sessions; she doesn't cart a colostomy bag around with her like some macabre, McQueen-inspired handbag and she doesn't continually (and loudly) hock up phlegm and spit it into a vomit bowl throughout her four hours (causing me to push my headphones deep into my ears and turn up the volume on my laptop to maximum). In fact, she seems fairly lucid and pretty normal, hence my affection towards her. We're two-of-a-kind, me and YMC Lady - or, at least, we were, until she started doing Dialycise and embarrassing the both of us. Dialysis should not be enjoyable or productive; it is to be endured and sneeringly derided whenever possible. A few weeks ago, I heard a rumour that patients had been lobbying for pedicures and massages during sessions, the idea of which made me want to chew off my arm and eat it just so I had a substantial amount in my stomach to vomit back up again.
In retrospect, I don't know what to make of the fact that I was lobbied for Dialycise in the first place; by virtue of the fact I can walk to the toilet by myself, I am considerably fitter than the rest of the old, shriveled losers desperately clinging onto life on my unit. Maybe it was because I look so vital and vigorous that I was selected as Dialycise's primary demographic? Which makes me think, maybe I should see it is an opportunity - I'm bound to be good at it after all. When I exercise,I generally attempt to break a sweat and burn some fat, so aerating my calves for ten pointless minutes should be a walk in the park - or a cycle in a chair. I could bring out a DVD: Rosy's Disco Dialycise: ten minutes of pathetic pedaling to the sounds of Donna Summer. Dialysis is in itself guaranteed weight loss - I lost 2 kgs in fluid today by sitting on my arse and watching The West Wing. I could clad myself in lycra, sit myself down and get pedaling whilst excitedly yelling: "Feel the very mild warm sensation" in between mouth-fulls of my M&S tuna and sweetcorn sandwich. I honestly don't see how it wouldn't sell.
Having seen if for myself, I grudgingly admit Dialycise obviously does exist and that some patients find benefit in it; I am not, after all, in a position to begrudge any dialysis patient a means of enduring the ghastly sessions. Yet I think I have established definitively it is not for me. When it comes to dialysis, I adhere to the SAS mantra: Get in, Get the job done, Get out, Don't die, which is a round-about way of saying I don't want to participate any more than I absolutely have to. Unless I can find some way of shamelessly exploiting my disease and making some money off the back of it, I'm just not interested. So until the DVD hits an HMV near you, I think I'll just go out for a run.
However, today, I had the rare and dubious pleasure of seeing one of these improbabilities in action, first-hand. Sometime last year,I was offered the chance to see a physiotherapist in order to discuss partaking of some exercise. During dialysis. Dialycise, if you will. The premise is that a set of pedals is affixed to the chair and the dialysis patient sits there cycling for some of their session (four hours would see Chris Hoy struggling), the benefits of which include increased fitness and reduced propensity towards DVT. And dying, presumably. Perhaps it is required training for those wishing to participate in the transplant games? (I would imagine they are used for some sort of time-trail qualifications). At the time, I (of course) declined the offer, once I had stopped sniggering long enough to catch my breath. I already look enough of a knob during dialysis: curled up, immobile and covered in Digestive biscuit crumbs without adding some furious and comedy static-pedaling into the equation. The nurses half-heartedly tried to hawk the idea to my fellow dialysers but from what I could ascertain, they were rebuffed at every attempt. Incidently, it is worth noting that the majority of my dialysis cohort find it an exertion to dribble, let alone engage in a moderate amount of low impact exercise. I suspected Dialycise may be just a mere fallacy, and thought no more about it.
Until today, that is. Initially, I noticed a physio in her uniform of black slacks and white polo shirt scuttling around the ward but today is Wednesday, aka magazine day, and I was too engrossed in this week's Heat to care or notice what was going on around me. Then, I saw it, out of the corner of my eye: the sporadic flashes of the black pedals as they whirred round and round, like a deranged, kamikaze bee repeatedly hitting a closed window, trying to escape. Incredulous, I leaned forward: my next door neighbour was Dialycising. It wasn't a joke or a ploy or a piss-take: Dialycise exists, in all its bizarre, comedy glory.
I was somewhat disappointed to see who it was pumping the pedals, however: Youngish Middle Class Lady (I may need to give her a more snappy moniker). I feel akin to YMC Woman because she doesn't need to be wheeled in and out of sessions; she doesn't cart a colostomy bag around with her like some macabre, McQueen-inspired handbag and she doesn't continually (and loudly) hock up phlegm and spit it into a vomit bowl throughout her four hours (causing me to push my headphones deep into my ears and turn up the volume on my laptop to maximum). In fact, she seems fairly lucid and pretty normal, hence my affection towards her. We're two-of-a-kind, me and YMC Lady - or, at least, we were, until she started doing Dialycise and embarrassing the both of us. Dialysis should not be enjoyable or productive; it is to be endured and sneeringly derided whenever possible. A few weeks ago, I heard a rumour that patients had been lobbying for pedicures and massages during sessions, the idea of which made me want to chew off my arm and eat it just so I had a substantial amount in my stomach to vomit back up again.
In retrospect, I don't know what to make of the fact that I was lobbied for Dialycise in the first place; by virtue of the fact I can walk to the toilet by myself, I am considerably fitter than the rest of the old, shriveled losers desperately clinging onto life on my unit. Maybe it was because I look so vital and vigorous that I was selected as Dialycise's primary demographic? Which makes me think, maybe I should see it is an opportunity - I'm bound to be good at it after all. When I exercise,I generally attempt to break a sweat and burn some fat, so aerating my calves for ten pointless minutes should be a walk in the park - or a cycle in a chair. I could bring out a DVD: Rosy's Disco Dialycise: ten minutes of pathetic pedaling to the sounds of Donna Summer. Dialysis is in itself guaranteed weight loss - I lost 2 kgs in fluid today by sitting on my arse and watching The West Wing. I could clad myself in lycra, sit myself down and get pedaling whilst excitedly yelling: "Feel the very mild warm sensation" in between mouth-fulls of my M&S tuna and sweetcorn sandwich. I honestly don't see how it wouldn't sell.
Having seen if for myself, I grudgingly admit Dialycise obviously does exist and that some patients find benefit in it; I am not, after all, in a position to begrudge any dialysis patient a means of enduring the ghastly sessions. Yet I think I have established definitively it is not for me. When it comes to dialysis, I adhere to the SAS mantra: Get in, Get the job done, Get out, Don't die, which is a round-about way of saying I don't want to participate any more than I absolutely have to. Unless I can find some way of shamelessly exploiting my disease and making some money off the back of it, I'm just not interested. So until the DVD hits an HMV near you, I think I'll just go out for a run.
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