I have a problem: I'm becoming cold. I don't mean emotionally frigid (though my ex-boyfriend might disagree) I literally mean physically chilled. In bed. I should probably explain.
Ah, summer. Remember that? It happened (I think) over eighteen days some time this year and snuck in between the chilly spring and bleak autumn that is now upon us. It was warm once I believe, but now it is freezing and it seems twas ever thus; it is freezing in my flat, it is even freezing in my cosy little bedroom-cum-medical depot, and dialysis is like roses and old people: it doesn't do well in the cold.
I'm a snuggler, you see - not with men, let's not be ridiculous - but I like to burrow down under my duvet like a hedgehog when the winter months encroach. At least I did, until Dermot arrived. When I started nocturnal dialysis, the weather was warm and lying prone on one's bed was a prerequisite for a good night's kip; now you have to get yo' wriggle on to avoid waking up with shrivelled toes, gangrenous from frostbite. Except Dermot doesn't approve of wriggling; he yells at me when I move, so I have taken to sleeping flat on my back with my left arm stretched out stiffly to my side and I end up getting so cold that last night I dreamt I was roaming around in the Canadian wilderness with just my wits and a sassy hat for protection.
To negate this bitter dilemma, I have started piling on the layers: thermal PJ bottoms, my trusty SAS t-shirt and, as of last night, thick bed socks. It helps a bit, but now I have a new problem: fabric moves. Everything rides up, or down, and as I've only one free arm to rearrange unruly fabric there are always bits of my flesh exposed to the elements. Many moons ago I would have described this less as a difficulty and more of an excellent Saturday night...now I am considering buying a onesie. The last time I wore a onesie (in my day we called them romper suits) I was nine years old and - ah, yes, ON DIALYSIS, so I guess not much has changed at all really, apart from that it is now deemed acceptable to don your romper suit in the Sainsbury's in Clapham Old Town. As for my poor, icy, inert left hand, I have taken to wearing a black glove. This serves the dual purpose of keeping my digits toasty whilst providing apt symbolism for the direction my life has seemingly taken. I am also now a fully payed up member of the Black Panthers. Fight the man, my brothers.
I should probably just invest in a new duvet - my current one is covered in blood stains anyway (not from dialysis - I used to murder hookers) - and possibly a pair of curtains to keep the chill out of my room. I've had to become accustomed to a great many things since staring nightly dialysis: the noise, the light, the insomnia, the blood pouring from my arm at 3am...it seems learning to sleep in a simulated meat-locker is simply the next hurdle to overcome. I don't know if I've mentioned this in any of my last 17,000 posts, but I am still not enamoured by nocturnal dialysis. As autumn decidedly gives way to winter and the weather outside becomes frightening, here's hoping Dermot can warm my cold heart yet.
Ah, summer. Remember that? It happened (I think) over eighteen days some time this year and snuck in between the chilly spring and bleak autumn that is now upon us. It was warm once I believe, but now it is freezing and it seems twas ever thus; it is freezing in my flat, it is even freezing in my cosy little bedroom-cum-medical depot, and dialysis is like roses and old people: it doesn't do well in the cold.
I'm a snuggler, you see - not with men, let's not be ridiculous - but I like to burrow down under my duvet like a hedgehog when the winter months encroach. At least I did, until Dermot arrived. When I started nocturnal dialysis, the weather was warm and lying prone on one's bed was a prerequisite for a good night's kip; now you have to get yo' wriggle on to avoid waking up with shrivelled toes, gangrenous from frostbite. Except Dermot doesn't approve of wriggling; he yells at me when I move, so I have taken to sleeping flat on my back with my left arm stretched out stiffly to my side and I end up getting so cold that last night I dreamt I was roaming around in the Canadian wilderness with just my wits and a sassy hat for protection.
To negate this bitter dilemma, I have started piling on the layers: thermal PJ bottoms, my trusty SAS t-shirt and, as of last night, thick bed socks. It helps a bit, but now I have a new problem: fabric moves. Everything rides up, or down, and as I've only one free arm to rearrange unruly fabric there are always bits of my flesh exposed to the elements. Many moons ago I would have described this less as a difficulty and more of an excellent Saturday night...now I am considering buying a onesie. The last time I wore a onesie (in my day we called them romper suits) I was nine years old and - ah, yes, ON DIALYSIS, so I guess not much has changed at all really, apart from that it is now deemed acceptable to don your romper suit in the Sainsbury's in Clapham Old Town. As for my poor, icy, inert left hand, I have taken to wearing a black glove. This serves the dual purpose of keeping my digits toasty whilst providing apt symbolism for the direction my life has seemingly taken. I am also now a fully payed up member of the Black Panthers. Fight the man, my brothers.
I should probably just invest in a new duvet - my current one is covered in blood stains anyway (not from dialysis - I used to murder hookers) - and possibly a pair of curtains to keep the chill out of my room. I've had to become accustomed to a great many things since staring nightly dialysis: the noise, the light, the insomnia, the blood pouring from my arm at 3am...it seems learning to sleep in a simulated meat-locker is simply the next hurdle to overcome. I don't know if I've mentioned this in any of my last 17,000 posts, but I am still not enamoured by nocturnal dialysis. As autumn decidedly gives way to winter and the weather outside becomes frightening, here's hoping Dermot can warm my cold heart yet.
Comments
Post a Comment