The only thing worse than having to go to dialysis is not being able to leave once you have finished. I treated myself to a tube journey home today, for after having completed my obligatory four hours of sluicing, my arm refused to stop bleeding after the top needle was removed and it continued to leak for a further good, solid, 60 minutes.
After the first fifteen I became so disheartened I could no longer focus on the last episode of Frozen Planet playing on my laptop, so I got up to weigh myself - and then I started to cry. All I wanted to do was go home and eat tuna stir fry in front of Masterchef - The Professionals but here I was, stuck in the unit that was now all but deserted bar myself, some nurses and the cheerfully rotund cleaning lady with the dented afro. If this scene wasn't pitiful enough, I had to keep my offending left arm straight and with my right hand occupied with stemming the blood flow, I was unable to wipe away the tears that were now streaming down my face leaving black rivulets of melted mascara in their wake.
The nurses took pity on me. One of them insisted she pressure my arm for me, which entailed us sitting opposite each other in voluble silence whilst she pressed her sausage fingers down upon my arm with the force of a bear trap. I broke the tension by doing what any self-respecting, white middle class female would do: inexplicably apologising. The fact that my arm continued to flow'eth over was not of my doing, but no matter - it led us onto more jocular subject matter: Nurse Sausage Fingers confided her wish that we should be able to smoke in the unit, such was her craving for a cigarette. Not wanting to ruin the banter I concurred, despite the fact I have now all but quit the habit myself. And even I draw the line at sparking up in the hospital.
I then made a fatal error: to pass the time, I thought I would engage her in some light chit-chat, but a casual question about her nursing background resulted in a verbose tale of her past life as a manager of some sort of leafletting firm and the incompetence of all she encountered therein. Unable to get away, I managed to interject some, "oh yes"s and, "I would imagine"s at what I felt to be appropriate junctures. After ten minutes of this, she tentatively lifted the dressing to reveal my arm had finally stopped bleeding and she taped it up good and tight.
The evening was not totally without amusement, however. As I was donning my coat, the other nurse, who had up to this point been busying herself at the computer, confessed she was desperate for a break. "I'm dying for a pee," she said. "You know when you are just bursting to pee - you have to hope no-one makes you laugh!"
"Not really..." I replied over my shoulder as I finally made my escape. My recollection of my halcyon days of urniating may be a little hazy, but I still managed to have a little laugh to myself.
After the first fifteen I became so disheartened I could no longer focus on the last episode of Frozen Planet playing on my laptop, so I got up to weigh myself - and then I started to cry. All I wanted to do was go home and eat tuna stir fry in front of Masterchef - The Professionals but here I was, stuck in the unit that was now all but deserted bar myself, some nurses and the cheerfully rotund cleaning lady with the dented afro. If this scene wasn't pitiful enough, I had to keep my offending left arm straight and with my right hand occupied with stemming the blood flow, I was unable to wipe away the tears that were now streaming down my face leaving black rivulets of melted mascara in their wake.
The nurses took pity on me. One of them insisted she pressure my arm for me, which entailed us sitting opposite each other in voluble silence whilst she pressed her sausage fingers down upon my arm with the force of a bear trap. I broke the tension by doing what any self-respecting, white middle class female would do: inexplicably apologising. The fact that my arm continued to flow'eth over was not of my doing, but no matter - it led us onto more jocular subject matter: Nurse Sausage Fingers confided her wish that we should be able to smoke in the unit, such was her craving for a cigarette. Not wanting to ruin the banter I concurred, despite the fact I have now all but quit the habit myself. And even I draw the line at sparking up in the hospital.
I then made a fatal error: to pass the time, I thought I would engage her in some light chit-chat, but a casual question about her nursing background resulted in a verbose tale of her past life as a manager of some sort of leafletting firm and the incompetence of all she encountered therein. Unable to get away, I managed to interject some, "oh yes"s and, "I would imagine"s at what I felt to be appropriate junctures. After ten minutes of this, she tentatively lifted the dressing to reveal my arm had finally stopped bleeding and she taped it up good and tight.
The evening was not totally without amusement, however. As I was donning my coat, the other nurse, who had up to this point been busying herself at the computer, confessed she was desperate for a break. "I'm dying for a pee," she said. "You know when you are just bursting to pee - you have to hope no-one makes you laugh!"
"Not really..." I replied over my shoulder as I finally made my escape. My recollection of my halcyon days of urniating may be a little hazy, but I still managed to have a little laugh to myself.
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