For some reason I decided to go on the "Kidney Disease, Dialysis, and Transplant" group on facebook.
I haven't been on there for a while. It's mainly a support group for the people going under dialysis treatment or transplants and their families. There are a lot of caring and up beat messages wishing everyone well. It's actually quite sweet.
I was reading about Hemodialysis patients and their side effects when suddenly I got taken back to images of my father coming back from his dialysis sessions - each time was slightly different. It's worth remembering that he had dialysis in the hospital every other day - so averaging 3.5 times a week for over 3 years.
Some days he would come back and he would be in an elated mood - upbeat, happy, full of hope. This was usually the days when he felt like he knew he would get better and everything would be okay.
Other days he would come back and just feel physically terrible, shouting in pain. He would have cramps all night because of the loss of fluids or he would be itchy all night - and it wasn't just a bit of a scratch, it was a proper sensation that occurs under the skin. There was nothing you could do about it, except scratch his back or his arm to provide him some relief. Sometimes it would be so bad that he would make himself bleed with how violently he was scratching himself.
It was hard to watch.
However, there were days he came back quiet. Now those days were the worst.
He would come back and be very quiet and pensive. If you asked him what was wrong or how he was he would have very little to say. For a long time I wondered why that was the case. Why would he come back feeling terrible some days? Over the course of the several weeks that I spent with him in the Summer of 2007 it became more evident that there was generally always a reason why he was that way.
Although he wouldn't say anything immediately, slowly through the day he might casually slip something into conversation about how something might have happened in the hospital. I can clearly remembering that one day he came back and didn't really say much all day. He just spent the day watching TV. Eventually, as I was sitting next to him, he said to me "Pat, there was a young boy who used to come to dialysis. I used to see him at least once every week - you know his parents are not very well off. They can just about read but that was it. This boy was on the list for a transplant and he's been waiting for years. But today, he didn't come to dialysis."
I asked him "Why not? What happened? Did he finally get the transplant?"
He replied: "No, he didn't get the transplant. He was 12 years old. He died last weekend from multiple organ failure."
All I could say was "Aw Dada, I'm so sorry. You know that won't happen to you - you'll be fine!"
He then said "But it's just not fair. He was so young, why him? It could be next, who knows?"
As time went on, I realised that all the people he had constantly been having dialysis with for the past three years were slowly disappearing - some disappeared because they had finally gotten the transplant they needed. But most disappeared because they couldn't win the battle and their bodies gave up. People dropped like flies and he had watched it happen time and time again with one patient after another for three years. He was the only one who stuck around - he must have been wondering when he would be next.
It's only really as I got older that I understood how he must have been feeling. Feeling alone. Not knowing what would happen.
I haven't been on there for a while. It's mainly a support group for the people going under dialysis treatment or transplants and their families. There are a lot of caring and up beat messages wishing everyone well. It's actually quite sweet.
I was reading about Hemodialysis patients and their side effects when suddenly I got taken back to images of my father coming back from his dialysis sessions - each time was slightly different. It's worth remembering that he had dialysis in the hospital every other day - so averaging 3.5 times a week for over 3 years.
Some days he would come back and he would be in an elated mood - upbeat, happy, full of hope. This was usually the days when he felt like he knew he would get better and everything would be okay.
Other days he would come back and just feel physically terrible, shouting in pain. He would have cramps all night because of the loss of fluids or he would be itchy all night - and it wasn't just a bit of a scratch, it was a proper sensation that occurs under the skin. There was nothing you could do about it, except scratch his back or his arm to provide him some relief. Sometimes it would be so bad that he would make himself bleed with how violently he was scratching himself.
It was hard to watch.
However, there were days he came back quiet. Now those days were the worst.
He would come back and be very quiet and pensive. If you asked him what was wrong or how he was he would have very little to say. For a long time I wondered why that was the case. Why would he come back feeling terrible some days? Over the course of the several weeks that I spent with him in the Summer of 2007 it became more evident that there was generally always a reason why he was that way.
Although he wouldn't say anything immediately, slowly through the day he might casually slip something into conversation about how something might have happened in the hospital. I can clearly remembering that one day he came back and didn't really say much all day. He just spent the day watching TV. Eventually, as I was sitting next to him, he said to me "Pat, there was a young boy who used to come to dialysis. I used to see him at least once every week - you know his parents are not very well off. They can just about read but that was it. This boy was on the list for a transplant and he's been waiting for years. But today, he didn't come to dialysis."
I asked him "Why not? What happened? Did he finally get the transplant?"
He replied: "No, he didn't get the transplant. He was 12 years old. He died last weekend from multiple organ failure."
All I could say was "Aw Dada, I'm so sorry. You know that won't happen to you - you'll be fine!"
He then said "But it's just not fair. He was so young, why him? It could be next, who knows?"
As time went on, I realised that all the people he had constantly been having dialysis with for the past three years were slowly disappearing - some disappeared because they had finally gotten the transplant they needed. But most disappeared because they couldn't win the battle and their bodies gave up. People dropped like flies and he had watched it happen time and time again with one patient after another for three years. He was the only one who stuck around - he must have been wondering when he would be next.
It's only really as I got older that I understood how he must have been feeling. Feeling alone. Not knowing what would happen.
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