8 days before Crimbo and, I am in the swim of dialysis.
I said I wouldn’t need it, wouldn’t take it and it wasn’t necessary but, what do I know… I have finally surrendered to the onslaught of physical breakdown. The shame and humiliation of being breathless and incapacitated hit me hard. Up until July I ran around like Margaret Thatcher, quick footed and in front, since August I have been bowed and stuck to the settee. I have eaten less but put on a stone in water. Fluid retention is one of the side effects of knackered kidneys; fat legs and an inflatable belly not to mention a lung that has been compressed, hence the inability to respirate.
Sunday night, whilst watching Mark Rylance give of his Cromwell, I shook with fearful anticipation at the prospect of Guys hospital. Forty eight miles away and unknown.
‘Pack an overnight bag’ said the renal specialist in Tunbridge Wells.
‘I wont need it.’
‘Pack an overnight bag.’ she reiterated
‘I’ve no intention of stopping over.’
‘Pack an overnight bag.’ she repeated flatly.
So I packed an overnight bag with my lap top, a book, a wash-bag, a pair of socks a t-shirt, two chargers and a plastic bag of medication.
The old git and I got up at 5.00 – they said give the car three hours wait – at 6.30 I called the transport line in the hospital. At 7.15 Mark the driver arrived outside. Hiked my fat legs up into the people carrier, Jim settled next to me and we set off. Mark drove like a demon, by the time we got to Borough I was travel sick. Into a wheelchair my overnight bag on my knee and jIm plodding alongside, Mark pushed me to the fifth floor, bed 24.
Dingy blue and cardboard boxes, beeping machines and the smell of impending lunch I climbed onto my bed. There were green shiny Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling. Jim sat in the blue armchair next to me. Off with my top half on with a hospital gown, you know the ones that tie at the back. The ‘oosbind had a plate of chicken with rice and apple crumble as I was wheeled into the operating theatre, not so much a theatre more a green room only it was white with more boxes.
The nurse was gentle and stroked my hand throughout, she was wearing blue plastic gloves so it like I was being stroked by my cleaner.
The surgeon was a woman, skinny like Olive Oil, with knees that poked through her tights. The shadowing surgeon was a wobbly Egyptian with a big bum and dark rimmed glasses. He told me everything that could wrong so I cut off and didn’t listen.
I laid down as flat as I could bare and the procedure started.
A green cloth over me stuck down with tape, my head turned to the left. The surgeon told me everything that was happening every step of the way.
‘This anaesthetic will feel cold’
It didn’t
‘This needle will sting like a bee’
It didn’t
Another incision and a plastic line was pushed in.
‘You’ll feel my weight on you.’
I didnt.
The nurse kept asking me if I was ok. So relaxed was I she thought I was dead.
I had locked into my transcendental mantra and was away with the fairies.
Twenty minutes later it was done.
I had three pipes inside my body attached to a cannula.
The Anglo-Indian, newly gay, porter slid me into a wheel chair and pushed me down corridors for an x-ray. Recognised me off the telly told me I looked great – which I didn’t – and wished me a long life.
Back in the ward I was rolled onto my bed and hooked up to a dialysis machine. A big white ‘Darlek’ that timed me for exactly two hours. I ate a chicken mayo sandwich and two digestive biscuits washed down with a mug of shitty hot chocolate. The pipes ran my blood out of my body through the machine. The nurse told me I had lost one and half litres of water. There was still a lot to go. The Darlek gobbled like a turkey and it was all over.
I could breathe. Not to my full capacity but I could get to the toilet and back without holding onto he old gits arm.
I kept my beige hospital socks on, pulled my sweater over the bleeding cannula which had come out, picked up my overnight bag, which I didn’t need, and off we went down to the transport lounge.
The sign said expect delays of three hours. We had four minutes to wait. Jim ate three chocolate biscuits, I had an old ‘Quality Street’ from a dish in reception which caught in my throat. My mobile pinged and the driver arrived. The old git pushed me out into the car park, we finally found the people carrier, threw in the overnight bag, the driver pushed me up the bum to get me in, Jim settled himself beside me and the geezer from Kent, drove like a maniac to get us home. At 7.30 we walked into a bubbling dinner and a laid fire.
At midnight it was bedtime, in my case sofa time since I couldn’t lay down properly and the pipes were sticking out of my neck. I had a psychological fit and decided to recline on the settee instead.
Today I can breathe better than yesterday but not as good as I will be by the end of the week. Tomorrow I have two hours of pipe cleaning, then again on Friday and two days more then I relocate to Tunbridge Wells where I will be plugged into a local Dalek.
Dialysis is a necessary ‘tragedy’ according to the healer in Sevenoaks, but if weren’t for the allopathic intervention I would be wheezing in the corner like a deflated balloon waiting to die.
Thank you to all the medical team who have poked and prodded pricked and soothed. Miraculous technicians you are. And thank you to you all who wrote me such wonderful messages.
God Bless us all.