I saw my Consultant yesterday for the first time in...well, never. I have never seen my home dialysis Consultant. This is more to do with scheduling than dastardly NHS cut-backs or wanton neglect, although we can put it down to both if you feel like it. Shit, let's sue.
I have met Dr. C before, briefly, although I wouldn't imagine he remembers as it was over five years ago and he was standing at my bedside telling me my kidney had failed and I was fucked...he may have used different words. He probably tells a dozen people a day that their kidney is on the blink, so there's no reason for him to have committed our encounter to memory, but the thing about Consultants is that by default they are educated and successful; they are powerful, replete with knowledge, and frequently male, ergo they are Alpha, charismatic and whether I know them well or not, I usually fancy them a little bit.
Seeing my Consultant is a sport: it is a game of wit and verbal dexterity in which the Consultant tries to demonstrate he is the one in charge whilst I gently assuage him of this belief. My Consultants try to tell me to do stuff and because they are used to their patients being old, deaf and enraptured by the cult of personality, they are sometimes surprised when I question why I should do what they say (with a wry smile and a playful-yet-acerbic turn of phrase, natch). I should say, the surprise wears off quickly - they like the challenge you see, and because they are middle aged men, they also like to jostle with young women.
Flirting in the consultant room is nuanced so you have to know what you're looking for. Right away Dr. C told me my needle site was, "the cleanest I've seen in a long time". See? Then he confided that even when dialysing just thrice a week, some of my levels are better than patients doing double the time. He found this very impressive. We also shared a good chuckle at the prospect of the senior dialysis nurse spending the night at my house during my transition to a nocturnal regime - it was mean of us, seeing as we were laughing at her expense, and actually not that funny, seeing as it is likely to actually happen - but we were like naughty school kids sharing secrets behind the bike shed. It was outrageously unprofessional of him, and made me like him more. Of course, there's always some touching involved on these occasions, and I'm sure Dr. C will claim he was only pushing on my fistula to determine why it has become so big and gross, but he concluded by saying, "You need to come back for a scan" which, clearly, translates as: "I want to see you again."
Yet love is always bitter sweet. Scanning my notes, Dr C grimaced and said, "Oh yes - you've got 91% negative antigens, haven't you?"
I frowned. "91%? Hang about, where did that extra 1% come from?"
Turns out my old consultant (convenient - blame the ex) had been rounding down, so my chances of getting a kidney from The List now stand at a paltry 9%, not the 10% figure I have been labouring under for a year now. For some reason, 9 seems exponentially worse than 10. 10% is a nice, solid, tangible figure - you can hold on to 10%, it inspires hope. But 9%?! What ever comes good from a 9% prospect? I might as well call it zero and fling my mobile into the Thames. "You've been waiting a while," Dr. C said. "Looks like you might be waiting a while more."
Of course, being a man, he couldn't let me leave without proving his virility, so he prescribed more tablets that I have to take every day, which I bet I don't even need, and sent me off for a blood test. I don't know if its going to work out between us.
I know it's not over yet, though. We'll keep seeing each other, right up until the day I get a new kidney in my belly, at which point I'll leave him for someone else, someone who doesn't moan about my drinking, or my potassium levels; someone kind, with a speciality in post-transplant medicine. We might see each other from time to time, in the transplant clinic; he'll ask, "So, do you come here often?" and, if the universe aligns itself in my favour, I'll turn, with a smile, and reply, "Not any more."
I have met Dr. C before, briefly, although I wouldn't imagine he remembers as it was over five years ago and he was standing at my bedside telling me my kidney had failed and I was fucked...he may have used different words. He probably tells a dozen people a day that their kidney is on the blink, so there's no reason for him to have committed our encounter to memory, but the thing about Consultants is that by default they are educated and successful; they are powerful, replete with knowledge, and frequently male, ergo they are Alpha, charismatic and whether I know them well or not, I usually fancy them a little bit.
Seeing my Consultant is a sport: it is a game of wit and verbal dexterity in which the Consultant tries to demonstrate he is the one in charge whilst I gently assuage him of this belief. My Consultants try to tell me to do stuff and because they are used to their patients being old, deaf and enraptured by the cult of personality, they are sometimes surprised when I question why I should do what they say (with a wry smile and a playful-yet-acerbic turn of phrase, natch). I should say, the surprise wears off quickly - they like the challenge you see, and because they are middle aged men, they also like to jostle with young women.
Flirting in the consultant room is nuanced so you have to know what you're looking for. Right away Dr. C told me my needle site was, "the cleanest I've seen in a long time". See? Then he confided that even when dialysing just thrice a week, some of my levels are better than patients doing double the time. He found this very impressive. We also shared a good chuckle at the prospect of the senior dialysis nurse spending the night at my house during my transition to a nocturnal regime - it was mean of us, seeing as we were laughing at her expense, and actually not that funny, seeing as it is likely to actually happen - but we were like naughty school kids sharing secrets behind the bike shed. It was outrageously unprofessional of him, and made me like him more. Of course, there's always some touching involved on these occasions, and I'm sure Dr. C will claim he was only pushing on my fistula to determine why it has become so big and gross, but he concluded by saying, "You need to come back for a scan" which, clearly, translates as: "I want to see you again."
Yet love is always bitter sweet. Scanning my notes, Dr C grimaced and said, "Oh yes - you've got 91% negative antigens, haven't you?"
I frowned. "91%? Hang about, where did that extra 1% come from?"
Turns out my old consultant (convenient - blame the ex) had been rounding down, so my chances of getting a kidney from The List now stand at a paltry 9%, not the 10% figure I have been labouring under for a year now. For some reason, 9 seems exponentially worse than 10. 10% is a nice, solid, tangible figure - you can hold on to 10%, it inspires hope. But 9%?! What ever comes good from a 9% prospect? I might as well call it zero and fling my mobile into the Thames. "You've been waiting a while," Dr. C said. "Looks like you might be waiting a while more."
Of course, being a man, he couldn't let me leave without proving his virility, so he prescribed more tablets that I have to take every day, which I bet I don't even need, and sent me off for a blood test. I don't know if its going to work out between us.
I know it's not over yet, though. We'll keep seeing each other, right up until the day I get a new kidney in my belly, at which point I'll leave him for someone else, someone who doesn't moan about my drinking, or my potassium levels; someone kind, with a speciality in post-transplant medicine. We might see each other from time to time, in the transplant clinic; he'll ask, "So, do you come here often?" and, if the universe aligns itself in my favour, I'll turn, with a smile, and reply, "Not any more."
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