Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Christmas @ Dialysis

Santa Claus has never visited a Dialysis clinic. Nor has Jesus. Or God.

But wacky Social Workers have.

I dread Christmas every stinking year at treatment, mostly because of one unique, yet no longer employed, social worker.

Let's call her Marilyn.

That's right, because she was shaped just like Miss Monroe.

Hold on. I'm enjoying her image in my mind.

Ssshhh. You're ruining the moment.

Ok, I'm done.

One year it was decided that bingo would be a fantastic way to enjoy our time at clinic.

On paper, seems like a nice enough plan. In execution, terribly annoying.

I'm trying to watch "The Shawshank Redemption" to slip a little hope into my subconscious (because Dialysis steals it at every turn) and all I can hear is, "B4! Does anyone have B4?"

BEFORE we started this whole endeavor, one of my favorite films of all time swept me away into the early part of the twentieth century. Now you're yelling characters at characters who would rather be sleeping or watching TV.

But that wasn't the best part.

At least half of our clinic doesn't speak English. I glanced around to find our Mexican brethren wondering why this shapely woman was yelling at them.

Another wonderfully woeful Christmas, a Karaoke machine was lugged onto the clinic floor.

You know, as a terminal Dialysis patient, I love nothing better than listening to PCT's belt out a Kenny Loggins tune while my arm is burning at 10.2 on the Stacy scale.

Worst Dialysis Christmas ever? Not by a long shot.

Three years ago it was decided that Christmas carolers should be unleashed upon us unwilling souls in an effort to save us from eternal damnation.

Nothing better than celebrating Jesus' birthday while a group of devout Christian's bellow songs about an invisible, imaginary being damning me to hell for my sins.

Before they left, one of the elderly women believed it was her job to save me.

"I understand you've been here a while."

"Ugh, well, yes maam, I have."

She reminded me instantly of Angela Lansbury from the "Murder, She Wrote" days. Unfortunately, her mystery of the week was me.

"So what did you do?

My headphones fell to my lap like they were trying to escape.

"I'm sorry, ugh, huh? What?"

"What did you do to end up here?"

I was astonished by her bravado. Apparently devout Christian faith allows you to meddle in others personal affairs.

"What sin did you commit my son?"

I was taken aback for a moment.

"Not that its any of your business, but I was born with Glomerulonephritis. I was born this way."

This is why that whole "created in his own image" malarkey doesn't fly with me.

Her eyes glanced upward as she stroked her chin.

"Then what sin did your father commit?"

Fortunately, Tall Lanky Tech came by to take down my numbers.

I gave her a conciliatory "Merry Christmas" as I returned my headphones to their regular leave-me-alone position.

She wandered off, shaking her head.

If they decide to shuffle their holier than thou masses into clinic again this year, I'm ready for them.

In my DVD case, inside a sandwich bag, is a fully loaded water pistol.

If the Judge and Jury of my condition returns, she will get a face full.

Since the water wasn't blessed by a man of the cloth, I wonder if her face will melt.

I can't wait to find out.

Merry Dialysis Christmas.

Monday, December 08, 2008

Balance Daniel Son

After thirty-seven years of mediocre existence on this fabulously entertaining yet totally ridiculous rock, I have come to one very valuable conclusion.

The Universe eventually balances itself out.

It may take massive amounts of minutes or yammering yards of years, but it does happen.

And I can prove it.

That's right, this numb skull desert rat who survived kidney disease and plaid pants will provide you with a simple phrase that will make my personal belief a bonafide fact.

Are you prepared for this momentous occasion? Are you sure?

Okay, here goes.

The One Phrase That Will Prove the Universe Always Balances Itself Out:

O.J. Simpson.

Thank you and good night.