A new dialysis schedule; a new cast of equally unsavoury fellow patients; it can only mean one thing: I have moved dialysis units.
Thank God for small mercies. Having stopped dialysing in the evenings some time ago, I was recently moved from the fifth floor to the fourth where the daytime dialysis programme is run. I started my haemo on Bostock Ward over two years ago, so in many ways it was like coming home... if your home happens to be some sort of fetid drugs den full of unsanitary characters in which you loathe every second you spend. I was greeted as a prodigal daughter by the kindly Phillipino nurses who cheered and hugged me when I arrived. I am the Mick Jagger of the renal world.
The benefit of dialysing on Bostock is that there are less patients; theoretically, this means the unit is more peaceful, and that I can get started on the machine a lot quicker. However, if there is one thing you can rely on in this life, it is the ability of elderly dialysis patients to be disgusting and fuck things up. The calm is consistently shattered by the sonorous grunting of Sir Snores-a-lot. I am forced to squash my headphones into my ears and turn up ER to max volume to drown out the (truly nasty) hocking and splashing noises that emanate from Mr Spitty.
These abhorrent characters aside, Bostock sessions are also useful because they start earlier, meaning they also finish earlier. For the first time in two years, I have the ability to go out on a Friday night. However, whilst I have the ability, immediately post-dialysis, I rarely have the desire, though I have been known to wrap some glad rags around my newly svelte frame and grace the fine establishments of Upper Street. It is, at least, nice to have the option.
On the 19th April, I am going back to work part-time as a Teaching Assistant and my new afternoon dialysis sessions will fit nicely into my timetable. Dialysis is only viable as a lifestyle choice when it sews seamlessly into the fabric of your life and causes minimal disruption to your regular routine and I am hopeful that my return to Bostock will help with that. Change is good, but even if I was dialysing in Dermot O'Leary's hot-tub I would still loathe the entire process; ultimately, the only change I shall truly relish will be changing from dialysis patient to transplant patient. I am now fifteen months entrenched into my wait for a shiny new organ so there is every chance I am in the home stretch. In the meantime, you can find me on the fourth floor with a cup of ice-chips set beside me and my fingers in my ears.
Thank God for small mercies. Having stopped dialysing in the evenings some time ago, I was recently moved from the fifth floor to the fourth where the daytime dialysis programme is run. I started my haemo on Bostock Ward over two years ago, so in many ways it was like coming home... if your home happens to be some sort of fetid drugs den full of unsanitary characters in which you loathe every second you spend. I was greeted as a prodigal daughter by the kindly Phillipino nurses who cheered and hugged me when I arrived. I am the Mick Jagger of the renal world.
The benefit of dialysing on Bostock is that there are less patients; theoretically, this means the unit is more peaceful, and that I can get started on the machine a lot quicker. However, if there is one thing you can rely on in this life, it is the ability of elderly dialysis patients to be disgusting and fuck things up. The calm is consistently shattered by the sonorous grunting of Sir Snores-a-lot. I am forced to squash my headphones into my ears and turn up ER to max volume to drown out the (truly nasty) hocking and splashing noises that emanate from Mr Spitty.
These abhorrent characters aside, Bostock sessions are also useful because they start earlier, meaning they also finish earlier. For the first time in two years, I have the ability to go out on a Friday night. However, whilst I have the ability, immediately post-dialysis, I rarely have the desire, though I have been known to wrap some glad rags around my newly svelte frame and grace the fine establishments of Upper Street. It is, at least, nice to have the option.
On the 19th April, I am going back to work part-time as a Teaching Assistant and my new afternoon dialysis sessions will fit nicely into my timetable. Dialysis is only viable as a lifestyle choice when it sews seamlessly into the fabric of your life and causes minimal disruption to your regular routine and I am hopeful that my return to Bostock will help with that. Change is good, but even if I was dialysing in Dermot O'Leary's hot-tub I would still loathe the entire process; ultimately, the only change I shall truly relish will be changing from dialysis patient to transplant patient. I am now fifteen months entrenched into my wait for a shiny new organ so there is every chance I am in the home stretch. In the meantime, you can find me on the fourth floor with a cup of ice-chips set beside me and my fingers in my ears.
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