Saturday, July 07, 2012

Fitfully, Frightfully, Frantically

I'm trying to make sense of it all.  Everything.  Completely.  Without regret.

And yet, it escapes me.

Dialysis has been rambunctious lately.  He waits, diligently, counting the ever prsent minutes until my forlorn return.  For he knows I will; I can't, but I must.

As the miles roll by & the minutes click by I make my way to Dialysis, four days a week, three hours at a time.

Some days I'm having a gloriously entertaining time.  A smile erupts, a laugh ensues.  For a mere shred of a moment of a sliver of time, happiness shines joy and frivolity in my direction.

But Dialysis rips that from my existence with frivolous glee.  It struts and frets its way upon the clinic floor, laying waste to everything I hold dear.

The lidocaine burns.  The scabs prevail.  And as the needles infiltrate my helpless access, I submit fully to its overhwhelming strength over my life.

That's when the giggling begins unabated.

Dialysis mocks and murmurs his cursed language of pain and suffering.  He cowers in the shadows of the recesses of the clinic floor.  Always patient, always present.

Around minute forty-two is when he first strikes his imminent wave of relentless burning pain.

First my arm, and then my eyes are forced to bear witness to his C-shaped frame, stringy green hair and pointy toothed grin.  He would be comical if he weren't so evil.

In the past times, the early years, the times when I didn't know any better, he would bound vertically again and again and again when he witnessed the first signs of my giving in.

A bead of sweat would tickle him.  A squeezing of the eyes would excite him.  If I were to suddenly flail about in the chair, he would do barrel rolls in the aisle.

This is my life.  This is where I am.  This is what I've become.

I will occasionaly glance around the clinic floor and observe that Dialysis never seems to bother with other patients when I'm on the scene.  Everyone else seems content to sleep, or read, or watch TV with nary a twitch to what they're experiencing at that very moment.

For whatever reason, I'm "special."

Pain is my friend, my companion, my soulmate upon the journey now.  It comforts me and reminds me that I'm still breathing, still thriving, still existing in spite of myself.

And yet, that's just not enough.

Dialysis is a thief with no remorse.  Friendships diminish.  Careers go haywire.  Simple tasks with minimal energy take hours to complete.  Some days all I'm left with is festering anger and lingering remorse over what might have been.

And that's really no way to express one's life. 

Hope for the future.  Hope for a kidney.  Hope for a resurrection of titanic proportions.

Its really all I've got left.

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