It is Saturday; it is almost half past one, pm, and I am still in bed. This is unusual for me; I should have cleaned the kitchen and gone to Pilates by now, but I have spent the last hour reading The Guardian online, cuddled up with Bear. I have not taken to my bed amidst a wave of Victorian hysteria: I have just finished a week of hilariously entitled "twilight" dialysis sessions.
I do not like to shake up my routine - I am quite the curmudgeon in this regard. But this week I was required to attend a Group Relations Conference in advance of the start of year two of my Masters and it ran from 9am - 6pm as of Monday, leaving no time for afternoon dialysis and only just enough head space to have a crack at the Evening Standard crossword each night.
In order to make the conference I opted to do a week of twilight dialysis sessions rather than die. The term "twilight", when you exorcise the ghastly tweenie Vampire thing, suggests soft, romantic dusk light, a gentle closing of the day; dialysing whilst drinking a crisp glass of Proseco whilst crickets chirrup and dragonflies dance amongst the shadows. Or some such. The hospital, however, interprets "twilight" as beginning in the death-darkness at 9pm, and that's if you are lucky. Add on three and a half hours of treatment, plus another 30 mins to get off and get out, and I was falling into bed at around 1:30. Clearly, I like to be in bed at 1:30, be it am or pm.
I had experienced twilight sessions during my fleeting teaching practise so I had some idea of what I was getting myself into, but by the end of my session last night I was floored. I was so tired when I stumbled into my bedroom that I found I couldn't actually sleep, then I think I started hallucinating and it took a 4am episode of The West Wing to bring me out of the stratosphere. I suspect my blood pressure had fallen, and at one point I worried that I might die should I fall into a slumber as you do in the wee hours when everything takes on a peculiar sheen of dread. I am still alive this morning though, and feel a bit better for having had some Rice Krispies.
I have learnt a lot this week. I had been scathing and sceptical about the conference but then how can one afford not to be when faced with a week of talking about what's going on in the room (if I hear the phrase, "I just felt I needed to express that" again in the next fortnight I'm going to have to pour acid in my ears). I am loathe to admit that it turned out to be both stimulating and challenging, and yes, I'm afraid to say I have discovered a lot about myself. How irritatingly predictable. The most valuable lesson though, beyond what I have come to understand about my reaction to competition and my relationships with male authority figures, has been that the better the Devil you know, because as tedious as dialysis can often be, I wouldn't swap my gentile afternoon routine for the twilight schedule, not for all the kidneys in China. I need to get up now and make the most of what is left of my Saturday...yesterday's crossword won't do itself, you know.
I do not like to shake up my routine - I am quite the curmudgeon in this regard. But this week I was required to attend a Group Relations Conference in advance of the start of year two of my Masters and it ran from 9am - 6pm as of Monday, leaving no time for afternoon dialysis and only just enough head space to have a crack at the Evening Standard crossword each night.
In order to make the conference I opted to do a week of twilight dialysis sessions rather than die. The term "twilight", when you exorcise the ghastly tweenie Vampire thing, suggests soft, romantic dusk light, a gentle closing of the day; dialysing whilst drinking a crisp glass of Proseco whilst crickets chirrup and dragonflies dance amongst the shadows. Or some such. The hospital, however, interprets "twilight" as beginning in the death-darkness at 9pm, and that's if you are lucky. Add on three and a half hours of treatment, plus another 30 mins to get off and get out, and I was falling into bed at around 1:30. Clearly, I like to be in bed at 1:30, be it am or pm.
I had experienced twilight sessions during my fleeting teaching practise so I had some idea of what I was getting myself into, but by the end of my session last night I was floored. I was so tired when I stumbled into my bedroom that I found I couldn't actually sleep, then I think I started hallucinating and it took a 4am episode of The West Wing to bring me out of the stratosphere. I suspect my blood pressure had fallen, and at one point I worried that I might die should I fall into a slumber as you do in the wee hours when everything takes on a peculiar sheen of dread. I am still alive this morning though, and feel a bit better for having had some Rice Krispies.
I have learnt a lot this week. I had been scathing and sceptical about the conference but then how can one afford not to be when faced with a week of talking about what's going on in the room (if I hear the phrase, "I just felt I needed to express that" again in the next fortnight I'm going to have to pour acid in my ears). I am loathe to admit that it turned out to be both stimulating and challenging, and yes, I'm afraid to say I have discovered a lot about myself. How irritatingly predictable. The most valuable lesson though, beyond what I have come to understand about my reaction to competition and my relationships with male authority figures, has been that the better the Devil you know, because as tedious as dialysis can often be, I wouldn't swap my gentile afternoon routine for the twilight schedule, not for all the kidneys in China. I need to get up now and make the most of what is left of my Saturday...yesterday's crossword won't do itself, you know.
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