The Adventures of Stacy (Without An E)

The Evildoers of Dialysis

2011-07-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

If you're about to start Dialysis, there is one absolutely, positively, unbridaled fact that no one will tell you.

Not the nurses. Not your nephrologist.

No one in the administrative staff will step up and state this clearly and unequivocally.

I was certainly not informed. I wish I had been. I could have prepared more effectively.

You're going to be seated next to assholes. And douchebags. Doucheholes and assbags.

Think about all the people you meet in everyday life. What percentage do you believe fit into the above categories?

Maybe you're nicer than me (most probably) or more accepting of others (I hope so) but after over seven years of forced occupation with some of these cretins, I believe I have become a bonafide expert.

Is every patient a jerk? Of course not. I don't tend to socialize at treatment simply because my psyche associates every living creature, every piece of equipment to be pure, bloodied evil.

But that's just me. I have serious issues.

There just happens to be individuals who will inflict their will on you, regardless of good manners, proper etiquette, or just good old fashioned courtesy.

Which brings me to the point of this post:

*** The Top 3 Evildoers of Dialysis ***

3) The Godfather of Farts

Saturdays are chaotic at Dialysis, and its no fault of the staff. Most of the time, everyone is running late because knuckleheads who've missed treatment during the week call at the last minute and whine about needing a treatment.

If you missed appointments anywhere else, they would tell you to fuck off and slam the phone down.

But not at Dialysis. Unfortunately.

I'm usually a Monday, Wednesday, Friday patient, so I know who to expect when I enter the rancid floor.

But because my pussy body can't make it through the weekend, I add an extra day to the treatment week.

That's right, I allow Dialysis to ruin my weekends.

So instead of patients like Neckish Princess and Petite Raven Hair, I'm forced to endure the Godfather of Farts.

I am going to make an assumption about this individual, so bear with me.

His diet led him to Dialysis.

From the moment he enters, he's farting. And not just run-of-the-mill, all-American, I-just-had-Chicken-McNuggets and a loaf of cheese farts.

I must take a moment now and quote my hero, George Carlin:

"The kind of fart that could strip the varnish off a foot locker. A fart that could end a marriage."

The ventilation system at my clinic is non-existent, so clouds of farts hang around him.

Hugging him. Cherishing him. Asking for more toxic farts.

And if this gentleman walked into any Italian bar, he would be welcome with open arms because he looks just like Marlon Brando in "The Godfather." You'd have to do a double blink and roll your fists into your eyes and glance again. Its astonishing really.

He also likes to mock patients when they're in pain, so maybe he should be higher on the list.

2) Masturbating Fred Flintstone

If Raven Haired Temptress hadn't informed me of his behavior, I probably wouldn't have noticed. Once I'm leaned back into my chair, the laptop flies open so I can lose myself in the latest attempt at a blockbuster from Hollywood.

He wears plaid shorts and no underwear. Once treatment starts, his rainbow blanket flies over his body, Telemundo gets switched on and this guy goes to town.

I feel bad for the staff when it comes to patients like this. How do you even broach the subject?

And does he ever wash that blanket?

Since his hygeine is also in questions (how difficult is it to shower more than once a week) I'm going to guess, hmm, less than never.

1) Jabba the Hutt

Who could be worse than a chronic farter & addictive masturbator?

Welcome to the human form of Jabba the Hutt.

From the moment he enters, the flip flops fly off and he's shuffling around barefoot.

To those not aware, here's what he could be stepping in:

Blood. Vomit. Feces. Spit. And, since the masturbator is on my shift, apparently semen.

I understand taking your shoes off because your feet are swollen. Occasionaly, I'm forced to do that. But prancing around barefoot?

He also eats the entire time he's there. Candy and junk food.

As I've mentioned previously, the aroma of unwashed ass and baby poop hugs the air in my clinic. Why would you ever want to eat?

The worse is when halfway through his treatment he stops...to vomit.

It happens. Again, I get it. But you brought this on yourself.

And once the staff cleans him up, he goes back to...eating.

One night I couldn't take the smell anymore. Like stale swiss cheese and burnt hair. Like he hadn't washed his feet since the Bicentennial.

This night was the second time in my seven year history that I've signed paperwork to get off the machine early. The other time, the stairwell at my apartment had collapsed.

Now you get the idea of how horribly awful it was.

If you're about to start Dialysis, here's what I recommend:

1) Noise cancelling headphones.

This is mostly for the Emmy award winners who scream on their cellphones, unwilling to comprehend that cell technology has reached a point where you could whisper and the individual on the other end could hear you.

2) Lavender

Some of the drains get backed up with all the urine that is extracated from patients, so you'll want to be prepared. Also, unless you're on the night shift (and even then) other patients may not shower regularly. Its sad, but its a fact you'll have to deal with.

3) DVD Player

Three hours crawls by without distractions. You can get great deals at Target (and the salespeople won't hassle you like at "Best Buy") with batteries that last long past your scheduled treatment time.

4) A Taser

Ok, now I'm just kidding. Sort of.

The Pain of Lidocaine

2011-07-25T20:59:00.001-07:00

I am a wimp. A fool. A terrestrial being with nothing extra about him.

For what seems like an exponential lifetime, I have been a Dialysis patient.

There is no B.D. (before Dialysis) anymore. Its been too long. Too hard. Too infinite.

Childhood, college, the beginning of my career. They all seem like chapters from a book that I checked out from the library ages ago.

All the facets that melded those memories into one cohesive whole: happiness, joy, triumph; they're all just forgotten words now.

But its about to become tremendously worse.

For ages, I've used lidocine to ease my pain. You're right. I'm one of those geniuses of the highest order who receives two needle sticks.

Before two needle sticks.

Excessive? Sure. Redundant? Definately.

But totally, and without a doubt, necessary.

When the lidocaine misses its intended target, the main needle shrieks in terror as it enters my helpless arm.

Every. Single. Time.

You would think any normal human being (i.e. not me) would adjust to this psychologically. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

My Fear of needles has become a massively disgusting mass of burden upon my shoulders. It festers there, cowers, whimpers in pain whether a Tech knows their business or not.

Word was given to me on bleach white paper that lidocaine is "not allowed in cases where a buttonwhole access is concerned."

It was highlighted in colorful, mocking orange. As though I would have missed it otherwise.

Chatty Cathy Nurse walked to my side and asked if I had read this.

"Yes," I said as I gathered my crappy possessions. "But I don't believe in it."

As if that would have ended it right there. I could only hope.

She was bounding with verbal, anxious speech. That's actually how she always speaks.

"We had a meeting and that rule is supposed to be followed."

I grabbed my items and shoved the strap over my shoulder, knocking Fear from its perch.

"No lidocaine. No Dialysis. I'll stop if I have to."

There was no emotion in my voice. No waver in my step.

Chatty Cathy Nurse made that sound she always makes when she's not sure how to respond: "Aaah...ohhh..."

I'm sure Happy, Smiley manager will lose those adjectives from her face when she hear this, but Lidocaine has been my only friend in the fight against Fear.

My psyche is held together with second tier Scotch tape and fractured, muddied shoelaces. You take away one of the few friends I have in that Haunting Haven of Hell (TM 2011) and my edge will have been reached.

"I'll stop if I have to."

That isn't an empty threat filled with shallow nonchalance. It is the truth as I know it on this day, the twenty fifth of July, two thousand eleven.

In the Beginning

2011-07-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

There was a rambunctious Sperm and a reclusive Ovum. The Sperm was charming and funny. The Ovum, quiet, yet intelligent. And a little wacky.

There were rivers of Sperm and islands of Ovum, but these two particular individuals felt their pairing was bathed in the bastion of Fate.

The Sperm felt comfortable and welcome in the warm embrace of this particular Ovum, there was no denying it.

At the moment the Ovum decided that no other Sperm would venture into her womb, something electrical happened that was quite unexpected.

Life began.

It was undeniable that these two forces of unapologetic nature would come together to create another. Fate deemed it so.

And so Fate, with all its immense power and glory over the futile lives of man, shifted ever so slightly.

In the grand scheme of Creation, it was so minscule as to be unwarranted for further moments of discussion.

But we shall. Here. Now. Without regret or blame.

For something went horribly wrong.

The fusion of love and happenstance should have fused together to create something joyous and pure. Something innocent and unfettered.

Something the Universe could tower proudly over and declare, "At least I got this right goddamnit!"

But Fate had other plans.

Fate deems all other rules negated by its own.

Fate vomits on hopes, dreams and possibilities.

Fate trashes those it deems unworthy to live a life worth living.

Many will point and mock and deem Fate non-existent, for they can't grab it with their pudgy little fingers and shove it down their ungodly throats.

I am living proof that they are so very, very wrong.

What began as bursts of frivolity, splashed upon the face of an unblemished young boy, quickly morphed into discovery of the true nature of Pain.

The first piercing needle was never as bad as the last.

Fate determining that I should experience that about 127 minutes ago.

One rambunctious Sperm. One reclusive Ovum.

Nothing but Fate in-between.

And so, it goes.

The Terrific Tale of the Transplant Listiversary

2011-03-01T21:08:00.000-08:00

Through the folds of imagination and misery, please travel back with me to the wily time of March 2004.

Spring was blossoming into a ravishing young woman, about to use her comely wiles to entice Winter to leave his magnificent throne of Weather.

Down upon the skin of Planet Earth, humans were battling one another continuously over who could acquire the most meaningless mass of material, not realizing each acquisition was biting away at their ever deflated Soul.

It is within these constructs that we join our Protagonist, Happy-Go-Lucky Stacy.

For what he lacked in stature and mass, he made up for in personality and whimsy. Every day he would use technology to broadcast his thoughts over magical airwaves of sound, infuriating and entertaining at every possible turn.

Evenings were especially rambunctious, for Happy-Go-Lucky Stacy filled them with ravishing women of beauty and brilliance, giggling and dancing as they ransacked the town.

But as Fate struck midnight, all would change. And not for the better.

Statements on-air became forgetful and rambling. What was once food both tasty and vibrant, exited just as quickly, vile and unwanted.

A doctor both portly and friendly, brimming with knowledge and depth, thrust a tiny sword into Stacy's reluctant upper arm and gathered a massive amount of Blood Red Soul.

Happy-Go-Lucky Stacy knew the answer, for the Doctor's face was mired in doubt.

"Your CKD has caused CKF. So I'm recommending HD, ASAP, before you end up DOA and don't PAY."

Apparently our Mighty Doctor was in a hurry, for she felt that acronyms would suffice for her Tiny Peon Patient.

Happy-Go-Lucky Stacy had created, unwillingly, a wonderfully tasty soup of Fear and Loathing and allowed it to brew for eight weeks before giving in to the horrific creature known as Dialysis.

Upon entering Dialysis' Castle of Forgotten Souls, Happy-Go-Lucky Stacy felt his adjectives becoming weak. "Happy" scurried away with tears in his eyes. "Go" bolted for the wrong door, slammed himself into a closet, and stayed there until the custodial staff arrived. "Lucky" instantly burst into a million forlorn pieces and hasn't been seen or heard from since.

So with each step lonelier than the last, Stacy entered the cavernous dwelling of disaster, and was met by his twisted host.

He was shaped awkwardly like the letter "C" with a tiny, slender frame. Barely noticeable hands and miniature feet jutted from each end of his alphabet frame. They continuously moved and gyrated, begging for the use of appendages that were never to be.

At the top end of his body, an oval mass of flesh served as his head. Wiry and dry, his green stained hair whisked in all different directions when he spoke. When he smiled, every tooth was shaped hopelessly like a sharp letter "V", giving way to stains from colors not yet named.

With every step Stacy made closer to the dungeoned chair, Dialysis would bound from wall to wall, laughing and screaming with unmitigated delight.

"Yyyyyoooooouuuuuuuu...." Its as though each letter of the word possessed its own syllable.

"...wwwiiilllllll NEVER, HA! NEVER, never...NEVER MIND! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Stacy would have spoken up, and called him crazy, but that seemed utterly redundant.

Stacy finally reached his Over Sized Clown Chair, and Dialysis stopped moving for just one moment. He planted himself right at Stacy's feet and slowly moved his excuse for a head from one end of Stacy's body to the other. Stacy could finally peer through Dialysis' hair to find there were holes where eyes should have been.

"The women, ha!" He could barely contain himself now.

"The women. The happy. And all between, are now, ha!"

The chair reached out and swallowed Stacy whole. Every inch of his body melted into the fabric so he couldn't escape. Dialysis' raised his hands in the air like an epic conductor. Two needles, brimming with fire and tubing, snaked their way across the dungeon floor.

Once they reached Stacy's chair, Dialysis motioned for them to strike his arm with unrelenting force and pressure.

Stacy's head thrust back and his jaw jutted wide. Dialysis' mimed that he was zipping his lip, so each scream was muted before it could erupt.

Because Stacy possessed the knowledge that failure to comply would most certainly bring Death, he returned. Again. And again. And even again.

Again and again and again.

As weeks bled into years, Stacy learned to hide any minute indication that he was suffering. For he knew that made Dialysis happy.

But agonizing, in all its many human forms, has a way of devouring the adjectives that make us who we are.

Miserable was most common. Evil, just as popular. Asshole was bandied about, but never fully adopted.

But if Dialysis' has one undeniable personality trait, its that he only pays attention to the negative. He relishes it. Bathes in it. Uses it for his own personal wiles.

And that's where Stacy has the upper hand. You know, the one without the raping needles.

For unbeknown to Dialysis, Stacy the Downtrodden has reached a milestone of epic proportions.

Today. Lovely today. Marvelous today.

Today marks seven years on the UCSF Kidney Transplant List.

When the phone call arrives, and it will any moment, Stacy will smile. The emotion from that moment will reach Dialysis' skin, and for once, he will burn. Every single pore on his body will jettison from his frame, screaming for mercy that will never arrive.

Stacy will fling his treatment blanket upon Dialysis's smoking corpse and announce one last decree:

"I'm taking applications for new adjectives. Anyone want to apply?"

My Soul, Is Bled

2011-01-10T21:06:00.000-08:00

My Soul bleeds for Red Kisses from formidable women. The passionate kind you take to your grave.

My Soul bleeds of Childhood, once rich and fulfilling. Yanked from my existence with a diluted expression of nonchalance. The years stretch the moments, ignoring their intimacy, and unending value.

My Soul bleeds upon the Present, so stale and unaffected. Every moment a photo, faded with embers and dust. I desperately try to grasp them together, but they crumble through my fingers, forever gone.

My Soul bleeds Anger, thick, with resolve. For those who torment me with ignorant rantings, contained within their spews of verbal diarrhea.

My Soul bleeds through Needles, long and foreboding. My last resolve from the omnipresent Harbinger of Death.

My Soul bleeds Indignation for those festering with complacence. The ones who treat patients like pennies in fountains, disposable creatures tossed aside without care.

My Soul bleeds for the Future, so daunting, so uncertain, so mired, so true.

Hopefully Hopeful Hope

2010-11-10T20:53:00.000-08:00

Hope can be a perilous thing.

Too little, and Despair crawls out from the depths of your Soul and mires you downward.

Too much, and you're a delusional fool.

On Tuesday, November 9th, I was invited to take a trip to the beating heart of the Bay Area, San Francisco. The UCSF Medical Center is roughly two miles southeast of Golden Gate Park.

Once inside, I made my way to the 7th Floor of 400 Parnassus Avenue. I took the stairs because elevators are home to body odors of unimaginable strength and duration.

The Surgeon, Social Worker, Financial and Transplant Coordinator's seemed pleased to see me.

After six and a half years of Life Crushing Dialysis, Hope had made its presence known.

I'm at the top of the UCSF Transplant Ready List. Fucking go time.

When I arrived home later that day, I heard something whimpering in the far corner of my bedroom, under my Fortress of Solitude. (That's what I call my bed, for obvious reasons.)

I knelt down and pulled back the comforter that was blocking my view underneath. My computer bag, duffel bag, and veteran backpack were all resting comfortably in their usual locations.

But the whimpering continued. Louder. Filled with suffering and pain.

I moved my meager possessions aside and grabbed my portable flashlight. I had to find out what the hell was going on.

His eyelids cowered in the direct light. His body moved side to side abruptly, attempting to avoid the invasion.

He was a round little fuzzball, about the size of a regulation baseball. He appeared to be originally snow white, but years of neglect had darkened him with the dust and dank of time.

"Hey, I remember you," I said in my softest voice possible. "Its okay. I promise I'll be nice."

His eyes widened and he turned his back to me. I hadn't been very kind to him in the past.

"Listen to me very carefully. I...won't...yell. I...promise."

I reached my hand slowly under the bed and placed my palm upward. My fingers acknowledged it was okay to approach.

For what seemed like an eternity passed before he budged an inch. Trust was being formed, but it would take time.

Eventually, but slowly at first, he rolled his frail figure closer and closer to my hand.

Finally, success.

Once in my hand, I could feel the caked on dirt. It smelled of neglect.

I slowly brought him into the light. We smiled at one another. No other words needed to be spoken.

Hope was alive. Less than healthy, but alive nonetheless.

An hour later, Hope was on the top shelf of my bookcase with an incredible view of the room. I had gently, with great care, cleaned him. Before I was nearly done, he started to giggle. Apparently it tickled.

Suddnely his face furrowed and he looked as though he might finally speak.

He wanted to know where I had been.

The story spewed out of me. Recklessly. Furiously. With abandon and hate.

I spoke of Dialysis and His resurgence in my Life. His macaroni shaped body, covered in lesions and sores, had reappeared with a vengeance this past year.

Each treatment was the same, creating a tapestry of woe and misery I keep to myself. Every evening, roughly an hour in, He would clamp down on my fistula with His razor sharp teeth and leave me blinded by insufferable pain.

There was no relief.

In times like these, Asshole Stacy resurfaces. He's not a pleasant guy. His weapons are words filled with vitriol and spite.

Much like a sobering drunk, once treatment ceases, he fades into the seams, apologetic and shamed.

He's the one that brings the Evil Thoughts.

Over the years, I've experienced many, many comic books and superhero films.

When I was a child, the division was so easy to understand. As a young boy, I rooted for the hero and pitied the villian. That was the way of things in my young, naive brain. I could never quite grasp how the antagonist could be so very bad.

Dialysis has taught me otherwise.

I understand Evil. I've basked in its shadow and thrilled to its strength. It can be so very delightful in its unending machinations.

But here's where I'm fortunate.

True Stacy was always nearby. Waiting. Watching. Pulling back when needed when Asshole Stacy was far too weak.

That's the only thing that saved me. My true Self. The Self from my memories from so long ago.

For some time, even before the call, True Stacy emerged. A joke here. Silliness there. The honest nature of True Stacy.

Although these are momentary moments, for I tire so easily, they are welcome reminders that True Stacy has a chance.

As I used my flailing limbs and stomping feet to share this story with Hope, I finally felt that the stream had ceased. I plopped down in my office chair, exhausted and spent. I finally had the courage to look into the eyes of Hope.

Hope smiled back.

I think I just might be okay.

An Open Letter to the Parking Lot Criminals @ Dialysis

2010-03-18T21:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I have incredible timing without even trying.

Sometimes the Universe seems like its on my side, if only for a few fleeting moments.

One of those occurrences was tonight.

Post-treatment turned out to be better than I expected. For the last five excruciating days, no one could figure out why I was having equilibrium issues. My world was spinning, or dizziness was rampant.

Once your blood has been removed and replaced for three hours, you certainly don't feel right.

In fact, as the months and years bleed together, they create a river of memories that seem to flow against what the mind can remember clearly.

Its another sacrifice you make for staying alive. Sometimes its worth it. Other times, it never will be.

But a moment of happiness gave me a fleeting hug as I rose from the chair.

I felt better.

Better than I have for over a week.

I quickly gathered my belongings and hightailed it out of there.

You don't want to give Dialysis a chance to see you happy. He deplores that.

The glass encrusted clinic doors has just returned to their original position when I see an elderly Winnebago crawling past my baby.

I start walking slower toward the parking lot because I want all my faculties concentrated on this particular moment.

As the vehicle blocked my view of my little defenseless truck, someone in the passenger seat shone a very bright flashlight into the cab.

I continued my trek toward my truck at a normal speed.

Damn. The driver spotted me.

The light was quickly extinguished and they sped off as fast as a poorly maintained Winnebago can.

There is a giant sign in front of my clinic, and one over the entrance.

They knew who they were fucking with.

There is a special layer of existence below Hell. Its called Super-Double-Probation-Hell.

Hitler is there. So is Idi Amin. Pol Pot seems to enjoy it.

There's even a spot reserved for every cast member of the deplorable "According to Jim."

But stealing from a Dialysis patient? That's famously, ridiculously, mind numbingly low.

First off, its stupid. Most Dialysis patients have very little, and stealing their meager possessions won't net you any income.

Secondly, the individuals housed within the walls of that section of office park have experienced enough indignities in their life. Why would you tempt Fate with such an action?

I got lucky this time. But any time something like this occurs, I do my best to ask myself, "What have I learned from this particular moment?"

So tonight, and only tonight, I have to thank you.

Because I walked into treatment around 5pm and left my wallet in the truck.

You would have had over three hours to use my debit and credit cards until they were depleted.

Most days I'm hanging on a by a thin thread of composure, ready to be broken by any sudden downturn in circumstances.

But now that I know individuals like you exist in this particular neighborhood, I can guarantee you if you decide to break into my Blue Bombshell, you'll be walking away with gauze and a can of WD-40.

And when you are caught (and you will be caught) I'm hopeful your life will become that very deplorable episode of "Oz" where your body is used as a human pin cushion and the inmates can't stop poking you.

If you catch my drift.

But again, thanks for the heads up.

The Dialysis Crystal Ball

2010-03-15T21:32:00.000-07:00

I am really disheartened by my Dialysis clinic lately.

And, as usual, it comes down to the Almighty Dollar.

I imagine the Clinic Manger and the Board of Directors sitting around a giant conference room table, laughing and chortling, sipping champagne and cheering loudly. All the while, a nine foot tall, silver and fuzzy Dollar Sign sits at the head of the table smoking a stogy with a giant smile on his face.

As every minute passes, another cutback ensues, and the Dollar Sign grows in size and volume.

Keep in mind, my center continues to extol their virtue as a non-profit Clinic.

To me, that means every dollar earned goes back into the Center.

Or so I assumed.

Cutback #1:

After the first of the year, instead of using anti-bacterial sheets to clean the chairs of feces, vomit, mucous, blood, urine, lice, dandruff, skin flakes, ass flakes, alcoholic beverages and Cheetos, the staff has been informed to use paper towels and bleach.

I'm going to glance into the future with my Dialysis Crystal Ball and see this move to its final conclusion. By the end of the year, a spray bottle filled with lukewarm water will be sprayed over the chair and wiped off with one swipe.

Infections will run rampant. Patients will corpse up routinely.

But God willing, we'll save some money on treatment.

Cutback #2:

As any veteran Dialysis patient will tell you, Plastic Tape was created to hold needles firmly in place.

What they may not mention is, Plastic Tape is pure Evil.

Tubes and tubes of Neosporin has been slathered on inches and inches of forearms to cover the painful areas where human skin has been removed.

Last month, I started to ask Stilted Accent Tech, Jolly Happy Tech, and Very Merry Tech to start using Awesome Paper Tape on my needles. They were hesitant, because honestly, those aren't the rules. But after six years of soul stealing Dialysis treatments, I do get my way sometimes.

Unfortunately, not long after this became routine, Evil Paper Tape debuted.

Although appearing the same as Awesome Paper Tape, Evil Paper Tape happily, merrily steals skin from your poor, unwilling body.

Apparently there are two tons of this cheap, abusive product in the back offices of the clinic. You can hear it giggling to itself when you use the Far Side Bathroom.

I believe its use to be twofold.

1) It saves hundreds upon thousands on top of hundreds of dollars to use.
2) It is part of a clinic wide venture to steal each patients DNA and use it for military purposes.

Somewhere in the middle of the New Mexico desert, there is a hidden complex where each and every patient's DNA is collected, treated, and then repaired to remove the kidney failure.

In place of that malady, they place military knowledge and combat experience. Those individuals are deposited in a nearby country whose mineral resources we desperately need.

But I digress.

Cutback #3:

If you are a patient at our clinic on Saturday, God help you.

In the worst example of Dialysis Economics in 2010, there is not enough staff to cover all the patients that need to be treated.

The last three Saturdays it has taken forty-five minutes to get hooked up.

Remember the first years of cinema, where everyone's actions were sped up because the technology of film hadn't been fully created?

That's what the staff looks like every single Saturday.

The math tells the story. Less staff = More mistakes = Mortality rises.

The Dialysis Crystal Ball is now brightly luminous. Dark clouds and sharp lightning fill the interior. The thunder is deafening as the storm of Dialysis Future begins...

Dialysis Chairs

Before the end of 2010, Dialysis chairs will no longer be provided. They're too expensive to clean and repair, so patients will be forced to bring their own chair.

For those in wheelchairs, that's the chair you will be assigned. If your blood pressure bottoms out and you need to lie back, quite frankly, you're on your own.

The Center recommends bringing one of those fold out pool chairs. You can pretend you're at the beach. Or enjoying a pool party. It will be fun for the patient, yet terrible on the staff's backs spinal cords.

Dialysis Tubing

Before the close of this financial quarter, patients must bring their own garden hose as tubing. Make sure to bring two of those triangular spouts that shoots out tiny, yet strong streams of fluid. That's what we're shoving in your arm from now on.

Dialysis Machines

They will also be eliminated. Too much electricity is being wasted on these monstrosities. From now on energy saving, Kenmore washers will clean your blood. It will cost you twenty-five cents for each fifteen minutes of treatment you need. There will be no change machine and you will not be reimbursed by insurance. But the Clinic will be.

Doctors, Nurses, Social Workers, Nutritionists & Techs

In their place will be one television monitor that will be pushed by the custodial crew from chair to chair once a month. You will have sixty seconds to ask each one of these individuals questions about your health care as they appear on the monitor. If your answer cannot be given within the allotted time, you will be forced to wait until next month.

Clinic Floor

All the above mentioned treatment will take place in a barn outside of the city limit. The Clinic is not responsible for cows, pigs, chickens, hens or horny farmers interfering with your treatment.

Please note: said Clinic will still charge Medicare and other insurance companies the same as before. But the above treatment parameters will still be mandated.

The Dialysis Crystal Ball can take no more of these futuristic images. It stars to bounce, slowly at first, and then more violently, on the table. The final bounce is tremendous and causes the crystal to shatter into thousands of pieces.

Each one is sticking into a fellow Dialysis patient right now as a reminder of the Future of Dialysis Yet to Come.

Glomerulonephritis: The Musical

2010-03-12T09:21:00.000-08:00

As the final guests envelope their seats, they have no idea they are about to bare witness to something extraordinary, finite and beautiful.

Whether you believe the theater to be nostalgic or classic, it doesn't matter. It dates back to an earlier time, when stage performances were fully appreciated.

But for now, the lights have dimmed and an eerie silence blankets the audience into submission.

Before anyone can catch their breath, a single, solitary spotlight fills the middle of the stage.

It is white and bright and gives life to our setting.

The curtain opens to find the stage empty, soulless. Except for a single, generic hospital bed.

To the left of this metaphoric coffin, an IV pole with a fluid bag dangling helplessly from the top.

Cradling the right, an EKG monitor with a screen large enough for the entire audience to see the large chromatic BLIP dotting the video's landscape.

The figure lying perilously in the bed, his upper torso angled up thirty degrees, is STACY WITHOUT AN E.

A low hum can be heard emanating from the orchestra for what seems like an eternity.

No movement. The mood is uneasy.

Slowly, and effortlessly, STACY'S torso rises from the bed, resting in a position perpendicular to the bed.

The spotlight moves upward from where it had been placed the entire time, the bottom portion of the bed, to reveal the face of our protagonist.

His eyes, closed. The face, unremarkable.

In perfect falsetto, he begins.

STACY
(slow and deliberate)

Glom...er...u...lo...neph-right-is.
Its...so...wonderful...to...say.

The bed slowly wheels itself, along with the accompanying equipment, to the front of the stage.

The orchestra begins to follow the syllables, using as few instruments as possible.

(slightly faster now, still in falsetto)

Glomerulonephritis.
It will stake your day.

STACY flings off his hospital assigned blankets and slidSe off the audience's right side of the bed.

The BLIP of the EKG begins to increase in speed, if only slightly.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis.
Its a curse, not a blessing.

STACY moves in front of the bed and we observe that he's only wearing a hospital gown. His upper left arm is wrapped tightly with gauze and its soaked with blood. He motions toward the reddened part of his arm.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis.
Just take a glance at this rude dressing.

The orchestra begins to slide all their instruments together, building toward an inevitable crescendo.

The full stage lights rise to reveal a giant, six foot tall, fully formed DIALYSIS FILTER to the left of STACY, beginning to dance to the full musical power of the band.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis!
My body's filled with hurt!

From the right side of the stage dances an equally giant, six foot tall, fully formed HYPODERMIC NEEDLE. All we can see of each character is the lower portion of their legs, jutting out from their bodies, dancing in sync with the music.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis!
How long before I'm dirt!?

As STACY danced in unison with the characters on stage, he spins around to reveal the back of his hospital gown.

And the fact the he's not wearing anything underneath.

The continual BLIP of the EKG is keeping in pace with the music as joy and despair fuse into one incredible, unified dance.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis!
You'll wish for cool, clean Death!

Suddenly, two six foot tall, fully formed KIDNEY'S enter from each side of the stage.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis!
You'll beg for your last breath!

STACY instantly stops dancing.

The TWO KIDNEYS, once dancing with the DIALYSIS FILTER and HYPODERMIC NEEDLE, have pushed them forward into the orchestra. The instruments create a voluminous crashing sound, bringing the entire show to a halt.

As STACY begins to crawl back into bed, the TWO KIDNEYS dance slowly, arm in arm. The EKG BLIP returns in sound to a body fully at rest.

Its beautiful and shocking simultaneously.

STACY
(his voice returning to falsetto)

Glomerulonephritis.
It has stolen my life.

The TWO KIDNEYS cease dancing arm and arm, both falling by the wayside, taking the stage floor as the bed moves to the rear of the stage. STACY is now back to his earlier position, blankets covering his now frail form. The spotlight turns from bright white, to deep red.

STACY

Glomerulonephritis.
I'll never meet my kids and wife.

STACY leans back into bed as the EKG BLIPS for the final time.

Curtain falls.

The Stacy Dialysis Patient Awards 2010

2010-03-09T22:29:00.000-08:00

I often have people of the internet persuasion ask me why I'm so angry at the patients at my clinic all the time.

For those of you not on Dialysis, let me answer hypothetically:

Imagine you're wandering around the downtown of your city. Gather forty-seven of the nearest people you can and plop each of them into a giant, oversized chair. They must each stay in the seat they're assigned for the next three hours.

They can't move. They can't change chairs.

And neither can you.

Some will mutter endlessly about nothing in particular. Others will go to the bathroom right in their chair.

A few haven't bathed since the Bicentennial. One seems to have a wonderful stale anchovie, burnt Spam musk to him.

The entire time your senses are on overload. Wasted flourescent light from above will bathe down upon you mercilessly.

Being placed among forty-seven other strangers isn't fun, is it?

And that ladies and gents, is why we're here tonight. And why these awards are necessary.

Each winner on tonights show will win a FAPA.

"Fucking Annoying Patient Award."

Once awarded, each winner will be handed a doll-like Dialysis chair. In said chair will be a figurine with its head up its ass.

The entire award is wrapped in gauze and stained with my personal blood, sweat, and tears. All wonderfully excreted by me because of your intolerable actions.

Good luck to all of our winners.

WTF Are You Thinking Award

And the winner is: Chippette Voiced Goon.

I have a regimen I follow every single, stinking (and I mean that literally) time I enter the clinic. Once I forcefully place my items in the ridiculously oversized clown chair, I proceed to the bathroom. I can still urinate once or twice a day, so I like to empty it before I weigh in and get started.

What has happenned the last six times? Miss Chippette doesn't lock the door.

Imagine having that image burned into your memory for the remainder of all existence. Tiny, shriveled frame seated on the toilet counting God knows what on her fingers.

The best part is when she walks past my chair. Her nose is slightly elevated and her spine is straight, straddling by like I should be proud of what I've witnessed.

Nose Thumb of the Year Award

And the winner is: Bushy Moustached Dude

Once the needles are inserted and my blood is being ripped from my soul, I like to settle in to a great movie or well crafted TV show to take me away from this torcherous cave.

I'll admit. My first mistake was glancing upward.

Bushy Moustache always sits perpindicular to me, about four chairs away.

Every single time I make the eternal mistake to glance up in his direction, that thumb is jutting in and out of the right nostril.

Its worse when he finds something.

He likes to place said nasal Gold on the side of his chair.

Does he bury them in his garden at home? Does he create a Lego hut for them in his living room?

I don't really know and I couldn't care less.

And people wonder why I don't bring food to the clinic anymore.

Dirty Look of the Year Award

And the winner is: Raven Haired Temptress.

RHT is a petite little thing with jaw length raven hair, full pouting lips, and a sour look on her face every time I have smiled in her direction.

You may remember Angelic Blonde Babe used to do the same thing. She received a kidney from her sister, so I don't receive dirty looks from her any longer.

One day they seated us directly across from each other. It seemed like every time I looked up, she was staring at me.

I imagine she was thinking, "Who is this skinny fucker across from me? Fuck off with your appreciative, yet harmless glances."

Yeah, that's exactly what she was thinking.

Once she was finished and was sauntering out of the clinic, she shot me the Dirtiest Look Ever. She took extra effort to crumple up her face completely, her eyes dripping with anger.

As her punishment, or due reward, I haven't glanced her way since.

Biggest PITA (Pain In The Ass)

And the winner is: Complain-O-Matic-2000

From the moment her withered frame met the chair:

"I'm thirsty, I need a drink of water."

"I feel weak, get me some Ensure."

"Its too hot in here, take my blanket."

"Get over here, I'm freezing."

And my personal favorite of the night:

"I have to crap my pants!"

She yelled, pouted, squirmed, and protested.

"You have twenty minutes left. Can you wait?" asked the sheepish looking Tech.

And then, the moment we've all been waiting for:

"I crapped my pants!"

Rotten swiss cheese melting in the hot sun crossed with three day old infected gout simmering in skunk ravaged BBQ sauce.

I had to wear a hospital mask for the entire treatment and choke down vomit. Imagine sitting next to that for forty-five minutes.

We've reached our final award, and its well deserved:

Worst Patient of the Year

Every year I select one patient who causes me the most emotional, physical, mental, harrowing pain of all and they receive the ultimate prize.

Not only do they receive the coveted FAPA, but I get to punch them squarely in the jaw.

And the winner is: Fucking Redneck Douchetard

After just two treatments of being seated next to this waste of human DNA, I had to instruct the front desk not to seat me next to him.

What's funny is, when I said Fucking Redneck Douchetard, they knew exactly who I was talking about.

Have you ever met people who, when you looked them straight in the eye, you knew immediately that there was nothing going on behind the scenes. The show was on stage, but the backstage crew had left years ago.

That's him.

For three excruciatingly annoying hours he talks and talks and talks...

About nothing. Absolutely nothing. Excruciatingly nothing.

This man has never said anything in his entire existence that amounted to anything except, "Ugh, yeah, (snort) why don't you go ahead and Super Size that for me? Heh, heh."

The treatment before Thanksgiving, he told every single staff member about the $20 Wal-Mart Thanksgiving Meal.

Over and over and over and over and over and over.

I looked for his string to yank it out of his gelatinous form, but it was nowhere to be found.

Here's some more nuggets of wisdom I garnered from his blubbering lips:

"I need me some bacon. Just plop it on my belly and I'll eat it like my dog."

"Jack in the Box makes a damn fine tater."

"I love 'According to Jim' Makes my belly wiggle."

"Ugh, heh, heh...heh...heh...heh,heh...heh...heh" (I have no fucking clue what he was laughing about...no one was around and his TV wasn't on)

Imagine. No, I'm serious. Close your eyes and imagine you're stuck in a chair for three hours straight. IQ points dripping from your scalp while you grab the nearest sharp object in hopes of engorging your heart and ending your life quickly and deliberately so you don't have to take in one more sentence from his Medicare draining schlub.

Fuck these people are tiring.

P.S...If you missed the awards from 2008, make sure to click HERE.

The Precious Toll of Dialysis

2010-02-24T21:09:00.000-08:00

5 years, 9 months and one week.

Such an arbitrary amount of time.

Its all mine. And yet, it isn't.

It was ripped from the fabric of my life and morphed into an alternate time line of insufferable suffering.

Through the power of regret, lets travel back to the fall of 2004.

I was thirty-four years old, in good shape and enjoying the lifestyle afforded me by my radio career.

Translation: I was at the top of my game.

Her name was Rene and I had stopped dating other women to spend time with her exclusively. She was an enchanting little redhead who drove me literally insane. She was sarcastic and silly and could have been the poster child for quirky.

My favorite kind of woman.

"You've just got a little flu bug. It'll pass."

That was the last time I saw her smile.

When I finally tried to explain my condition and all the wonderfully annoying idiosyncrasies involved, she bolted.

The last words I spoke to her were "cough, cough" as her Road Runner smoke filled my once pleasure filled bedroom.

At the time, I was angry. Today? I believe she's one smart cookie.

Little did I know that 5 years, 9 months and one week later, she would be the first of many luxuries that would slip through the tattered fabric of my life.

We now return to Stacy Prime, already in progress.

The one aspect of Dialysis that those with stethoscopes adorning their necks fail to want to talk about is The Toll. The price your body will pay over and over and over again until you're left with a shell of an existence so abhorrent, you'll beg for Death to come.

Sure, there are certain aspects I can learn to live with. Going legally blind in one eye. Vomiting up at least one meal a day. Giving up jogging because my joints are shot. Ceasing to date because my skin is so revolting.

At some point you simply have to give in and wave the white flag of indignity and realize certain aspects of your life are lost to the grip of Dialysis.

But that isn't the worst of it.

Its that you slowly start to lose the one friend you knew had your back regardless of what Dialysis ripped from your soul.

Your mind.

"Well, at least you're alive," is always the mantra of the Overly Cheerful Psychologist.

Wonderfully whiny pablum. Was that cliche stuck between the seat cushions where so many hopes and dreams go to die?

Until you've endured The Wash. The completely soulless, life crushing, demonizing Wash, I don't wish to hear about "being alive."

Before this escapade into the Abyss, I was energetic, quick witted and prone to bouts of silliness the bounds of which you'll never know.

For he's gone now. Sucked out of my existence like so much toxic blood.

I liked him. I miss him. And now, because of 5 years, 9 months and one week, I can barely remember him at all.

All things being equal, that's the Precious Toll of Dialysis.

A Raw Nerve at the End of a Bleeding Vein

2009-08-03T22:04:00.000-07:00

Dialysis is abhorrent. A virus upon humanity. A festering cyst of insanity. Disgraceful and disgusting, lacking any and all social decorum.

Its home to drug addicts, criminals, and the criminally insane. Schlubs who were too lazy to monitor their blood sugar. Clinically obese knuckleheads who couldn't stop shoveling craptacular food down their overexpanding gullets.

The stench of regret and loneliness permeates the walls. The toilets cry out in fear from the raw sewage flushed down their throats. Ceilings rise and fall in perfect sync to the ever increasing waves of Death.

There are those with colorful pamphlets with cartoonish drawings that will extol the virtues of the entire process. Their eyes tell the lies for them.

Hope vanished after the final brick was laid. Promise and prosperity evaporated just as quickly. Faith in the future was dead on arrival.

Some nights I awaken to visions of little old ladies begging their families to let them cease this torcher. The echoes of cramp induced screaming bounce off the walls of my memory and make my cells their unwilling home.

Anger transforms into fury as I imagine all those peons in the upper echelon of Dialysis clinics visualizing every patient as a giant, Sesame Street like dollar sign. When questioned as to why there is no cure for kidney disease, these same monetary whales insist they don't know, while browsing through the paperwork for their latest Caribbean retreat.

Dialysis is a ruse, a trick, a bad joke peppered with obscenities.

And I'm in on it.

Many will implore that with great suffering comes even greater wisdom.

To that, I respond with the lowest common denominator of responses.

Fuck you.

Dialysis Uncensored

2009-07-31T22:44:00.000-07:00

You're going to regret reading this entry once you're finished.

The smell on the clinic floor is foul, filled with anguish and death and numerous other substances I'd rather not describe.

And I'll be featured in this cesspool for the next three hours.

As I allow my ritual anal retentiveness to align my possessions on the little side table that mocks my need for more space, I glance around slowly.

Obese Gout Dude is dressed in his regular disgusting outfit: stained wife beater shirt and flip flops that expose his gout riddled feet.

Blathering Idiot is trying to impress the more attractive staff members with his unremarkable remarks, unwilling to realize that they are all trying to retreat from him as quickly as possible.

Hairy Playa is speaking as loud as possible on speakerphone so everyone will know undoubtedly that he is the jones with the ladies. When you pose too long, the cracks start to show and nobody's buying anymore.

And the Mexican Twins are two chairs away from one another, so they're jabbering quickly and loudly over the patient in the middle. His suffering is painfully obvious.

Its Monday. The most insufferable day of the week at Dialysis.

And not just because of these Emmy award winners.

I'm really overloaded with fluid.

I'm in a foul mood to begin with, so the last individual on the planet I want to deal with is Overly Positive Tech. He's tall and lanky and full of 1950's advice that buggers the hell out of me.

But most of the time he's pretty expert at sticking needles, so I let it pass.

I've been attending this mind fuck for the last five and a half years. so you'd think most of them would learn by now that if I grunt all my answers, I'm not to be trifled with.

Yes, I freely admit I'm an asshole when I'm sick.

Takemytempthancuffthebloodpressuredealeyandcleantheareaandforceinlidocaineohgoditburnslikehellfuckfuckfuckfuck...

The endless cycle of endless Dialysis.

From time to time when people raise their head out of the latest People magazine and what Jon and Kate are doing, someone will always inquire what it feels like to be on Dialysis.

This unleashes a flurry of sarcasm they probably didn't deserve.

I used to describe it to the unsuspecting inquiree that you take two finely sharpened pencils, jam them into your upper or lower arm (take your pick depending on what access you've been forced to acquire) attach a garden hose to each pencil and connect those to the washing machine. Place machine on Heavy Wash for three hours.

Most of the time I look up to find I'm talking to myself and all that remains is a Road Runner smoke cloud.

But I ceased to describe Dialysis that way years ago. I have a new fully charged description.

Imagine you're a giant sponge. You're full of vim and vitality, vigor and strength. You feel fantastic and everything couldn't be better.

Then you're strapped down into a giant chair that smells of soiled underwear and three day ole parmesan cheese. The chair doesn't adjust properly so you will endure awful back pain in three hours. Which is when your treatment will end.

As those minutes dribble by, you will be unceremoniously squeezed of your essence until all that remains are the pores of your spongy exterior.

Now dry and hollow, weak and shaken, you stumble out of the clinic wondering what you've just left behind.

And whether it will ever return.

After a while the emptiness never fills, not even after you're loaded with less vital, less potent fluid.

Perform this task over and over and over again until all your other organs give out or until you allow yourself to bleed out in the locked bathroom because you've clearly given up.

I told you you'd regret it.

50 Random Things About Stacy

2009-07-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

Stacy has lately been sleeping roughly three hours a night, eating one meal a day and losing lots of blood at Dialysis, so yeah, we copied this from Facebook. Stacy will relay the answers and I will type them precisely as stated.

Who I am? Doesn't matter really. Just call me the Blog Bitch.

1. What time did you get up this morning?

--- I remember vividly waking up about 4:30am for a blissful moment, only to subconsciously realize there was a breathing mask on my face. Since Stacy Subconscious is claustrophobic (as well as the Really Annoying Stacy) it was ripped to the floor. I then proceeded to try to sleep without it.

I could have just said "4:30am" but I'm in a talkative mood.

2. How do you like your steak?

Preferably on a plate. Wakka wakka.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?

I attended a midnight showing of "Harry Potter & the Half Blood Prince" with two geeky friends at work. Honestly, I love midnight showings, but I can't go any longer. I'm getting to the regrettable point in my life where the combination of aging PLUS Dialysis treatments = Death The Next Day.

It was partly a waste of time because I don't remember most of the film. Especially the middle. That's right, the nouget part of the flick.

4. What is your favorite TV show?

The show I can go back again and again and watch the entire run of the show over and over is "The Office." As far as present favorites, I'm watching "Oz" from HBO and "Mad Men" from AMC. Both excellently written and acted.

All three of the above mentioned shows are also fantastic because they devour Dialysis time.

5. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?

Give me a 400 square foot cabin right on the beach, far from the annals of the human race and I would consider myself a very lucky dweeb.

6. What did you have for breakfast?

I skipped breakfast because I threw up. Again. Until there was nothing left in my abdomen. Then I threw up some more and pulled a stomach muscle.

7. What is your favorite cuisine?

I'm a simple man with simple tastes. Its a very close race between Italian and Mexican. Although I would be Dad's Cuisine: the ever popular Brunch Burger, at the top.

8. What foods do you dislike?

Stew, because my parents always rammed it down my throat when I was a kid. Processed meals like you find in the freezer aisle. And unfortunately, I'm starting to lose my love for cheese because my roommate puts in on everything and stinks up the house. Ugh.

9. Favorite Place to Eat?

Crystal's Corner in Santa Rosa. Its this little hole-in-the-wall owned by this friendly Chinese family that makes just about anything. The Two Egg Breakfast special is awesome and filling. The BLT's are to die for. And the eats are cheap.

To reiterate, I'm a man of simple means.

10. Favorite dressing?

Blue cheese. Every time we went out to eat as a family, my parents always ordered it on their salad, and so did I. It feels nostalgic every time I devour it.

11.What kind of vehicle do you drive?

I drive the Blue Devil, a 2000 Chevy S-10 Pickup. She's a lot like me: sluggish, slow to accelerate and gets horrible gas mileage. But she's never broken down and she's never failed to start.

12. What are your favorite clothes?

I'd wear jeans and a t-shirt every day for the remainder of my life if certain occasions didn't call for a dressier look.

13. Where would you visit if you had the chance?

I want to travel to Greece. The history, the culture, the beautiful beaches and amazing architecture.

But mostly, for the women.

14. Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?

Cup was broken years ago and put back together with missing parts.

15. Where would you want to retire?

A little island that nobody has discovered yet. I've had my fill of humans and their ridiculously dangerous technology.

16. Favorite time of day?

The Magic Hour. That moment when the sun just disappears over the horizon and you can hear the clock ticking down the last thirty minutes of light before the day concludes.

17. Where were you born?

The pit of hell in the middle of the California desert: Stockton. Its one big strip mall surrounded by mindless criminals and psychopaths. Why they even bother to try to grab tourist dollars is beyond me.

18. What is your favorite sport to watch?

The National...Football...League! A purely American sport for mindless American cretins. It has action, drama, pain, defeat, triumph all enjoyed within a three hour time frame. I'll probably pass just as the season is ending with another Pittsburgh Steeler Super Bowl.

19. Who is your favorite entertainer?

George Carlin. He was a true orchestrator of the English language. He used it to teach, mock, mollify, expose the truth and call out the ridiculous. A true artist who will never be matched.

20. Who in entertainment have you had enough of?

Anyone who stoops to expose their family or friends to a reality show. Unless what you're going through is teaching or inspiring others, get the fuck off my TV.

21. Best TV talk show?

"Late Night with David Letterman." I find that Conan and Ferguson can be hilarious at times, but Dave has kept me laughing since high school. I'm going to miss him when he decides to retire.

22. Bird watcher?

Sorry, but there's a special reserved space in hell for birds and their omnipresent crap. I'm more of a People Watcher because their dopey actions entertain me.

23. Are you a morning person or a night person?

Chipper morning people should be outlawed. I love the evenings when most everyone has shut down by 10pm and I own the night. You can go for late night walks or be the only one in the 24 hour cafe.

24. Do you have pets?

No, but my roommates are like pets. I live with Clinically Obese Woman and Know-It-All Young Punk. One puts cheese on every goddamn thing she shoves down her gullet (you can only guess what the kitchen smells like) and the other cuts his ball hair every other day in our bathroom sink.

To answer your obvious question: because the rent is cheap.

25. Any new and exciting news you'd like to share?

I've almost bled to death in the Dialysis bathroom two times last week.

I know what you're thinking: Stacy, you're not trying hard enough.

26. What did you want to be when you were little?

Astronaut, race car driver or radio host. Considering how much we change as we grow older, one out of three ain't half bad.

27. What is your best childhood memory?

When I woke up from my first kidney transplant in 1983 and there were balloons and flowers everywhere. The flowers were from my Uncle Buddy and had this planter that was shaped like a closed hand.

Its still on my bookshelf, now beholden to pens and pencils.

28. Are you a cat or dog person?

I love both because I understand where they're both coming from. Dogs just want to play and be loved. Cats really have no use for anyone until they need food or their head scratched.

29. Are you married?

Ha. Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I'm a huge thirty-nine year old never married loser. And will probably never marry. I tell everyone its because I'm on Dialysis, but truly, I'm just annoying.

30. Always wear your seat belt?

Definately. It comforts me to know that I'll be strapped in when I'm crushed by that semi circa 2011.

31. Been in a car accident?

No major ones. Although I do have a tendency to smush the front of my cars by bumping into stationary objects.

32. Any pet peeves?

I have a long list of grievances, but I'll just narrow it down to my number one complaint: Fucking men.

Men cause all the problems. Men primarily commit all the crimes. Men caused the downfall of this country. Men sold most of this nation to foreign countries. Men are disgusting. Men are foul. And most of them are complete fucking idiots.

99% of the women I've met in my lifetime are the complete opposite.

33. Favorite Pizza Toppings?

Anchovy. Give me a small anchovie pizza and that's pretty much my only meal for the next two days. Delcious and Dad-inspired.

34. Favorite Flower?

Flowers are like fleeting creatures of hope and happiness. One always purchases flowers to celebrate a momentous occasion or make someone happy.

Flowers have always helped me out when I'm in trouble (you know what I'm talking about) and make a room smell ten times better.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm a fan of them all.

How fucking sappy.

35. Favorite ice cream?

It was fun to discover a couple years ago that my Dad and me share the same taste in ice cream: Butter Pecan. All other ice creams bow to its greatness.

36. Favorite fast food restaurant?

Even after all these years it still has to be McDonalds. When I was young, my sister and me would sometimes keep the Happy Meal boxes and play restaurant. Until Mom found the packaging (that still had aging cheese stuck to it) and throw them out.

The fattening, carb infested, sodium infused Bic Mac only enters my system on rare occasions. But goddamn if isn't three minutes of heaven.

37. How many times did you fail your driver's test?

Ugh, do I have to answer this?

All right. Three times.

The first time I blew a stop sign. I was disappointed when the Clipboard Lady told me to drive back to the DMV immediately.

The second time I had too many points off to pass.

The final time I had a really nice guy who realized I was trying real hard and gave me an 87. I freakin' finally passed.

Thus began a long history of driving into inadimate objects that, I swear, jumped out in front of my car. Honest.

38. From whom did you get your last email?

My best friend Ted, about his trip to Santa Rosa with his family.

39. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?

Crate & Barrel. They don't have any in Sonoma County, but damn if I still have two lamps and a set of awesome coasters from that place. If I ever have money again, that's where I'll shop.

40. Do anything spontaneous lately?

Asked someone out that I'd been dying to spend some time with.

Raven hair. Awesome smile. Dark eyes. And an affinity for silliness.

She turned me down.

41. Like your job?

It has 50% suckitude. The rest is usually enjoyable.

42. Broccoli?

What the hell? Are you asking me if I know about broccoli?

Hell yes I do. And broccoli can suck it.

43. What was your favorite vacation?

It has to be the trip to Yosemite where a big chunk of the family from my Mom's side joined us. The best part was at night when we'd light the campfire, roast some hot dogs and I'd listen intently as all the adults talked.

44. Blonde, Brunette, or Red head?

I've always preferred brunettes my entire life, but redheads are a close second. Something about dark haired women that drives me crazy.

45. I like my coffee?

I like my coffee like I like my Dialysis treatments. Never.

46. Favorite comic book hero?

Batman. How can you not want to take pain and suffering and turn it into a positive influence on the community.

One day I will cross the line of personal suffering and emerge as Dialysis Man. My superpower will be insulting and mocking stupid people wherever they may thrive.

47. Name of first pet?

Caesar. He was a beautiful black German shepherd who had lived with my Dad for years before me and my sister came alone. He passed away in the bushes when I was seven. It was the first time I ever witnessed my Dad cry.

48. When did you find the Internet?

In a library in Stockton. I had to move back home for six months in preparation for my second kidney transplant and I walked by these three computers with the internet set up back in the summer of 1995.

I've been addicted ever since.

49. Favorite CD?

The last four albums from George Carlin were his masterpieces. All his work is great, but with these creations he set a new bar, even for himself.

50. Paper or plastic?

I have to agree with those over legislative goons in San Francisco and take paper. They're much easier to recycle than plastic, and they don't seem to roam the beautiful trails of Sonoma County.

Why do people always have to ruin a good thing?

That's it. That's all. And lets all agree, that's enough about me.

M.I.A. Stacy

2009-07-12T22:41:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned in an earlier post that I am God's Action Figure.

To understand fully what I'm talking about, feel free to check out "God's Action Figure" from last April.

In that earlier post, I theorize that God created me from used parts that He simply had lying around Heaven's Garage. Thus, I look and feel the way I do.

I hope you understand by now that Dialysis, on its own, for the duration I've endured, is more then enough for any one individual to handle.

This year marks over twenty-six years I've been dealing with kidney failure.

And now I have created a corollary to my earlier theory on my personal creation.

God's actually been trying to kill me.

Or push me to the brink so I kill myself.

I had the insurmountable luck to be born in a decade when Dialysis and transplantation had finally become viable. Well, that's just dumb luck really.

Two transplants and a total of six years of all encompassing Dialysis later, I'm still here to annoy my fellow man.

Two years ago I had reached a plateau where I had found a way to balance treatment with what I wished my life to be.

That made God incredibly angry.

Two years ago I was diagnosed with Chronic Sleep Apnea. To state it simply (and because I don't really care to talk about it all that much) my throat closes up over a hundred times a night. It is during these moments that I stop breathing, my throat closes up, my brain wakes me up (but not to full conscioiusness) and the whole process continues unabated.

All. Night. Long.

Last week I returned to Doughy Sleep Doctor and I took the credit card device that takes my stats on the breathing (CPAP) machine and allows a computer to display and print out the results.

Go ahead. Take a guess as to the average number of hours of sleep I've received each night over the past year.

Six? 5.4? 3.27302938 hours?

Two.

This is where God is laughing hysterically and putting another point on the God vs. Stacy scoreboard.

The machine works fine for those two hours. I rarely wake up because 9ml of air is being pummeled downostrils with a breathing mask.

Somewhere around two hours, the sleep medicine wears off and the Stacy Claustrophobia kicks in.

Without my knowledge, my unconscious mind senses something trapping my head, removes it and then throws it into the carpeted floor below.

God's shaking his belly with uprorious laughter right about now.

My day starts unwillingly at 6:30am when I wake up and discover I'm exhausted. I wander in and out of sleep for the next couple of hours until my alarm shakes reality back into my face.

What God also finds entertaining is that the less sleep I receive, the more nauseous I become, the more vomiting ensues.

So vomiting has returned as my morning ritual.

Once I'm all cleaned out my system makes room for a small amount of appetite.

From a strapping 62kg. last year, I'm down to 56.5.

And the weight keeps dropping.

God thinks He has me on the ropes, but He's mistaken.

Uvulopalatopharyngoplasty: The Surgery.

It rhymes with "MoveYouUhPlateOrMarniGoNasty."

This is a procedure by which tissues are removed from the throat.

I know. Sounds like a great way to spend a Tuesday.

The following are removed, in no particular order:

--- The tonsils.
--- The Uvula.
--- The soft palate.
--- The adenoids.
--- The pharnyx.

There are many factors in my life that have led up to the possibility of this surgery.

I've been on steroids for a majority of my life to save my transplants, so that could have caused my throat to swell.

The years of radio have developed my pharnyx, so that could also be a culprit.

The fact that my growth was stunted by steroids at the age of twelve could have caused my throat to develop fully while the surrounding area did not. I have small nostrils leading to a narrow nasal cavity as well.

At this point, the "E" in my Username stands for Enough Is Enough.

That's right. Stacy's mad as hell, and he's not going to take it any longer.

To get some minute idea of what I feel like, take a moment to remember the most exhausted day of your life.

Could be a 24 hour shift you had to endure. Or an extremely long birth for your first born.

Whatever it happened to be, multiply it by 730, because that's how many days the two hour sleep days have been continuing.

I'm a mindless, numbed down, former shell of myself. I go through my daily routine unabated, uninterested and mostly unmotivated.

I've gone from the purgatory of Dialysis to the hellfires of Sleep Apnea and every day is a struggle for something in the vicinity of the zip code of the neighborhood of Normal Stacy.

Normal Stacy is an ironic name, for Normal Stacy is simply Original Stacy with a new title.

Normal Stacy is given to flights of silliness. Normal Stacy makes up strange moments on the radio and then laughs at himself. Normal Stacy can be quite charming and fun to be around. Normal Stacy is very energetic and never a fan of vertical resting.

Presently, Dying Stacy is taking his place. And I mean that literally.

If I continue down this path of restless nights and minimal sleep, heart attacks and strokes are designated moments already created for my future.

And God will be laughing the entire time.

Bastard.

The Power of Baby Sisters

2009-06-28T21:36:00.000-07:00

My baby sister's name is Amy, named ceremoniously after our grandmother on my mother's side Amelia.

The one that had thirteen children, my mother being the final number in that Jon & Kate Plus Eight brood.

I call my sister Amos, just because.

Over the years, our relationship as siblings has been uneven. Somewhere after I began college and Amy graduating from high school, we really lost touch.

I'm as much to blame as she is. But that's not really important.

What's important is the here and now, and that is what I speak of today.

Over the past weekend, with no personal persuasion involved, my sister visited Sonoma County for the weekend.

The English language is not descriptive enough to behold the anticipation I had for my sister's arrival. It was as though Christmas and my birthday had mated and given birth to a new level of anticipation.

Many years ago I adopted Santa Rosa and the backwoods of Sonoma County as my new hometown. This leads to the ultimate joy of being able to share one's love for the county over and over and over again.

I'm ashamed to admit I'd never been to the Charles M. Schulz museum. We went.

Had to show off my favorite hour hiking trail at Howarth Park. Done.

We explored downtown Santa Rosa and Healdsburg. Went antique store shopping. Wolfed down meals at Omelette Express, Flavor and Gary Chu's.

But best of all was just sitting in the presence of my sister and having great conversations. About nothing in particular.

And I loved it.

For three days all the frustration, sadness and depression that migrates through my head daily, evaporated completely.

A fact I didn't realize until after she had departed.

Her plane sped away on Monday evening. I was still feeling pretty good until Wednesday evening.

Then Melancholy stepped in. And He won't get out from under my bed.

If you perchance had met my sister, you'd immediately like her. Everyone does.

She's naturally sweet. Given to flights of silliness and whimsy. Able to speak about anything. Very intelligent.

Quite generous. She tried to pay for everything.

Generosity knows her quite well. In 1995 when my first kidney transplant was failing and I was headed toward the dreaded transplant list, she offered up hers without hesitation.

I like to believe that while it is housed within my frame, my system was able to filter my life through her kidney and somehow grab the best her soul had to offer.

At least, that's my hope.

I miss you Amy.

An Open Letter to My Fellow Dialysis Patients Regarding the State of the Bathroom

2009-06-14T22:49:00.000-07:00

People often ask why I rail against the patients of my clinic so harshly.

To put if succinctly: they're neandarthal pigs.

The following is a list of random occurences that have randomly occured at random times, occuring on the occurence when I begin my treatment:

--- Pool o' Urine

Gentlemen (and quite possibly ladies...and I use both terms extremely loosely) how difficult is it to aim liquid at a cylindrical bowl? Did you never water a garden properly? Play the water shooter into the clowns mouth at the carnival. Sheesh.

I dearly love my Converse. All four pair. I wear them every single stinkin' day to Dialysis because they're comfortable, they're rocking the cool and they make me happy.

Sticky pools of urinary wastes delving into the pores of my favorite feet accessories make me incredibly angry.

And vomit a little in my mouth.

--- Lack of Lever Use

This happens nearly every day. Some nickel and dime IQ dweller doesn't have the common sense or class to dispose of their biggest accomplishment of the day.

So there it sits, clogging up the bowl, teetering on extinction.

And now it becomes my job to send it on its way.

Unfair. Unwise. And totally unnatural.

--- Feces Control

If you're eating something presently, I would avoid the next few sentences.

Feces on the floor. Hanging off the side of the bowl. On the wall. In the sink.

And my personal all-time, five years on Dialysis favorite?

Stuck to the wall next to the lou with toilet paper.

That one was just a few weeks ago.

I thought it was just monkeys that played with their excrement.

No, Dialysis patients do too.

Until I have the Catheter Succubus removed, I need to use that little room to change into my "Dialysis Shirt." (i.e. the flannel shirt I bought in 1988 from Millers Outpost so I don't care what substances are left remaining on its fading cotton)

I beg of you fellow Dialysis zombies: use our treatment bathroom as though she is a fine, delicate woman. Handle her with care. Gently. Don't abuse her. Or throw her around like a rag doll. And don't leave her with the check.

Just one final word to my fellow patients:

Feces is not a toy.

The Totally Original and Blissfully Exciting Stacy Alphabet Game

2009-06-13T22:10:00.000-07:00

I'm most likely not the first to invent the above mentioned game, but since my name is in it, one of my bretheren may have.

Its rather simple really. Feel free to play along in the Comment section of the Adventures of Stacy Without An E blogfest below.

I'm saying my name so many times, I feel like I have something to plug on a talk show. Or develop into a cool online app that people are excited about for a month but then quickly grow tire of (I'm talking to you Twitter.)

The Rules of the Stacy Alphabet Game:

Simple really.

You create an entire sentence using the first letter of the alphabet only.

Thus, twenty-six total words.

I'm done it before, which you can examine HERE.

So ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, kids of all shapes and sizes, prepare to be mystified by the verbal linguistics from the vocabularic mind of Stacy Without An E.

Altruistic benevolent custodians dutifully eradicate feces grotesquely habitating insidiously jaunty kabuki's. Laborious mandates negate official pandering quietly, restricting serendipitous training undermining vociferous wisenheimer xenophobes yawning zealously.

Its amazing! Its fantastic! Its nearly comprehensible!

I dare you in the comments below to attempt the same.

My Uncle Tommy 1936-2009

2009-06-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

There is a man I want to take a few moments to introduce you to, because he meant more to me than I'm willing to admit.

And yet, I failed him.

My Uncle Tommy was the one we visited most as a family when I was a child. Youth sometimes dictates that you don't wish to interact with individuals deemed "family."

They won't speak to you like they do the adults. They smell of moth balls and cough syrup. They pontificate when they should be silent.

I'm sure you've a few of your own you don't wish to speak of.

Uncle Tommy was the antithesis of everything I just mentioned.

I was incredibly shy as a child and Tommy would do everything in his power to get me to interact with the family. He never said out loud that you were a guest in his home, because he was welcoming from the start.

He was a father, grandfather, husband, uncle, brother, cousin, Marine and policeman.

He was quick to laugh, prone to wit and towered over me but never talked down to me.

And I'll go ahead and say it, and I don't care who's listening: he was my favorite Uncle.

But again, I failed him.

Tommy grew up with my Mom in Jamestown, North Dakota. The epitome of unbridaled Americana. He was their eleventh child, my mother, the thirteenth. Six years separated them both, but their bond as brother and sister lasted a lifetime.

On June 11, 2009 at exactly 11am, I attended his funeral.

My Mom shed tears before the service began. I placed my hand on her shoulder while my Dad put his arms around her. Supporting her grief as ably as we could.

I honestly didn't know what else to do. But I knew this was one of the worst days of her life. And I was glad I was by her side.

I didn't count, but I would imagine over a hundred people were in attendance. Many, many more wanted to join this somber day, but circumstances beyond their control kept them from honoring my Uncle.

Since I discovered the news over a week ago, I have been flooded with memories of my Uncle. And I'm happy to report, every time I think of him, he's at his best.

Lanky and strong. Tan and fit. Vibrant and happy.

When I was roughly eight or nine, before my illness made its presence known, everyone took a huge family trip to Yosemite.

The lands beneath us were so astonished by the presence of Uncle Tommy, we had earthquakes for most of our visit.

On one of our many hikes, me and my Uncle were standing side by side as we traveled down the trail to catch up with the others. To our right was a giant granite rock with little flecks of limestone coloring its skin.

Another giant rock must have fallen upon it at some point, because it had given birth to a number of smaller rocks, all with the same outer shell.

Tommy bent down, without slowing his stride, and grabbed one.

"Here's a nice one. This one's for you."

He placed it in my hand and I sort of just looked at it without responding.

I glanced up at him with a shy, meager look.

"So you won't forget this trip."

And off we went.

For the last thirty years, wherever I have moved. Or worked. Or travelled to, that rock has followed alongside.

And its never lost its luster. Until now.

It has transformed from a happy childhood memory to a weight upon my soul.

For I failed him.

I was unaware of this, but as the years slipped away, so did Tommy's back.

Two years ago, he was in the hospital and was prescribed a medication that eventually caused his kidneys to fail.

He spent two years on Dialysis until he suffered a heart attack on June 4th, 2009. He had just returned from treatment and was resting in his favorite easy chair. His wife, my Aunt, heard him make a sound similar to a snore.

He never recovered. And never returned.

And why I'll never have a chance to say I'm sorry.

When I first discovered Tommy was on Dialysis, I always meant to contact him to answer any questions he might have or help him ease his life into the treatment chair.

That contact never came.

I'm so wrapped up in my own illness that I rarely poke my head out to see if anyone else needs help.

I failed my Uncle Tommy miserably.

This was a man who was loved, adored and cherished by his family and was taken too soon at the age of 72. His death will reverberate for those who knew him for years to come.

I have so many regrets related to his passing.

Why am I so wrapped up in my illness that I didn't take the time to ask about his?

Why didn't I take the time to drive the two hours to visit more often?

Why does a tainted soul like myself continue to live while someone so loved and cared for was taken too early?

The answers will shadow me for the remainder of my existence.

Thank you for everything Tommy. Laugh, and smile and rest in peace.

Fistulaleakage

2009-05-27T21:41:00.000-07:00

Its amazing how many how many words you can create using a device that simply doesn't want to inhabit my body.

Ok, that's not completely true.

All last week was half and half: one 17 gauge needle for the Fistula, one for the Catheter Succubus.

Everything went fine all five days last week (yeah, I skipped a day yo)

This week, starting with the ever popular Monday, we've arrived at two seventeen gauge needles.

Monday's have become the complete bane of my existence. Because of a flavorful combination of tangy sleep apnea and bittersweet Dialysis, I find myself in bed for fourteen to fifteen hours most weekends.

Then when Monday rolls back into my life, I must arise five hours earlier to perform a radio show no one listens to on a radio station that is at the beginning of the end.

Every Monday transforms my bathroom into a Vomitorium. I don't care if I wake my roommate up because he's a Know-It-All Goon. I take a shower, cleanse myself of the previous twenty minutes and celebrate this accomplishment by vomiting again.

Every Monday. Its always the same. No deviation (except for how many times my skinny little toothpick arm reaches for the Snooze button)

So lets return to the present, shall we?

I don't know which it is, but something likes to fuck with me.

Fate. God. The cast of that awful show "According to Jim." You name it.

I was eight days into my new Foolish Fistula. Up to two seventeen gauge needles now. Very little pain. My body was not so agitated upon arrival. I was pretty calm during needle insertion.

But you see, this cannot last. It never does.

Dialysis sits in a corner, waiting to pounce.

And tonight was his night.

I hadn't seen Him in a while. Maybe he's a fan of "American Idol." Who knows?

He's roughly three foot two, barely ninety pounds and his spine has curved so much he resembles a demented letter "C" from Sesame Street. Streaky green hair. Yellowish skin. A bad case of sores and lesions spread across his body like a blanket. His teeth are all sharp and seemingly filed that way every day of His miserable existence.

He used to toy with me using Cramps. As any Dialysis patient will admit to, Cramps can sometimes push your body so far that you cry out like a torture victim.

It happened the other night to Lovely Petite Patient. As her screams and exclamations of pain increased in volume, so did the uncomfortable pit in my stomach.

I felt for her, because I've been in her very same condition.

One item of note that Dialysis gives you a break on is learning how to avoid Cramps. It all comes down to math and gut instinct about your eating and drinking habits for the preceding week.

Dialysis was squealing with glee, bounding from one counter top to the other, speaking without any spaces.

"LookwhatIdidtoherI'mamazingwithmassivepoweroverallofyouandthere'snothingyoucandoyou're
stuckhereforyearsandyearsandyears."

I crank up "Lost" to sixteen in order to ignore his proclamations. His words all slurred like verbal snakes. His grin never leaves His revolting face.

Tonight was my turn.

As I entered the clinic floor and my nose hair curled at the ever present stench of untreated gout and unwashed ass, I caught a glimpse of Him hiding with the fifteen gauge needles. One of his teeth protruded out a little too far past one of the packaged pain sticks and I knew there could be trouble.

Best when you first learn of his presence just to ignore Him. My God and all that is Holy in Heaven, he despises that. Sometimes you can hear a hissing sound, but often that turns out to be him urinating wherever he pleases.

And mocking me for that lack of ability.

I had Jolly Happy Tech tonight and Chatty Cathy Nurse. My goodness that woman is going to talk for three more years after she passes.

I'm still getting used to the return of Burning Lidocaine. We hadn't spent time together for quite some time.

My first mistake was flinching at the second Lidocaine insertion. I could hear him rummaging his way toward me, stalking me in the closest available cabinet.

That awful staccato laugh echoed in my ears as both needles were inserted peacefully and without incident.

For the next two hours, everything was copacetic. I concentrated on the neck bleeding TV's on the ceiling wondering how anyone can watch "The Insider" on a regular basis. Are people so empty in this country they need to know minute-by-minute bowel functions of Gweneth Paltrow? Thank goodness "Family Guy" was elsewhere on the polluted TV landscape.

In case you're wondering aloud why I wasn't watching a DVD. Its because Fate felt that "Paul Blart: Mall Cop" shouldn't be ingested by my entertainment deprived cells.

I love dopey comedies, so sue me.

For the past two months I have been forbidden to lift weight due to the presence of Foolish Fistula, so both arms resemble classic wooden bats.

This becomes an important fact when it came time for needle removal. Dialysis leaped behind the chair next to me and sounded like he was fondling himself He was so excited.

Needle One. Needle Two. Both exited and performed their duties admirably.

That's when Dialysis attacked.

As I was holding the two slices of gauze in place to clot the bleeding, He bit down with voluminous fury on the upper part of Foolish Fistula.

The pain was revolting. My entire body started to mimic a seizure in order to free his powerful grasp.

The only remaining limbs were flailing, so I darted my right leg up quickly and shot him directly over the chair into Section C. I could hear Him stuggling behind me, trying to laugh it off, but it was no use.

As the pain increased exponentially in my arm, Dialysis was struggling to flip back over to my side of the divider. I could hear Him attempting to grasp onto the side of a prepped Dialysis machine, knocking all the clamps and needles to the floor.

One final smack to the clinic floor and Dialysis was done for the night.

And so was I.

I couldn't raise my arm above my waist as I stood. It felt as though Dialysis had left an invisible yet highly powerful iron clamp on my arm and I couldn't shake it loose.

I decided there was no sense wasting time in the chair, so I completed my usual Dialysis return.

My weight had shrunk to 57.3kg which surprised no one in particular. I decided to take a little stroll to where I last heard Dialysis, intending to kick him again in the groinal area just for fun.

The items were all back in their proper place on the machine and nothing was askew.

That bastard Dialysis had won again.

5 Year Anniversary of Hell

2009-05-18T22:21:00.000-07:00

On May 16, 2009 I marked five years of achingly annoying and highly horrific Dialysis treatments.

I was diagnosed once again with my long lost companion, End Stage Renal Disease (all Dialysis patients say "ESRD" because it sounds like a cool show on the Travel Channel) in March and my nephrologist stated it was going to be a quick slide to eventual Dialysis.

Year One was pure torturous. Every treatment flames of burning ignited by Dialysis himself. 1000mg. of Vicodin doubled. And then tripled.

And still I suffered.

Year Two began the habit of lying on my office floor for 30-45 minutes before and after a show just to keep my job. Everyone believes radio broadcasting is easy, but it takes a tremendous amount of energy.

Energy that my body no longer befriends.

Year Three the staff thought I would never last transferring into a research program and changing my treatments to six days a week, two hour time limit.

Again, I sacrificed my sanity to feel 20% better so, once again, I could keep my job.

Year Four I tried dating again with little success.

"I won't date you unless you always cover up your gross arm."

I never even said goodbye.

Flirting with a cute redhead at the bagel shop ended abruptly when my graft gauze began to express itself in bloody terms.

Everyone just stared. No one even bothered to help.

Damn Yuppies-Who-Used-to-Be-Anti-Establishment-Hippies-Who-Sold-Out-and-Are-Now-Fat-and-Worried-About-Their-Cholesterol.

Year Five has been a rollercoaster teetering on the top of a wooden hill that should have been condemned five years ago.

I had a chance to guest star on Dr. Anonymous' internet show and share my experiences about Dialysis. I even managed to convince the manager at my Dialysis clinic to shut off all the TV speakers so I wouldn't die because none of the tech's could hear me. I even pushed myself to get out of my bed and hang out with friends.

That last one's a major accomplishment.

Better things are on the horizon. My sister is visiting in a month. I'll see my parents later this summer. My best friend and his family are going to spend a weekend here in Sonoma County.

These are all good, positive events that will make Year Six somewhat more bearable.

But I have a little secret I've told no one about and it could ruin all succeeding years.

I'm getting worse.

My muscles screams echo through my entire system, begging, pleading for me to lie back down.

Fatigue is my constant companion. If I do the math (and I rarely do because it makes me sad) some workdays I'm in bed twelve to fourteen hours because I'm just too weak.

And don't ask about weekends.

But its really not the pain that bothers so much. Its a constant companion that whispers its power over me at its own discretion, for sure.

Its my lack of productivity. My lack of sparking purpose.

And what scares me even more? The fact that some days I just don't give a fuck.

I once believed that God was punishing me for past indiscretions. But I feel my sins are minimal at best.

Those thoughts morphed into God possibly trying to teach me some grand lesson that I was too dense to comprehend.

Yet what have I become?

A crazy loner curmudgeon who finds most of the human race lacking in intelligence and grace.

I can't do another five years. I just can't.

I'm unwilling. I'm unable. And I'm just not worth all the medical expense required to keep me alive.

The divisions between Potential Stacy and Present Stacy is so wide, the two shall never meet in my lifetime.

And that saddens me to no end.

"30 Rock" Kidney Now!

2009-05-16T12:09:00.001-07:00

Thanks to Kelly Talbert (a fellow Dialysis/kidney patient) for posting this video on her Facebook page. I can't think of a better video to post on my Fifth Anniversary of suffering through endless Dialysis.

If I ever meet Tina Fey in person, I'm giving her a big smoochy kiss like Adrien Broday gave to Halle Berry at the Oscars.

I'm probably get popped by her bodyguard and dragged away, but it will be worth it.

"What's Die-ale-uh-sist?"

People can't pronounce it, and kidney donation doesn't get the press like the high profile diseases do.

That's right. That's Kidney Discrimination.

So thanks Ms. Fey for the props.

Now how about producing my Broadway show "Glomerulonephritis?"

"Glomerulonephritis, its so wonderful to say. Glomerulonephritis, is will break your day!"

I'll work on it and get back to you.

Fistulatoma

2009-04-29T21:39:00.001-07:00

On March 12th a wonderfully annoying yet totally uncooperative vein in my upper left arm was moved about an inch West.

If is now called a Fistula.

At least that's what the doctors like to call it.

Those high priced experts with their fancy-schmancy medical terms.

Once a 17 gauge needle was inserted, allowed to chug for two hours, and then removed, the dialogue changed.

It was now a Fistula with a Hematoma.

Or a Fistulatoma.

Yes, I made up a word. And its mine. You can't have it. And you wouldn't want it.

Dr. Drew (I named him thusly because he could be Dr. Drew's twin) didn't think that term was very funny.

I've been on a wonderful soup of Vicodin, Extra Strength Tylenol and Norco since the Fistulatoma began, I have to find amusement when I can.

The procedure was performed by Dr. Arnett (that's right, he looks just like Will Arnett) and I will remember him for the remainder of my life because he congratulated himself on a job well done when I visited his pristine office a few weeks after the surgery.

Yes. Your pomposity has etched itself upon my long term memory and it will remain there festering because once that appointment was over, you said you didn't need to see me again.

You also won't refill my Norco.

Both Dr. Drew and Dr. Arnett are friends. As most doctors in Nephrology seem to be.

They both have extremely beautiful wives who are also doctors.

I don't fault them for that. Doctors are much more impressive than guys who tell you who's coming up in the next music sweep.

Right after eighteen minutes of commercials, a jingle, a promo and another jingle to get you back into the music.

But I digress.

I've allowed the anger I had over this whole affair to evaporate into infinity, but I believe I made a good point today and it was tossed aside like all the tubing we patients go through endlessly.

Cleaned. Discarded. Recycled. I don't know what they do with it because I'm usually too tired following treatment to care.

One thing I don't care for though, is being dismissed.

I had my circular graft for thirteen years. Thirteen frickin' years. The last five on Dialysis.

It had been used years ago for five months before my second kidney transplant.

Since this Fistulatoma has been less than perfect, I brought that up.

"Well, we don't do those much anymore."

I love it when doctors say, "well" at the beginning of a sentence. It means they don't care for the question. And would rather be playing golf. Or riding horses. Or whatever else they do with the money they make managing my illness.

"Why not?" I asked with a staggered voice. I was pretty dizzy.

"We just don't."

And that was that.

So here I sit, in front of you, with a bum arm keeping me from my life.

Can't ride a bike. Or my scooter. Or lift weights. Or even swim.

All because someone thought it would bea good idea to give me a Fistulatoma.

This dollar sign is going to bed now. If I can get any sleep.

Remember? You wouldn't refill my Norco.

God's Action Figure

2009-04-22T21:49:00.001-07:00

When I use this phrase to describe myself, some people believe that I am typing offense toward "Their God."

Since when does anybody "own" God? Did Wal-Mart sneak up and grab Him as a spokesperson when I wasn't looking? Can you find God in every Starbucks on every corner suggesting overpriced sandwiches? When I'm lost at Home Depot will He find shower heads for me on Aisle 42?

Any time I mention my belief (or lack thereof) in the Almighty, I always get e-mail's from devout Christians saying, "You're going straight to hell and I wish to read no more."

Hell? Well, maybe. I'm definitely serving time in purgatory, that's a given.

Oh wait. I already am. I'm a Dialysis patient. Silly me.

But back to the title of this particular post.

I have a theory as to why God finds me so consistently entertaining.

One lovely Spring day in God's People Factory his duty for the day was almost finished. He had just applied the most succulent lips ever to Angelina Jolie and given John Kerry a head three sizes too big when he had all these random parts just lying around.

He could have gone home to his Cloud Formed Easy Chair (designed by Him of course) and flipped on "Lost" and called it another pleasant day.

But He was in a tinkering mood.

He grabbed a torso that was no longer a boy's, but not quite a man's and placed it in the middle of his workshop table. Since this wasn't skinny enough, he fished out extremely skinny arms and legs to coincide with said Extra Small Man's Torso. A grin came to his face because he knew I'd be wearing Extra Large Boy's Boxers for the remainder of my life.

He continued unabated. He was so entertained by his John Kerry head gaffe that he gave me one nearly as large.

Bright eyes, slightly larger lips and ears that stick out gently. I should probably thank God for those because women are always commenting on my eyes and lips.

All the parts were in place and He was nearly finished when He realized something.

The Almighty Master of Creation had run out of functioning kidneys.

God, on this rare occasion became a little flustered.

He knew that he had a fresh supply earlier, but today hadn't been a great day for kidneys. A number of them had to be discarded and their Inner Energy used for something else.

With little time remaining, because my soul was set to arrive any minute, God chose the best of the rest from the pile of mistakes.

"Forgive me son, for you will know pain and suffering. But you will also discover truth and beauty."

And the kidneys that were God's eventually became mine.

As my soul, fresh and untouched, began to slowly ride a breeze of fate, God found himself amused by this creation.

"I must keep an eye on this one. He could be fun."

My soul arrived and enveloped God's Newest Creation. My eventual adult body was swept away by the calling of the people who would eventually become my parents.

And here I sit today. An experiment gone awry. A body caving in on itself.

And still, God smiles.

For He knows what I have still failed to grasp.

That truth and beauty are still out there.

And I need to forge through and make their acquaintance.

Before its too late.

The Redheaded Girl Next Door (And Her Lack of Proximity to Me)

2009-04-19T22:12:00.000-07:00

I'm a complete and utter fool.

I rise every morning and apply well worn boots of fear. If courage is applied to my skin, it curls and peels away. I'd vomit up a portion of my soul if even the thought of taking a risk entered my mind.

Today was "Products Day" when I venture to one of the local discount chains to acquire items that seem to cost so much more when you purchase them at the grocery store.

Or so I believe.

I used to despise Rite-Aid because it seemed like every time I entered, management had checked for a pulse and the ability to say, "We don't got that no more" as the application process for employment.

But that has seemed to improve. I can only theorize that the really old people who predominantly shop there put up a giant stink that seeped itself into the upper echelon of the Rite-Aid management corps and things changed.

Yes, apparently I have plenty of time to ponder the pecking order at the local discount branch.

Lucky me.

I was shuffling through the aisle that cuts through all the other aisles in a perpendicular fashion, and there she was in the beach furniture aisle. I caught a glimpse of wispy red hair tied up in what I like to call the "Teddy Bear Look." Incredibly milky skin adorned by a cute tank top and khaki shorts.

But I couldn't see her face.

I made my way around the aisle she was browsing and pretended to be glancing at the same items. She had massively bright eyes and before I knew it, she had caught me glancing at her.

She smiled and held my glance for half past a moment.

As most moronic guys do, I suddenly looked away. I wasn't farther than six feet from her.

And she caught me again. Staring. And she continued to smile.

My Inner Voice was shouting at full volume, "SAY SOMETHING YOU FUCKING MORON. ANYTHING! DOESN'T MATTER. COMMENT ON THE LACK OF QUALITY IN THE BEACH CHAIRS. PRETEND TO BUMP INTO HER. JUST SAY FUCKING HELLO."

"Wait a minute, where the fuck are you going? Huh? The toothpaste aisle? That can wait. You had your chance and you blew it. What the hell is wrong with you?"

And that's the Question of the Night.

What stopped me from taking a frickin' chance? Why didn't I possess the reservoir of courage necessary to introduce myself? And why does this keep happening over and over and over again lately?

After picking out all my crappy items that really had no intrinsic value compared to her smile, I could hear her moving her cart to the checkout lane.

"I'm sorry, that check stand is closed. Its my fault, I forgot to turn off the light."

She giggled gently and responded, "That's ok. I just like driving the cart around. It's fun."

Beautiful, bright-eyed and with a goofy sense of humor? Please, just leave all this stuff behind and lets run away together right now.

There was a rather Stringy Haired Lady browsing through her coupon stash who was a buffer between me and Girl Next Door in the checkout aisle. You could see her whole body change when she realized she had forgotten one of the items. She zipped away and it was just me and her, two feet of fate between us.

Women have this amazing sense when they're being stared at (in my case of course, admired) and she looked up almost surprised that it was me again and smiled.

I returned the favor but THAT'S ALL I DID.

I'm not a grotesque looking guy. Odd looking, but not disgusting. I'm not beefy or tall, but given the chance I can be charismatic and hilarious. Pretty successful in my career too. I work pretty hard and take care of all my responsibilities. I like to believe I have the possibility to be A Catch.

But with all that going for me, I still didn't feel I had the necessary traits to open a conversation and see if she was as sweet as she seemed.

I had one last chance in the parking lot, but something moved me to get to my truck as quickly as possible and exit the parking lot before she became tired of smiling at me and shunned me completely.

Something is truly wrong with me outside of all my health concerns and it disturbs me daily.

Tonight, wherever you happen to be Redheaded Girl Next Door, I hope you're happy.

Because of your presence in the Rite-Aid today, an electricity flowed through my system that I haven't felt in quite some time.

But do me a favor, would you? Stop haunting me. I can't get you out of my mind.

Since that fateful fifteen minutes, I have made a promise to myself. And you'd be surprised how often I keep said promises.

The next woman I meet that strikes me like you did, is going to meet Stacy Without An E.

Whether she likes it or not.

My Savior: The Catheter Succubus

2009-04-03T01:51:00.000-07:00

Death is on my mind constantly.

It started with the first year of treatment in 2004.

It didn't travel in the vicinity of the neighborhood near the province of good times.

When pain visits you consistently and mocks you with its volume, methods of Death make themselves vividly clear.

I am forty-five minutes from buildings in a laboriously ridiculous city that are jump worthy.

Using Craigslist in an attempt to hire a hitman seems easy enough.

Stopping Dialysis also seemed simple and reliable. Then I read what happens to your body once you stop treatment. It was half past pleasant and I've suffered enough.

Then along comes Catheter Succubus.

A simple uncapping of the lines. Large syringe to pull the blood out. Death within a minute as my lifeblood escapes for the very last time.

I would simply pass out from the lack of oxygen in my red blood cells and never wake up.

Planning would need to be performed meticulously.

I'd sell my truck and bike. Give all my useless crap to Goodwill.

Announce my two week notice to my employer and tell everyone I'm going on "sabbatical."

Borrow the biggest loan possible from my 401K.

I'd send half my savings to my best friend and half to my sister with the intention for the money to fund their children's future college educations.

I would include notes for both explaining clearly why I chose to end my life and for them to be thankful I'm no longer suffering.

The final note though will be the hardest series of words I've ever created.

My parents would be heartbroken, but I think my Mom would have another breakdown.

I would take that massive guilt to the grave along with my regrets.

Both plentiful, yet totally inconsequential.

I would request for my body to be cremated and my ashes to be spread from the middle of the span of the Golden Gate Bridge. I could view it from the sixth floor of Moffitt Hospital at UCSF while I was recovering from my first kidney transplant.

Some days it was my only friend.

This sounds like an excellent plan, but I'll have to muse upon it a little bit longer.

I feel like I'm missing something.

The Point of No Return

2009-04-02T01:28:00.000-07:00

I'm so close the breaking point I can feel the cracks in my beleaguered soul.

When you consistently do something for five years that you don't want to do, it makes you massively grumpy.

Or curmudgeonly unbearable.

Or sarcastically impervious to fun.

Or vanquished by the Evil Life Warrior.

I could do this all night.

Before treatment began I was rockin' the Second Kidney. I dated women constantly and enjoyed all the gifts that those activities provided.

I don't need to translate that for you in minute detail, do I?

I didn't think so.

I actually enjoyed the company of human beings and sought out their companionship quite often.

I often imagine that 2004 Stacy would pummel 2009 Stacy easily and with no remorse.

It of course would be a Geeky Nerd Fight. Or a Nerdy Geek Fight.

Many games of Battleship would be fought. Star Trek Trivia would spouted. "Planet of the Apes" would have to be shows so we can compare who known more of the quotes.

And after all those activities remained a tie, 2004 Stacy would sigh and simply punch me square in the jaw and tell me and everyone who looks like me to fuck the hell off.

(Quite sidebar: if you happen to look anything like me, I'll pray for you)

Five years later I feel as though every morning I awaken to world that is tarnished by my illness. I've endured unimaginable pain and repetitive vomiting regularly. I've accrued hours of lying on my office floor begging the Lord to take me right now.

You may ask where my support system is and that's a valid question.

I can't share what I'm going through because my parents get depressed and blame themselves.

I've caused them enough heartache for three lifetimes.

My sister and best friend both have kids, so they don't have time to hear my woes.

So I continue to keep it inside.

It bubbles. It pops. It sparks. It roars.

But it never escapes.

All I want to do now is get a little cabin away from civilization. Once a month I'll shuffle to town and pick up the supplies I desire. My only companion will be a labrador I picked up at the shelter who was abused by his past owner. We both allow the trauma of our lives to slip away as we try to resurrect the beings we once were. We connect on a spiritual level and enjoy the exhilaration of quiet.

Of course, none of this dream can begin without a new kidney.

Its almost become this phantom dream that I gave up on years ago. Incredibly obese people, illegal immigrants and celebrities all receive kidneys rather quickly.

Meanwhile, I play by the rules, exercise every day, eat well and receive nothing but Fuck You Mailers from UCSF.

Maybe the rotting evil I feel in the bowels of my soul is speaking to karmic retribution resulting in a lack of a new organ.

Of course, that's just a theory.

When it comes down to the lowest common denominator and everything else slips away, I really just honestly miss...

...me.

The Stacy Dialysis Itinerary

2009-03-26T16:21:00.000-07:00

Flirt with Giggly Princess Tech for fifteen minutes.

Flirt with Raven Haired Tech for twenty minutes.

Flirt with Smiley Blond Tech for twenty-five minutes.

Flirt with Hot LIbrarian Nurse for ten minutes.

Be seen by doctor for twelve seconds.

Be talked down to by Nurtritionist for two minutes.

Stare at Petite Neckish Patient on and off for twenty minutes.

After all of that fine Dialysis entertainment, since I'm a two hour run, treatment over.

Thank you and good night.

The Incompetent Goon

2009-03-21T21:01:00.001-07:00

I'm dripping in a massive pool of frustration and astonishment over my treatment tonight.

The unfortunate side effect of Catheter Succubus is that now I've segued from knowing all the PCT's personally to an unfortunate pool of nurses of varying quality.

I often wonder what the interview process is like.

"Ok, hello. Welcome. This will only take a sec. Do you have nursing experience in a Dialysis setting?"

The interviewee's skin becomes clammy as their bloodshot eyes give way to a nervous, stammering tick.

"Well, um, yeah, like, ok, sure. Whatever."

"You're hired!!"

Now don't get me wrong. I'm a big fan of Easy-Going Nurse. He has a vast knowledge from years in all types of nursing and always puts up with my shenanigans.

I should probably clarify.

When I arrive at Dialysis, my mood morphs suddenly from Gappy-Go-Lucky Mirthathon Stacy to Foul, Sarcastic, Railing Against the World Stacy.

And the techs fully understand that. When they ask me how I'm doing and I reply, "Half past dead" they understand I'm not being serious.

Because I've been a Dialysis patient longer than "The Office" has been on the air, I expect everyone to understand my verbal foibles.

That means I must train a whole new series of employees on the Tao of Stacy.

Not an easy task.

I mentioned Easy Going Nurse. There's also Stilted Accent Nurse. She seems to have a fair amount of knowledge concerning the massive world of nursing, but she drives me frickin' insane every treatment.

She speaks as loud as possibly acceptable in a clinic setting and drives her words seventy miles over the speed limit. Combined with an accent that instantly changes the meaning of words, its a complete nightmare.

"Heyyo Mr. Stacy. How are you dis avening?"

"Just unclamp my lines and pour in some cyanide so we can get this over with."

The world within our vicinity freezes as she holds my paperwork in mid-air. She leans in close and attempts to whisper, "Do you needz da soshul workerz?"

I stare her down a moment, then to Simply Sarcastic Tech who has joined our new trio.

"I'm kidding! I'm joking! You're holding up the line here."

I realize I should be nicer, but my urine has been flowing through my veins for the last six hours, so I'm not to be trifled with.

The training for this young padawan has just begun, so I'll cut her some slack.

Tonight though, was unbelievable.

I was introduced to Slub-A-Dub Nurse. Shuffling about the clinic like he's at the mall.

I was called in early to find that my machine wasn't fully cleaned at 5pm when I arrived.

Forty-five minutes later I had to ask one of the techs to call this guy back to check on my machine.

Apparently his Cheetos laden blood had slowed his thought process to the point of no return.

Yanking my lines. Please don't yank. Shoving my lines. Please don't shove. Dabbed a minute amount of alcohol pad around the exit site. Please use a proper amount to clean the area.

A quick Lincoln-Douglas debate started in my head between which was more lacking: his work ethic or bedside manner.

Finally, all taped up and ready to delve into the world of "Rescue Me" for the next two hours while he waddles away. At least that's over with.

Quiz time! My treatment started at 5:48pm. My runtime is two hours. What time should I be removed from the machine.

If you said 7:48pm, you're Einstein compared to Slub-A-Dub.

At exactly 7:20pm, the machine signals I'm done.

I didn't verbalize it, but in my head I'm screaming, "What the fuck motherfucker goddamn fucking retard asshole fucked up my goddamn treatment? How the fuck is simple time management a course in biochemistry? Fuckfuckfuckfuck."

Simply Sarcastic Tech came over and knew it wasn't time yet. This was mentioned to Slub-a-Dub who said the most hilarious thing all day.

"I wonder how that happenned."

One of the added incentives of six day a week, two hour treatments is when the unlikely chance that I have plans arise, I can call ahead and tell them I'm not coming in.

Monday evening before I step on to the Fart Ravaged clinic floor, I will ask the administrator who the scheduled nurse is for each treatment day this week.

If Slub-a-Dub's name makes an appearance in my future, I'll just skip a treatment.

I know, but I don't have time for rational thinking.

The worst part of all is as I was leaving the clinic, I tripped over my own IQ points spilling from my skull.

Thanks Slub-a-Dub. I'm dumber for having experienced you.

60 Seconds In the True Life of a Dialysis Patient

2009-03-16T16:05:00.000-07:00

Occasionally people muster enough compassion and curiosity to ask what's it like to be on Dialysis.

This fantastic clip from the last few episodes of "ER" epitomize it beautifully and tragically:

Since his character has only been on Dialysis for a few weeks, I'm going to be very disappointed if he gets a cadaver kidney. It would do a disservice to those unaware of what Dialysis patients endure and would take the TV cop out that most shows seem to embrace (I'm talking to you "Nip/Tuck")

I've returned to "ER" after seasons away to see how they handle this character's predicament.

For the sake of all of us suffering through this horrible treatment, lets hope after fifteen years of quality television, they don't let us down in the end.

The Changing of the Guard

2009-03-15T17:28:00.000-07:00

I am a dichotomy of strangers fused at the hip.

Stacy West doesn't care for change. He fights it, abhors it and must entirely deny its existence.

Ten years toiling in the same flightless job. Eight years in cahoots with my short bed truck.

BLT's, burritos and bagels every single week, from the very same places repeat and repeat.

Yet Stacy East finds pleasure in variety and change dressed in a flowing dress of unpredictability.

I present these Stacy Facts to you to illustrate how wonderfully capable Stacy As a Whole is able to handle the latest physical traumas thrown my way.

As my doctors will detail in full frustration, I put off procedures as long as possible then cancel three days ahead and reschedule a month later in hopes that the need for said undertaking will cease and desist.

That, obviously, is never the case.

My Latest Dialysis Access began life as simple tubing, inserted by an egotistical doctor with a bad attitude.

Who knew boy had skills?

Thirteen years and seven months later, after telling numerous nurses not to cuff or needle my access arm, it was all over.

The Stacy Dialysis Access died a quiet death at the hands of a vascular surgeon at 1:15pm on Thursday, March 12th.

His tomb is my upper arm, a reminder of just how much life he brought for the last five years.

When our relationship began, we fought all the time. The needle pain he allowed pushed me from hating his presence to hating the entire me.

But as time went by, and we learned to work concurrently, I forgave him.

And now he is no more. He sacrificed himself for a Brand New Stacy Access with strength and vitality, yet no knowledge of what's to come.

Stacy Dialysis Access was such a presence in my life, it takes two to replace him.

Joining Brand New Stacy Access in a bold new attempt to save my life is Catheter Succubus.

She has claimed the entire upper right quadrant of my chest as her own, creating pain that varies in volume from hour to hour.

My New Access Scar is only four inches long and rarely makes a sound. But Catheter Succubus desires my attention loudly and without remorse.

Moments before I'm to swallow another 1000mg. of Norco, she cackles at my weakness.

"You're trying to forget me aren't you? AREN'T YOU???"

"You got it Cath. Now shut the fuck up while I take these pills and lie my skinny ass down."

Yeah, its that type of relationship.

Brand New Dialysis Access begs for us to keep it down, to allow him to rest in peace, but the chance of that is slim.

And not only is Cath temperamental, she has strict rule to follow.

"Hey, what're you doin' there pal? Got yourself a Ziploc bag and some plastic tape, hmmm. No, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO YOU DON'T. DON'T TAPEMCOQPUDACIEMC.ZOEUQ"

Her protestations are hard to decipher through impenatrable plastic.

I take the most careful shower of my existence. Make sure not to have the water streams poke directly at my chest. Turn my body a certain way to keep the water at a minimal rate. Cut shower short to lessen impact of water.

Once back in my bedroom I removed my plastic shield and Cath was shaking. Her voice was trembling and she spoke softly and gently.

"Please. Don't, um, well, please don't, um, please don't do that again, ok?"

With a little smile on my face, I responded. "Whatsamatter?"

"Well, um..." There were tears nearly streaming down her tubing. "...if I get wet I could catch an infection. And that would be bad for both of us."

I paused momentarily as I adjusted my boxers from my ankles to my waist.

"You know, you're right Cath, that could be disastorous. But I'm big on hygiene."

We both stood in the middle of my bedroom, moist and musing upon our future together.

I slowly rested myself vertically on the bed and glanced up toward the ceiling. This was my position of choice when I needed to think.

"How about I shower only every other day? That would better our odds by 50% and wouldn't traumatize you so much. How does that sound?"

Cath was quiet for a moment, but then spoke gently, barely above a whisper.

"Sounds good. Thank you, you're very kind."

We both continued to rest, enjoying the soft hum of my oscillating fan. But then Brand New Stacy Access spoke up.

"OhmyGod...that was awesome! Little droplets of water dancing upon my edges, it felt so good, so very good Lets do it again!"

Cath and I turned to each other and said in unison, "Shut the hell up."

For a few moments longer, all was quiet in the world of Stacy's Body.

Standard Operating Procedure

2009-02-16T20:56:00.000-08:00

The aroma of unwashed ass and unsocked feet festers in my nostrils as I step upon the clinic floor.

I find an immediate path to my designated chair and find I'm planted four chairs away from Obese Gout Dude. His gelatinous fat spills over the sides of the over-sized chair as he continues his addiction of shoveling Lays Potato Chips down his gullet. His bulbous gout covers both his calloused feet as potato crumbs stand proudly on his belly.

Across the clinic floor, out of view of my vision, but incredibly loud is Pompous Lawyer Douche. He has made the proud decision to accidentally, or possibly not, pull out his headphone jack so everyone can enjoy, "Fuck me! Fuck me! Harder fucker! Spank my ass! Ugh! Ugh! Spank it!" Massive fumbling is heard just moments before the Windows chime bellows across the clinic floor. I couldn't see the color of his face, but I'm guessing crimson.

Tonight I have the unfortunate luck to be seated directly next to Blathering Goatee Goon. Every word he utters must be spoken AT THE LOUDEST VOLUME POSSIBLE BECAUSE EVERYTHING HE SAYS IS REALLY, REALLY IMPORTANT AND EVERYONE MUST SUFFER THROUGH HIS EVERY IQ-DEPLETED STATEMENT.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes and allow my overworked imagination to transport me to the front row of a first class jet that will not land until it arrives upon the beaches of Greece. As I plop myself upon the main cushion, a petite little brunette wearing less that she should curls up beside me.

"These chairs are big enough for two, can we share?"

The entire affair is rudely interrupted by Stealth Gang Member who is shoving Spanish quickly and effortlessly into his cell phone.

The mundane and habitual takes over and I hold back very little surprise when I find that there is once again feces on the rim of the toilet bowl and on the wall nearby. I'm not certain, but I believe once the government certifies a Dialysis patient as disabled, they also hand them a license to crap wherever they damn well please.

Mine must have been misplaced. Or I appear to be a gentleman with grace and common sense who would never treat my fellow man with such disgrace. Hard to tell.

Tonight it was Stilted Accent Tech's turn to pummel me into submission. I have requested, nearly demanded and cursed loudly for him to listen, but he is so set in his ways that it falls on deaf ears.

"Please insert the lidocaine slowly. Please do not scurry the needle around when entering. Please pull the needle straight or it scrapes."

I used to witness his presence in my pod and request someone else administer my pain. His verbal assault on my character to anyone who would listen taught me a valuable lesson.

As I shuffled to my car in the breezy rain, I found myself taking stock.

Frustration for my condition and hatred toward myself had long since evaporated, yet I didn't acknowledge their absence.

Had I grown, or was that hollow feeling I still possessed a reservoir for something I needed?

Maybe its time for love again.

Free Floating Hostility: 2009 Edition

2009-02-04T21:35:00.000-08:00

There's a bunch of individuals who I'm really fucking tired of and they're being called out right here, right now before they fucking abuse you too.

--- I'm tired of stereotypical guys in line at the Taco Bell who have to comment sexually on every woman that passes by then proceed to stick their tongues out at their equally neanderthal companion and make those ridiculous hang loose gestures that you fuckers do.

Treat women with a little respect and you might be surprised how little use you have for porn.

--- I'm tired of old guys who buy one green pepper and then tell their life story to the cashier when there's fourteen people in line waiting to get back to work. I'm sorry you're old and alone but you're holding up the economy. Obama and his goons can't do it all by themselves.

--- I'm tired of women who take their little spawn to the park and then proceed to spend the entire time yakking on their cell phone ignoring the little fuck while he proceeds to feel up every little girl in the nearby vicinity.

I predict that in ten years the last thing he hears before he goes to jail is, "Hello, I'm Chris Hanson."

--- I'm tired of people who assume I get a free pass from being fired because I have kidney disease. I can be fired just as easily as your incredibly huge hallway blocking ass can. Treating me discourteous because you think I have it easy it disgusting. Keep sloshing down that giant bag of Lay's Potato Chips for breakfast like you do every morning and you'll be in the chair next to me wondering how I've endured five years of this demoralizing crap.

--- I'm tired of guests at Dialysis. The fact that you thought it was funny when you bent down to pick up that fast food wrapper and your massively gigantic ass bumped my machine speaks volumes to my belief that boiling in oil should be a common penalty for being a fucktard in today's society.

Are you still going to think its funny when I'm next to you on the street corner and I bend over and throw you into traffic? I thought not.

--- I'm tired of dealing with patients who don't believe in respecting others with manageable hygiene. I get called out a lot on this because people think I'm attacking old people. Lets get the facts straight here: I'm on the night shift, where everyone has a day job. There are no old people gizmo.

Taking off your shoes to allow your gout to breathe, disgusting. Smelling of three day old feces, how dare you. Wearing some clothes that don't have vomit stains on them, simply common sense. Get your shit together (literally and figuratively) and have some respect for yourself and for others forced into your vicinity.

And yes, I am spraying Febreeze every ten minutes because of you fucknut extraordinaire.

--- I'm tired of patients abusing the handicapped parking. We have one of these behemoth patients who weights 225kg. That's nearly 500 pounds to you and me.

She supposedly uses a wheelchair because her legs can't support her weight.

Her whines are the same every treatment.

"I can't get out of my chair, I need help. I can't get on the scale, I need help. I can't get in the chair, I need help. I can't get out of the chair, I need help."

You get the idea.

I came in early on Saturday and arrived in the parking lot moments after she had left the clinic. She rolled herself to the side of this giant van, got up without a problem, lifted the wheelchair and placed it in said van and walked around to the driver side and had no problem getting in.

She did all of this while being parked right out front in handicapped parking.

This is really the fucking government's fault because they consider Dialysis patients as disabled.

What a fucking insult that is. And so is this ridiculous mound of goo.

--- I'm tired of hypocritical leaders. Excuse me Obama? Yeah, hi. Middle class working voter here. Some really top notch people you're inviting to run individual departments in your administration.

Tom Daschle didn't pay his taxes and accepted improper gifts. Nancy Killefer? More late taxes. Bill Richardson has been investigated for links between state contracts and political contributions. I don't want to turn this into an attack on one side of the aisle, but can't you find anyone to work for you that doesn't have a criminal background or is involved in some scandal?

You promised change and all you've been doing is offering jobs to people who are sniffing around your shoes. If this is the best you can do, I sense you may be referred to as George II in the not too distant future. Get out the shit shovel and clean your house before every ounce of good will you accepted last month dies gasping for air on the floor of the Oval Office.

For those of you who may have found the preceding horrifying, inappropriate and highly unnecessary, keep in mind its keeping me from punching each of these Emmy award winners in the gullet and yanking out their spleen.

It's a service I do for you, and for society as a whole, because I love my country.

I just don't love the nimrods in it.

Thank you and good night.

Stacy Vacation 2009: Day 6...I'm on BlogTalkRadio

2009-01-22T19:47:00.001-08:00

For those of you who are keeping track, yes, I skipped Day 5 because it was highly uneventful and overly annoying.

Kind of like me on the radio. Or in person. Or in my blog.

Today began like every other day of my vacation with my inner voice yawning, "Hey there buddy. Yeah, we feel like crap again today, lets just stay in bed and stare at the marks on the ceiling."

Damn lazy inner voice.

I scheduled my treatment early so I could join Dr. Anonymous and Kim of AsThePumpTurns.com as their guest with Tracy from KaplyInc on the Dr. Anonymous Show on BlogTalkRadio.com.

I know what you're thinking.

"Stacy, aren't you on the radio enough? Do you really need more airtime? Or deserve more?"

The answers to those questions are yes, no and probably not.

Not necessarily in that order.

I'm fascinated by the whole process because its all done through the phone line. That's pretty amazing. Considering we use what's considered professional radio equipment, I'm overwhelmed by what people are able to create on their own.

I decided to come into work and use the land line so:

A) I don't have to pay for the damn call.
B) The audio fidelity will be better and not digitized.

Much like I am in person, I was all over the place and didn't quite articulate my points as clearly as I wanted to. But I'm really thankful they asked me to join them.

On my radio show, I don't talk about treatment much anymore.

When I first started Dialysis, I would talk about it in the last break before I ended the show.

This illicited two very different reactions.

There were people angry that I would "bum them out" talking about my condition. They told me to "shut the fuck up and just play the fucking music."

Gee thanks. I'm sure you'll never have to deal with an a illness and everything will be fine and dandy and you'll live your years disease free.

The other side was really surprising.

People who are dealing with their own health issues stepped up to tell me how inspirational I was. I continued to work even though I had this terrible illness.

Believe me. That's not what I was going for. Or how I see myself.

I'm just a schmuck who loves what he does and gets another chance every day to get it right.

If you'd like to hear my thoughts on Dialysis, click the following link:

Dr. Anonymous Show #69: Dialysis

Look at the player in the center of the screen and hit play for Show #69.

Thank you and good night.

Stacy Vacation 2009: Day 4...Two Hours of Vertical Time

2009-01-20T23:29:00.000-08:00

The longer you're on Dialysis, no matter how hard you try, it starts to slowly and methodically kill you.

Which is why "Vacation" has turned into "Excessive Bed Rest Time."

I'm so disappointed and I don't know why I continually do this to myself over and over and over again.

"Hey, I'm going to do this and I'm going to go there and meet up with so-and-so. It'll be so fantastically entertaining I'll be talking about it for years to come."

I managed to arise by 1pm to devour some delicious chicken tacos at my favorite Taqueria and read the paper.

Once that concluded, I was too weak and dizzy to travel anywhere else.

My life has become a big waiting room of resting while I wait for my next Dialysis treatment.

P.S...Make sure to sign on to BlogTalkRadio.com @ 6pm this Thursday, January 22nd at 6pm (as Anonymous brought up on my last entry, yes, it is Pacific Time) where I'll be railing against Dialysis, exposing the huge Dialysis Conspiracy and generally getting myself into more trouble.

I've got nothing left, so this is what I do.

Stacy Vacation 2009: Day 3...Labor of Loathing

2009-01-19T23:29:00.000-08:00

The last two vacations I took, it happened. My body decided to take a vacation, thus leaving me weak and dizzy in bed while it went out and had some personal time with that cute redhead at the bagel shop.

That's right. My body feels no regret leaving me behind while it portends to have a good time.

So be it.

I tried arising from my bed two, three, five times to no avail.

And the problem with being this diluted, it limits my appetite when food would make me feel half past decent.

I managed to shower, clean myself up and head out to Gottschalks to find a new wallet.

(You may remember that my last one fell out of my pocket back in June and some lowlife tried to fill up their gas tank with my debit card. Loser squared.)

So there I was, about to benefit because Gottschalks is in bankruptcy proceedings, or going out of business, or maybe just trying to fool us all to bolster sales.

Whatever the case, I found my new slim, leather wallet originally worth $45 for $20.

For those of you playing along at home, it took seven months to buy a new wallet.

In my defense, Dialysis is slowly killing me.

Tonight at treatment they seated me very closely next to Humongous Gout Dude.

Every treatment he kicks off his shoes and allows his aromatic feet to disgust everyone within eyeshot.

Then, as I was being removed, he just stared at me, mouth agape, drooling slightly and smelling of Lays Potato Chips, his nutrition of choice during treatment.

Of the many personality traits of patients I loathe, after everything I've experienced during my tenure here, that is numero uno.

Here's a little tip to the staff at my excellent clinic: No. Frickin'. Staring. Allowed.

There used to be a rule that no guests were allowed during hookup or release of the needles.

I've seen their look of contempt. Its simple to read it in their eyes.

"I'm glad I'm not you."

The staff wonders why this makes me so angry when people observe me as their own personal car wreck.

Close your eyes, imagine you're in pain and people are gawking.

Go ahead. I'll wait.

None too fun, is it?

This concludes this entry for Stacy Vacation 2009 Day 3, which I really am regretting about starting in the first place.

(Note to self: In the future, don't blog about your vacation. Its just a cruel reminder of the life that I no longer have.)

Thank you and good night.

Stacy Vacation 2009: Day 2...Early Dizziness & Later Triumphs

2009-01-18T23:38:00.000-08:00

Weak. Exhausted. Full of doubt as to whether I would arise today or not.

If it weren't for the Pittsburgh Steelers, I would still in bed stewing in my own lack of hygiene.

Eventually managed to pull myself together around 1:30pm with a shower and a shave and a desire to see the Pittsburgh Steelers reach the Super Bowl.

For those who may believe I'm a fair weather fan, here are my credentials as follows:

--- My father grew up in Wheeling, West Virginia, three hours from Pittsburgh.

--- My father worked as an ironworker for 20 years on both coasts, thus living up to the origin of the team.

--- I watched all four 70's Super Bowl's on my Dad's lap in our giants easy chair.

--- The year that the Steelers went to Super Bowl XXX, my father and I went to one of their final wins that season at the Oakland Coliseum. As we were waiting for BART, everybody was quiet except for dotted fans along the breezeway talking crap. Creepiest ten minutes of my life.

--- In 1990, my father purchased my first and only Pittsburgh Steeler jacket. I am wearing it as I compose this entry.

I called my parents immediately after the game and my Dad didn't want to talk too long because he was having immense back pain. I spoke to my Mom, who's also not feeling well these days.

This saddened me, but I was hoping they could join me here for Super Bowl XLIII.

I can't travel because of my six day a week treatments. Chalk up another score for Dialysis.

I'm willing to have treatment early on Friday and then drive the nine hours to La Pine, Oregon, but they'll have nothing to hear of it.

I just thought of an idea.

What if I were to drive there without them knowing??

They would be angry for a little while, but that would eventually evaporate.

I will have to muse upon that.

All in all, Day 2 of the Official Stacy Vacation 2009? 60/40.

I'm going to workout. Thank you and good night.

P.S...Make sure to sign on to BlogTalkRadio.com @ 6pm this Thursday, January 22. I will be a guest on the Dr. Anonymous Show with guest host Kim (who used to be a tech at my clinic) I'll be discussing my illness, how I've dealt with Dialysis treatments and about this blog.

Stacy Vacation 2009: Day 1...Why the Frak Am I At Work?

2009-01-17T23:16:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I used a "Battlestar Galactica" reference. That's how I roll homies.

My God, I sound like an idiotic moron. Or an moronic idiot. You decide.

(It is the best drama on television, by the way. Check, check it.)

There will be a total of nine days in my vacation, but I'm only being charged for four days because of the two weekend and Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday.

Due to the fact that our morning show is in Memphis, I was required to come in today and run all the buttons, knobs and switches for our live broadcast for the Wedding Expo.

I get paid extra, so what the hell.

For the last couple of weeks I've been musing upon what to do during my vacation knowing full well I can't go far due to highly evil but extremely necessary Dialysis.

What I would really like to do is enjoy one of the nearby beaching communities. Bodega Bay doesn't feel like I'm really on vacation, so I was thinking about Santa Cruz. Mid-week when its not as crowded. Great coastal and inland hiking. The Coconut Grove at the Boardwalk has tons of classic video games (one of my vices) Great eating downtown.

I was going to book two days and two nights last week, but I've been in quite the frugal mood lately.

I spent my twenties acquiring debt and my thirties trying to pay it off.

Which is why I'm hesitant to book a trip.

But in the center of my core where only the truth survives, I know deep down I need to get the hell out of Dodge.

Home. Work. Dialysis. Home. Work. Dialysis. Home. Work...

It would drive me clinically insane if I wasn't so tired.

What I've discovered about myself is that when I try to workout or attend dinner with someone, I need a little push. Little jaunts away from my creature of habit lifestyle.

But those moments up until the entertainment begins, my body has an amazing ability to keep me bedridden.

Which puts a cramp in the vacation lifestyle.

The following is what I hope occurs before Stacy Vacation 2009 is over:
--- Enjoy the regenerative powers of a long swim in a heated pool.
--- Makeout with someone I just recently met.
--- Hike to the top of one of the local mountaintops and scream, "Fuck Dialysis!"
--- Play a little blackjack at the local Indian casino.
--- Devour an entire steak all by myself (sometimes I need help)
--- Go for a long bike ride knowing full well I can return whenever I want.
--- See some of the fated Oscar nominated films (I have a dozen movie passes, so cost won't factor in)
--- Did I mention making out with someone I recently met? Okay, just checking.

So to recap Day One of Stacy Vacation 2009:
--- I worked for three hours and finished up all the remaining work so I can actually go on vacation.
--- Was called into Dialysis early and felt much worse after than before.
--- Went for a stealth-like walk through the hills of Santa Rosa.
--- Devoured my first Jack-in-the-Box Chicken Fajita Pita (too much lettuce)
--- Finished the final seventy pages of "That Damn Dialysis" (review pending)
--- Dreamed about the neckish doctor that saw me at clinic today (I want to run away with her, but she's married to one of the other doctors)

Tomorrow is the AFC Championship starring the Pittsburgh Steelers. If they lose, tomorrow's post will be sad and depressing (just thought you deserved a heads up)

Thank you and good night.

Life: The Sufferers Version

2009-01-10T21:23:00.000-08:00

When suffering from a major illness like kidney disease (or as I like to call it, Life Crusher 3000) you inadvertently become an observer of the human race.

Most people I don't know illicit two reactions: annoyance (a majority of the time) and amusement (yeah, no one's noticing as you dig into your butt for ten minutes)

But those of us bathed in the Art of Suffering have observed something about all or you Normal Healthy People (or "Norms" as I like to call them) that you'll never comprehend.

Your life is slightly out of focus.

As you rush off to work ten minutes late, you fail to take in the plethora of leaves coating your driveway in hues of bright winter colors.

You swallow a huge meal and guzzle down a quart of diet soda at lunch giving no thought to the fact that you're blessed to have an appetite.

Weekends are not complete unless you wander aimlessly through the strip mall to collect items simply because your neighbor acquired them first.

Those of us in the Suffering Club do no such thing.

More times than we wish to admit, we're biding our time in a hospital bed or clinic chair waiting for treatment to cease for the day.

The Clan of Suffering may not move as fast as you like, or act as quickly as you suggest, but we have one advantage you will never understand.

We're entirely focused.

Moments of life that we used to take for granted, we enjoy even more now.

Holding down a BLT makes its flavor that much more intense.

Feeling the cool breeze on our skin as we're upright for more than an hour is heavenly.

Traveling more than an hour away whenever we like, a treasure.

Watching you race through life without even taking a breath, that makes us sad.

Because you'll never truly live until you become one of us.

We're few. We're proud. And we suffer every single day.

We hold the True Meaning of Life close to our soul and cherish it every day.

Mock us. Curse us. Call us names.

Until you're truly one of us, none of the above will ever make sense.

Late Score Coming In: Stacy 7, Dialysis 0

2009-01-05T21:11:00.000-08:00

Occasionally there are tiny little moments in life that wash my way and momentarily restore my faith in humanity.

They don't last long, so they become increasingly memorable the longer I sail through life.

And 2009 started off with a doozy.

I can't begin to tell you how upset I would get upon arriving at treatment to find that I'm seated next to Pompous Lawyer Douche. Or the Redneck Twins. Or Clinically Obese Fat Dude.

Or is he Clinically Fat Obese Dude? It's so hard to tell, fat people all look alike to me.

What they all share, besides colorful adjectives, is their ability to ruin my favorite shows and films simply because THEY BELIEVE I SHOULD ENDURE EVERY MOMENT OF THE USELESS ENTERTAINMENT THEY'RE SHOVING DOWN THEIR OVER-SIZED GULLET.

I know. I was sorry minutes before it happened. I despise yelling, but I think now you're coated in my point.

This blog post would be three miles long if I listed how many awesome TV shows and engrossing films have been utterly ruined by these tyrants.

But not tonight. Not anymore. Never happening again.

After receiving the brand spankin' new 2009 "Patient Rights & Responsibilities" I composed this wonderful entry: A Dialysis Christmas Miracle and quoted my own letter to our now-wonderful-labeled-Clinic-Manager.

I know, how narcissistic. But I hope for the sake of this post, you'll let that pass like bad gas.

As you'll see, I hypothesized that disconnecting all the TV speakers would make for a brighter, friendlier and MUCH SAFER clinic.

This seemed to make sense to the High Priestess of Dialysis. I was told that Sunday, January 4th (a Sunday when said clinic be closed yo) would be Disconnect Speaker Day.

I must admit, I had my misgivings.

I figured that I would receive a message or note telling me "blabbedy blab blab...not possible...blubbedy blub blub...technical difficulties..."

You get the idea. Or you at least receive an inkling of the idea of what I'm trying to portray henceforth.

Yeah, I don't know where the hell that sentence is going either.

Lo and behold, when I arrive at First Stacy Dialysis Treatment of the Week (rated PG for Pretty Gnarly) it's Serenity Now.

Every single annoying, self centered, pompous, egotistical patient that I had railed against for the past four and a half years was wearing headphones.

I never, ever have anything remotely approaching a smile on my face when I enter this God-forsaken place (and in case you're wondering, every single person in here, sans staff, were forgotten by God long ago)

Today, a hint of an idea of an inkling of the possibility of a smile was nearly possible.

Tonight before I left I realized something I hadn't experienced in ages.

I was swept away. By "Veronica Mars". And forgot. That I was present. At clinic.

And that's the entire reason for all the hoops I had to destroy to get to this point at clinic.

Every single time a numb-skull patient would blast their television they were basically saying, "I don't give a fuck what you're watching cuz my needs are more important than yours. I need everyone to know that I'm enjoying a novella, or rasslin', or the same fucking episode of 'Friends' we've all seen a ridiculous amount of times and you HAVE to watch it with me. Score one for the assholes of the world."

Not anymore schlub-a-dub-dub.

Tonight was peaceful and serene. My blood pressure was down a good 10%. Rainbows and unicorns poured down from the ceiling. Beautiful naked women played Twister all night long. Cheez-Itz as big as your head were plentiful. Winona Ryder stopped by and made out with me for a good ten minutes.

Have I detailed my euphoria enough yet, or would you like me to continue?

I didn't think so.

You might want to save this post for the historical record, because it might be my last positive post about Dialysis for the remainder of the millennium.

I must now depart from the Blogosphere dear friends.

I feel a letter to the Clinic Manager about short-haired, neckish dancing girls coming on.

Happy Frickin' New Year

2009-01-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

As I laid in bed today for the fourteenth consecutive hour, I pondered 2008.

That's right. I didn't think about it. Or muse upon its happenings. Or gestate on the occurrences.

I pondered.

And let me tell you, what a waste of time that was.

If I ever decide to waste my time pondering last year, I will remember it as the most lackluster of my life.

Work. Dialysis. Bed. Work. Dialysis. Bed. Work. Dialysis.

Oh, to hell with it. You get my point.

Due to my lack of enthusiasm for anything involving anyone, I've allowed friends to fall by the wayside.

I let Dialysis steal my once proud enthusiasm for my career.

And the one person I thought I could count on no matter what, stopped taking my calls.

That is probably my biggest regret, but by no fault of my own.

The Greek Goddess is a raven-haired little vixen who has survived on Dialysis for over ten years. Roughly around August, my calls started going unanswered. Because her health has been so limited recently, I unfortunately thought the worst. I honestly don't know whether she's still with us.

Even allowing the thought of her possible demise to venture in the vicinity of my existence is vulgar to me. She's the strongest person I've ever encountered and has so much to offer the world.

Life isn't just unfair, it's repulsive.

I receive distasteful e-mails sometimes telling me just to shut the hell up and give up already.

These types have obviously never endured a major illness.

But they do have a point.

What is the point of life if you're not truly living?

I didn't kiss anyone in 2008. Or get naked. Not even a drink until New Year's Eve.

I saw my best friend and his family once, for three hours, on his son's birthday.

I had to race back home because of treatment.

I managed to drive to San Francisco for a mini-reunion with two friends from my first year of college.

I saw my parents for a day and a half around Thanksgiving. That visit was cut short by my poor Dad's back pain.

And I managed to get management at Dialysis to disconnect all the damn TV speakers so we can actually get treated properly.

I'm drained. And hollow. A shell of the Stacy I never thought I'd be.

If you're looking for me, I'll be under the covers, hiding from the inevitability of 2009.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas @ Dialysis

2008-12-24T20:50:00.000-08:00

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the clinic,
Everyone was cleansing, even the cynics.

The filters were hung by the machines with such care,
That woman in Chair Thirteen should really use Nair.

When from the Isolation Room, there arose such a clatter,
Was Clinically Obese Woman suddenly getting fatter?

Santa barreled in drunk and confused, smelling of pee,
I stopped him and asked, "Where's my new kidney?"

"You're here, being treated, boy, that really sucks.
According to my calculations, you're totally fucked."

He tried to fondle Raven Haired Tech, he was such a wreck,
She plastered her fist and he hit the deck.

"There's blood, and gauze, and it smells of bean farts!
That chick in Chair Three is quite the little tart!"

The patients had enough, so did the staff.
Our patience for Santa had been cut in half.

He stumbled to his feet, coughed up & screamed, "Hey fuckers!"
"All of you people are totally suckers!"

"No kidneys! No salty food! No soda or fruit!"
I suddenly realized the holiday had turned Santa into a coot.

He righted himself and placed his finger inside of his nose.
Moments later, his forehead furrowed.

"I'm thirsty! I'm nauseous! Give me a beer!"
As the nurse approached, I could see his fear.

His demeanor changed, he was cuddly as a bear.
The nurse led him to his very own, Dialysis chair.

He needed treatment, he was sick, he was out of his mind.
Instead of eight reindeer, he was one of our kind.

The needles were hard to insert because Santa is so fat.
Years of cookies and milk can tend to do that.

"Cholestoral, 330. BUN, 45."
It was any wonder, that Santa was still alive.

Halfway through treatment, he screamed, "Keep up the fight!"
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

He then vomited blood all over the tech's shiny white coat.
He passed out later, and that's all she wrote.

To my fellow brethren at Dialysis, thank you for your care.
It means so much, that you're actually there.

It's quiet and lonely, my family I miss.
Deservedly so, I'm all alone this Christmas.

A Dialysis Christmas Miracle

2008-12-19T22:36:00.001-08:00

The following is a letter I wrote to our Clinical Manager on December 8, 2008:

I am writing in regards to the recently updated Patient Rights & Responsibilities printout that was handed to me earlier today at treatment.

More specifically, I would like to address the heading Behavior (#4) which I will quote:

“Treating the staff and other patients with consideration, respect and recognition of individual differences, both in language and behavior.”

There are many patients who, on a regular basis, take the words "consideration and respect" and wipe them on their shoes (when they’re wearing them.)

I am referring of course to the intolerable use of the televisions in the clinic setting.

Before I began as a patient of Satellite Dialysis four years, six months and 25 days ago, I never really had an issue with sound. It didn’t bother me in the slightest.

Unfortunately, after putting up with patient after patient who refused to turn down their television after numerous requests, I became highly anxious and, on occasion, have panic attacks due to the lack of "consideration and respect."

Lets put aside the fact that I have been told to “f*** off” or “go f*** yourself” or (my personal favorite) “f*** you honky.”

I adore that last one because it takes me back to a simpler time when people had "consideration and respect" for one another. It also violates #5 under Behavior which states, “Never under any circumstances, threaten, intimidate, physically or verbally abuse…”

I’ll let that slide because I find it more entertaining than offensive.

Your incredibly accommodating staff has done everything possible not only to seat me two or three chairs away from these Emmy award winners, but also to try and mediate the situation.

Mostly, to no avail.

But my biggest issue comes down to patient safety. On two separate occasions, I have been unable to notify the staff when I was bleeding because the cretin next to me had THEIR TV ON TOO LOUD.

Sorry to yell, but you get my point.

The solution is rather simple and, I believe, technically viable.

Disconnect all the speakers on the TV remotes so if a patient wishes to watch TV, they have no choice but to wear headphones.

More manageable clinic. Safer patient environment. Everybody wins.

I thank you for your time and Merry Christmas.

To the Clinic Manager's credit, I received a call back the very next day, informing me that this issue would be looked into.

I know. I've heard that one before too.

But today, a minor miracle happened.

I was informed by a member of the administration staff that my suggestion is viable, and can be achieved with relative ease after the holidays are over.

With 48 chairs (is the isolation booth 49?) it will take some time.

But do you realize what this means??

I may live to see a fifth year of Dialysis.

No more days where I'm unable to alert the staff that I'm bleeding all over their snowflake floors.

No more will I be unable to alert staff when I'm being inundated with cramps.

And best of all.

I'll never have to talk to any of these wretched patients ever, ever again.

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Inner Virtue, Outer Hell

2008-12-17T21:43:00.000-08:00

I often wonder if I don't deserve my fate.

Believe it or not, I wasn't always this caustic.

Five years ago before this ordeal began, I was hopeful and virile, yet ankle deep in my own naivety. Friends were plentiful and women responded to my company on a regular basis.

But layers deep, fettering and gaining strength, were the shadows. Recesses of darkness buried under mirth and merriment. I was aware of their existence, but they were under control.

When they would manifest, I would immediately quash their actions and attempt to bury them even deeper.

I was embarrassed, ashamed of their very existence. The pride I held in my personal strength was probably the beginning of my fall.

It took sheer force of will to maintain my composure, but they wanted acknowledgment, something I could never offer.

In the end, that was probably my Achilles heel, the beginning of the end.

Sometimes swallowing what we wish to hide from the world can devour us from within.

And that's exactly what happened.

Dialysis saw this coming and giggled in glee at my impending journey.

Weeks upon weeks upon weeks of endless treatment have left me a shell of the man I remember. When this reality focuses in my mind, sadness seeps outward from the recesses of who I used to be.

And it can't be stopped.

Joyous exuberance for daily adventures has been replaced with a vitriol against everything and anything within my scope.

My name has been replaced with terms I never thought would reference who I truly am.

Contemptible. Incorrigible. Curmudgeon.

I'm all of the above, and still, just a little less.

I can't be called "Stacy" again until Dialysis releases its grasp on my life.

Unfortunately, it seems like that day will never arrive.

Free Floating Hostility: Holiday Edition

2008-12-15T21:35:00.000-08:00

If Dialysis has allowed me any luxuries, its the ability to get in touch with my anger freely and without restraint.

Now certain people will read that and think, "Well, that Stacy is a powder keg. We better sit him down so he can talk about his feelings."

I'll be honest. That's a waste of both of our times.

That's one of the many annoying reasons why I created this wonderfully literary opus of a blog.

Yeah, that was meant to be sarcastic. Maybe I should have italicized it for full emphasis.

But it's post treatment and I'm too damn drained.

Time now for my occasional, yet totally necessary, Holiday Edition of Free Floating Hostility.

Soon to be a low rated TV movie on the CW starring Paul Reubens in the title role.

"6 Reasons I Despise the Human Race (This Week)"

1. High Beam Whores

When did it become acceptable that everyone (and I mean every-God-damn-one-of-you) has to have their high beams on?

This hearkens back to my earlier rants on entitlement in this country.

I turn MY high beams on because I need to blind every other driver to prove MY superiority.

Or ignorance. It's hard to tell because my corneas are bleeding.

2. Fat People @ the Trader Joe's

I have a new rule where I only shop at Trader Joe's an hour before it closes. On numerous occasions (moreso now that the holidays are here) I have been PUSHED (that's right, pushed) out of the way to get the last item on the shelf.

And every single time it happens, the individual is gargantuan. The kind of person adorned with fat upon fat squeezed into fat layered on fat swimming in fat.

You know the kind. Always loud and boorish too.

I'd push back, but its always women, and I don't need to be accused of anything remotely associated with sexual harassment with these extremely beneficial members of our society.

By the way pushy, we'll met again because you'll be in Dialysis soon enough.

And you and me and everyone else will be paying for it. Medicare doesn't fund itself.

You want Americans to tidy up and take care of their bodies? Simple. Let them know that when it comes to obesity, we're not paying for it.

Never. Nada. No, no, no.

Any medical calamity you create by not controlling your urges, you're on your own.

3. Drunk People in Downtown Santa Rosa

It's 9:05pm moments after treatment. I just called in an order of spaghetti and meatballs.

Because I deserve it damnit.

Only problem is, if you know anything about downtown, you have to park a bazillion miles away and trek to the restaurant.

Not a problem. Until I encounter you.

You're loud and annoying and seem to know everyone who's smoking outside. You have what I can only classify as a whore on each arm.

Yeah, lucky you.

In your mad dash to the next overpriced nightclub, you and your posse bump into me, knock me into some outdoor seating and I fall to the ground.

All members of your party pause a moment and then burst into laughter. You then continue on your merry way leaving said Dialysis patient sitting in remnants of beer and vomit.

Normally, I would retaliate. But I've lost fifteen pounds recently and there is little padding to my posterior. I try to get up to run after you and make you pay for your insolence, but I have to rest a few moments until the pain dissipates.

It's okay, I'll have my revenge. You too will be at my clinic due to your lecherous ways.

I'd pick alcohol abuse first, but most likely those two creatures on your arm will likely reward you this evening with little critters that render your kidneys lifeless.

4. Cell Phone Users @ the Pharmacy

Most of these institutions now post signs detailing that if you don't get off the phone, you don't get service.

But not at mine. And I'm always right behind one.

This one middle aged woman was next in line. She stepped up the counter and the pharmacist asked for her name.

She put her hand up as though to say, "You have to wait, because I'm so important I have to finish this conversation about the latest Sugar Daddy I'm stringing along. Oh yeah, oh yeah. Sure. Ugh, huh. Yeah, his bank account is bigger than his package. Thank God (cackle)"

The clerk waves me ahead and I approach the counter.

"What do you think you're doing? I'm next."

"But you're on the phone."

"But I'm next."

The pharmacy informs her she can't be helped unless she gets off the phone.

"Oh God, whatever. I'll have to call you back, I'm surrounded by assholes."

I would give anything if the pharmacist would swap out her special cream for something a little more irritating.

All cell phones have done is allowed the pompous to shower themselves in their own overinflated ego.

For situations like this (which I seem to be endlessly thrown into) I have my own cell phone blocker now.

Brings a little equilibrium to the universe, don't you think?

5. Ignorant Parental Units

You know the type. The little spawns are running around destroying everything and the mother is too busy yakking on the cell phone to notice, or too hopped up on Valium to care.

I'm at Safeway trying to place some ripe oranges in a bag and one of these mutations rushes up and starts punching me in the arm.

That's right. You guessed it. My treatment arm.

The Mom is just ignoring these antics to talk to a friend of hers she just bumped into.

"Excuse me, could you control your son? He just came up and punched me in the arm."

The woman (she doesn't deserve the title of mother) rolls her eyes and says, "Well, he's just a kid."

"He punched me in this arm."

I remove my jacket sleeve and show her my bandaged arm. All the color left her face and her friend looked embarrassed.

Apologies sprayed down like all that moisture that keeps the vegetables fresh.

Sometimes you have to call them on their less than stellar parenting skills.

Maybe if they didn't troll the kid around like a trophy and spent some time with the little prick, these events wouldn't occur.

I feel a little guilty though. The kids probably drowning in Ritalin and growing a third arm by now. Because that's what passes for parenting in the new millennium.

6. The Entitlement Sponge

I have a friend at work whose husband just up and left her. Left her with a daughter to provide for too. She went to the county to see if she could get help in this very difficult time.

The first question they asked was, "Are you Hispanic?"

"Well, no. No I'm not."

"Too bad. I could have gotten you a monthly stipend and a free place to live."

Her sister-in-law has been soaking up benefits because she can't seem to keep herself off alcohol and drugs.

For that, you get a free apartment AND needles so you don't catch anything.

Where is the incentive for these people to clean up their act and stand on their own accord?

And more importantly, once the users of society discover this, what stops them from joining these Emmy award winners?

A friend of mine at the News/Talk outlet is a member of the Red Cross and allows her life to be interrupted routinely to help out people during emergencies.

She came back from Katrina disheartened and ready to quit.

A number of people were showing up continuously demanding their FEMA check.

And they didn't ask nicely.

"I'm not leaving this M!@#$% F!@#$%^ place until I get my F!@#$% F!@#$% FEMA check."

Over and over and over again.

My point is there is now a huge sement of the American population that believes everything should be given to them without question.

They basically want to take the American Dream and wipe their plump asses on it.

And people like you and me fit the bill.

Apparently you're "supposed" to pay the welfare money back at some point.

When have you ever, in the history of this nation, heard of anyone PAYING THE MONEY BACK??

If Obama wants to help the nation with his proposed public works projects, the preceding people I've just described should be the first ones to be put to work.

This last group has exhausted all my remaining hate.

Thank you and good night.

Christmas @ Dialysis

2008-12-10T21:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Balance Daniel Son

2008-12-08T21:46:00.000-08:00

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.

Remember That Day When God Tapped Me on the Shoulder?

2008-12-04T23:13:00.000-08:00

My all-American, non-threatening, apple pie and Mom face allows me to get away with plenty sometimes.

Like when I want to climb to the top of a tall building.

I didn't intend to jump when I arrived at the top, but it crossed my mind plenty of times.

The tallest building in Santa Rosa is this retirement edifice east of downtown. It towers over everyone and everything.

And when I would pass by on my late night walks, I felt safe. It was as though an entire generation of wise men and women were peering down, protecting my every step.

Along with the trusting face, I also work in a profession that opens doors that otherwise would be slammed shut.

Like those to the roof access.

The fog had finally broken when I approached the security desk. I explained that I worked for a local radio station and I wanted to get some photos of the city for our new website.

Seemed plausible enough.

I showed my business card and ID and explained exactly how long I needed to photograph.

It turned out to be surprisingly easy. I mean, really, all I was asking for was some time on their roof.

"Ten minutes," he croaked with his arms crossed.

"Fine by me," I thought.

The roof was rectangular with four smaller rectangles dotted equidistant from one another. A friendly railing enticed me to head to the north side.

My intense fear of heights was flattened immediately by the breathtaking view.

I didn't end up taking a single photo.

As I peered over the railing, it was though I could suddenly peer into the future.

A future where I didn't exist.

All I had to do was fling my body over the railing.

My parents and sister would be crushed. I've never even met my two year old niece.

No one at work would mind though.

They with their cool cliques and entertaining parties they never invite me to. They'd ravage my office before my corpse was dry.

"Oh really? Stacy died? Oh, ok. Where do you want to go to lunch?"

Another fool would be in place within two weeks.

Dialysis? I'd free up a chair and lower the dependence on Medicare funding. They'd welcome my exit because I'm a big pain-in-the-ass.

Girlfriend? Ex-lover? The Chinese couple at the hole in the wall deli?

Nope. Nah. Uh-uh.

With the clock ticking, I began to empty my pockets to prepare for the inevitable.

But then God intervened.

This is the same God that gave me Glomerulonephritis.

The same God that sealed my fate at the moment of conception.

A God that thrills to mocking me on a weekly basis.

I blacked out.

I awoke to find myself in the stairwell with a number of medical personnel around me.

The preceding events, a distant memory.

They had no idea what my intentions were, which is just fine with me.

But I'm still not talking to God.

Stacy Bizarro World

2008-12-03T16:26:00.000-08:00

Guess how I celebrated the impending angioplasty on my Dialysis fistula I was going to have to endure?

That's right. I threw up.

If you chose "Stacy throws up every morning", hey, you're a winner!

I was dreading this procedure for these wonderfully annoying reasons:

--- It burns like fire.
--- Staff is always rude.
--- Doctor never refers to me by name.
--- Did I mention it BURNS LIKE FRICKIN' FLAMING FIRE!

Sorry. I hate it when I yell too.

Somehow once I stepped inside the blissfully colorless walls of Memorial Hospital (yeah, I'll mention them by name, what the hell) I entered a parallel universe where everything was opposite of how it was before.

The young woman at Administration was very cordial and quickly had me admitted. The two pleasant elderly women at the front desk (one of whom sounded like she stepped out of "Dr. No") gave me fantastic directions to the other side of the hospital.

Every nurse I met as I managed to get lost with a map in my hand (its part of the male genome) was extremely helpful and couldn't be happier taking care of all the patients scattered throughout this marvelous edifice.

Once planted in the tiny gurney bed, they were happy to fulfill my request to have lidocaine before the IV needle was inserted (a pet peeve of mine) As an added bonus, I was transported by a lovely short-haired brunette (who I wished I could take home with me, just like Stratham in "Transporter 1, 2 & 3")

As I was wheeled into the surgery room, a few tinkles on the piano in my mind starting to play a requiem of doom.

That turned out not to be the case. Stacy Bizarro World continues to surprise.

I almost fell out of the bed when the doctor came in, introduced himself and then proceeded to explain what the hell was going to happen in the next half hour. My body was a little clammy and I became very aware of my surroundings as they started to tape my arm down for the procedure.

Apparently I'm not into being tied down. Like a nozzle to a gas tank, they hooked me up to the pain medication and within thirty seconds, I felt extremely relaxed. The pain was still present, but nowhere near the magnitude it could have been.

In the recovery room, again to my surprise, the nurses were very accomodating. I had to arrive NPO so they offered me graham crackers and orange juice. After gently placing the remains on the adjustable table, I proceeded to fall asleep. I woke to my own snoring a number of times (which they seemed to find entertaining)

It's good to know I can provide mirth even when I'm doing half past nothing.

There was only one huge mistake on my part and that was actually going to treatment tonight. My days tend to balance out. If I wake up feeling great, I'll screw up something at work. If I've had a great on-air shift, I'll suffer later at Dialysis.

And today was no different.

First stick didn't quite take. The equation of the situation added up to six needle sticks instead of four.

Dialysis doesn't play by the rules, even within the walls of Bizarro World.

I've Seen This One Before

2008-12-02T17:46:00.000-08:00

You know those nights when your body is aching from the indignation that is your career and you decide to treat yourself?

Bowl of steaming buttered popcorn. Small glass of aged wine. TV clicker in hand, thumb at the ready.

You muse to yourself, "Hey, Seinfeld's on. I love that show."

You flick it on and prepare to sit back and indulge yourself for a few minutes, but then...

"Sonofabithmother." Kernels shoot from your lips and ricochet off that horrible lamp your Aunt that you rarely see gave you. Another one takes out the arm of that cheap trophy you won for badminton when you were seven.

"I just saw this one, like, three frickin' days ago."

That's exactly how I feel each and ever night at Dialysis.

Except there is no delicious popcorn and we only have six channels.

And you're forced to sit with absolute strangers you would give the stink eye to in regular everyday life.

Plus, no one's ever as funny as Kramer or as lovely as Elaine.

In today's recently canceled episode, Freaky Bearded Guy is picking his nose and eating it.

The Cholesterol Maven is shoving handful after handful of potato chips down his gullet and the collateral damage is raining down on my innocent blanket. No wonder he's a patient here.

Meanwhile, Angelic Blond Babe is prepped and primed as though this were a dinner banquet and she looks fantastic as always.

Nearby Pale Albino Guy has covered his entire body in thick comforters cocooning away until treatment is over.

But treatment never ends. It happens again and again and again.

I've seen all the episodes. Experienced all the drama. Felt all the misery.

But I return again and again and again.

I have no choice in the matter.

My life has become a poorly planned sitcom that only aired three episodes before the network yanked it and decided to burn off the remaining episodes on Saturday night when everyone's out living their lives and enjoying themselves.

You know what I say to that?

Click.

Stacy's Favorite Dialysis Media Clips Ever

2008-12-01T17:13:00.000-08:00

Dialysis has somehow slowly filtered its way into popular culture and does so on a regular basis.

Here are a few of my favorite clips:

Fortunately my clinic isn't near a school. (Thanks to Kim over @ AsThePumpTurns.com for the heads up.)

The Dialysis portion occurs at 2:49 in and it's my favorite quote about Dialysis ever in the history of recorded media.

This is exactly what I will do if I've achieved my Bucket List by then.

If you have any, please feel free to pass them along in the Comments.

The 1st Annual Stacy Dialysis Patient Awards

2008-11-30T19:34:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentleman of the Blogosphere, I have endured Dialysis now for 4 years, 6 months and 14 days.

Thus, I deem myself complete authority over creating, writing and producing my own Dialysis awards show.

A quick disclaimer first.

All of these people who will be winning awards actually exist, and, in most cases, annoy the living fuck out of me. But their names have been changed to protect their stupidity.

Now you know exactly where the remainder of this post is coming from.

MOST ANNOYING COUPLE AWARD

"The Redneck Twins"

It's as though these two stepped out of a Rasslin' Match.

(I pro-nownce it dat way cuz dat's how he be sayin' it. Rasslin'. Rhymes with hasslin')

The wife (or his sister, it's really hard to tell) has stringy, greasy hair that hasn't been washed since the Nixon Administration. And the feller? He loves to wear wife beater shirts and...

Let me interrupt myself for a second. Who was the clothing designer who thought the public should be well informed of the stench of the person next to them? Every time I watch "Cops" the guy in question doesn't have any sleeves. Ever. Never. And the wife's bleeding from the jaw. Never fails.

But back to my horrendous redneck neighbor.

His wife beater shirt exposes massive amounts of armpit hair. The kind Bigfoot we be embarrassed by. If his wife had any sense in that licey noggin of hers, she'd tell hubby before he left the house, "Tuck in your armpit hair."

Long enough to braid. Greasy enough to leave clothing stains.

And the final reason for their win?

Every other patient on the floor on Monday, Wednesday and Friday is wearing headphones and showing consideration for their fellow neighbor.

Not these two Emmy award winners.

The Rasslin' Show! At full volume! For everyone to hear! Well hoo-doggy!

On to our next winner...

RACIST OF THE YEAR AWARD

We have a tie.

"Racist Tailored Guy & Racist Sloppy Mess"

I know. In this country? What a surprise.

Our first winner was a tailored man in his mid-60's who said to an African American tech as he was being taken off the machine, "You know, if the Confederacy had won the Civil War, you'd be my slave right now."

I'm sure she was flattered.

The other waste of medical insurance was an absolutely bugged out woman who isn't regularly on my shift. She was observing the third McCain/Obama debate and offering nuggest of wisdom like:

"That skinny n!@#$% is pretty smart, but he'll probably break into my home and steal my tax money. I hate n!@#$%^."

"That !@#$% McCain is so corrupt. !@#$%& Republicans. Look at that grin. He reminds me of that weasal I shot with the BB Gun."

She also wanted to know if our Filipino nurse was a good !@#$ or a bad !@#$%.

On secong thought, Racist Sloppy Mess wins hands down.

MOST ENTERTAINING PATIENT AWARD

"Snoring Farting Dude"

This dates back to our rickety old clinic we used to attend (yes, there's a post coming about my memories of that sitcom waiting to happen) From time to time they'd sit me in the back room.

Six chairs all arranged in a square with one of those isolation rooms along the back wall.

When I was just three days a week, they would sit me next to this extremely large gentleman who was always asleep when I arrived.

It's about ten minutes into treatment and his snoring is extremly deafening. A couple of his louder ones kept making the nurse at the station jump.

All of a sudden, he lets out a rip-roaring, vomit inducing fart.

Old swiss cheese and feet suddenly fill the room.

He suddenly wakes up. "Huh, whuh?" He glances around to see where the sound was coming from.

He plops his head back on the pillow, his head falls to the side and he goes right back to sleep.

I still get laughs telling that story.

ANGELIC BABE OF THE YEAR AWARD

"Angelic Blonde Babe"

Imagine if Loni Anderson had a daughter, but she had contemporary bobbish hair.

Since her first day I haven't been able to take my eyes off of her.

And this pisses her off to no end.

But I think I've finally figured her out.

My treatment starts after hers, so I would walk past every treatment and try to say hello.

At first, I received a concillatory small wave.

Now she acts like she doesn't hear me.

That's right. I have that affect on women.

But one night, I was getting my stuff together in the lobby to leave and she passes by.

"Have a good night Stacy."

Wow. That's weird.

But again, it makes perfect sense.

Dialysis makes her feel vulnerable. She wants to be seen as Angelic Blonde Babe, not Angelic Dialysis Babe.

No, she hasn't spoken to me since. So I admire her from afar.

And give her dopey awards.

THE POMPOUS JERK OF THE YEAR AWARD

"Egotistical Lawyer Douche"

I sat down next to this mass of rectal matter one night and he decided that everyone in the general vicinity of the clinic should listen to whatever intellectual piece of French crap he was shoving down his gullet that night.

"Excuse me? Yeah, hi. Could you please turn that down? I can't hear what I'm watching."

He paused what he was watching, glanced me up and down and said, "Hmph," then proceeded to turn up his material even louder.

I attempted to have the nurse make the request and once she left the region and attended to other patients he cranked it right back up again.

I glanced over to observe that he was now flipping me off.

I'm sure his clients love him.

This concludes the First Annual Stacy Dialysis Patients Awards.

I wish to thank all of this year's winners for at least providing me some material for my impending book. None of this would have been possible without your annoying, idiotic, egotistical and boorish behavior.

May you all burn in hell.

Thank you and good night.

The Double Edged Sword of Dialysis

2008-11-18T22:34:00.000-08:00

This topic was brought up by the daughter of one of the patients at IHateDialysis.com about the pros and cons of treatment, so I thought I would address it here.

The most positive aspect is that I'm still around to annoy and bewilder the human race.

It is also good for weight loss. I was up around 145 lbs. and really doughy but now, because I have a very rare appetite, I'm down around 125.

Also, if you have a nurse fetish, it caters to that on a weekly basis.

The negatives are vast and frightening.

I must reserve all my energy just to get up in the morning to go to work. Anything left over (which is rare) is used to deal with treatment.

My dating life has evaporated because women see me as damaged goods. According to them, since they don't fully understand Dialysis, they believe my days are numbered and there's no future with me.

To fight the nightly pain I experience, I've found that over time I don't feel anything. Happiness, joy, and elation are all simply just words spoken by those who take their health for granted.

I'm now a barely conscious zombie schleping though my workday because I have nothing better to do.

I'm in obligatory purgatory and nothing can cease my sentence.

Daytime Patient Goons

2008-11-17T21:20:00.000-08:00

I'll be the first to scream into the hills that I'm a pain-in-the-ass patient.

But as I approach five years of hellish treatment, I must admit I ask for very little.

I'm very sensitive to loud sounds and disgusting smells.

And Dialysis patients excel in both.

Most of the staff knows me by now and does their very best to make me happy.

Whenever possible, please put a chair between me and the latest boorish patient you've been forced to treat.

Lately, the Daytime Patient Goons have invaded.

These are people who aren't responsible enough to show up when they're scheduled, then call and demand they get treated later that day.

And then they get seated next to me.

Today Insensitive Spectacled Dude turned up wrestling (or as I like to refer to it "Sports For People Too Stupid to Realize It's Fake") as loud as humanly possible.

People in Glen Ellen were calling asking the loser in Chair 13 to "turn it the fuck down!"

But that wasn't enough indignity to suffer for one treatment.

That's right. He took off his shoes.

Imagine rotten Swiss cheese sprinkled with baby crap grilled to perfection by a lack of general hygiene.

Now imagine being forced to sit down next to it for two hours with no control over the situation.

That's right. Two hours. At least.

I realize I have control issues, I really do.

But after the dangerous drive over, the disgusting bathroom and the burning needles, do I really deserve to put through this? Again and again and again?

I draw the line at three indignities per day.

So here's some Quick Rules for Daytime Patient Goons:

1) Show up for your own damn shift, stop ruining mine.

2) Show some respect to your caregivers and fellow patients and take a shower. Or bathe. Or splash some water on whatever stank your body has created over the last week.

3) Turn down the TV. And stop putting your cell phone on speakerphone. No one wants to hear that your girlfriend has crotch itch and its spreading to her ass.

4) Come up with something a little more creative than "fuck you" or "fuck that." I'll respect you more if you take what minimal intelligence you have and use it to insult me properly. I mean, come on, it's me. There's so much to work with.

5) Tell your family to stop bumping my machine with their incredibly fat asses and then laughing about it. This just gets them kicked out and pisses you off. Keep your relatives in the shallow end of the gene pool where they belong.

Yes, thanks for asking. I do feel better.

Until next treatment.

The Dork Knight

2008-10-27T21:28:00.000-07:00

The fact of the matter is I'm tenacious.

Anything I've ever desired, I've gone after with a vim and vigor some would find obsessive.

But with Dialysis, some parts of one's life are out of control.

This has manifested itself in ways I don't fully understand.

But about two weeks ago I grew tired of witnessing my doughy self in the mirror. I had ceased going to the gym for weeks because of a fact I had to admit to myself.

Dialysis is taking a toll.

The lab tests don't show it and my body doesn't reveal it, but I feel less like myself every single day.

When I arise from my morning nest, the dizziness gets worse. The blackouts increase. And a general feeling of sliding toward oblivion takes hold.

So on October 12, 2008 I made a simple yet honest vow to myself.

I would become dough-less.

Each morning Dialysis curls up in the corner and mocks me mercilessly.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh, whoaez me!"

Total indignation floods the room. Dialysis is a tiny troll with razor sharp yellowed teeth and a curve in his spine reminiscent of the letter "C".

But he knows full well how to get under my skin.

"I can't jog up hills anymore. Oh, oh, I'm too tired to socialize anymore. Dialysis has stolen everythAAAAAAHHHHHHH! My God you're pathetic! Worthless! Dare I say it, irrelevant?"

As he zipped his pint sized frame from one wall to another, I made the decision.

I'll show him.

That night after treatment, I started with thirty simple minutes of walking. I live in the Southeast side of Santa Rosa, which anyone will tell you, has some of the nicest property in the North Bay. Four story houses built into five star mountains.

The point is, I feel pretty damn safe.

Thirty minutes gave way to sixty which elevated to ninety and morphed into a hundred and twenty.

I understand fully it's only been two weeks, but I've already lost four pounds. My belt is happy to be using the third notch again.

Night after night after blissful night I roam the streets of Sonoma County exploring neighborhoods I'll never be able to afford.

As the weight began to drop and the doughy me began to fade, I thought I was just wandering the streets because I loved the exploration.

But as I reach the end of the second week, I feel as though I'm searching for something.

Less a destination, more like an answer.

As my tiny frame wanders the ritzy neighborhoods paid for on the backs of others, the sheer quiet of it all envelopes me.

My mind wanders away from what I have become to what may still be.

Reaching the top of one of the many breathtaking hilltops, I pause a moment to take in a full breath of chilly night air.

For the first time in a ridiculously long time, I enjoy a moment of peace.

Hope and possibility can't be far behind.

Futility

2008-10-20T21:35:00.001-07:00

Tonight Stabby McStabalot ignored my pleas for mercy and continued forcing in the needle of shame.

He'd bounce into some calcification on the left and scrape some nerves.

Immensely painful.

He backed off, then tried to shove it to the right.

More excited nerves just waiting to be electrified.

The entire time I'm pleading for him to stop because he's killing me.

Apparently, the C in PCT doesn't apply to him.

Do a quick search for "Stabby McStabalot" in the upper left portion of my blog and you'll find numerous entries about this blessed malcontent who simply wants to get done early so he can go home, prance around in his boxers and watch "Seinfeld" for the billionth time.

But that's not why we're here tonight.

As I slowly made my way to freedom, an incredible sadness overwhelmed me.

And then a wonderfully healing epiphany made itself fully known to me.

What's the point of my life?

The sadness deepened when I realized there wasn't one.

My entire existence is based on the false assumption that everyone deserves a chance, that every life is precious.

From the people I've experienced within the walls of this torcherous place, that is absolutely not true.

Don't get me wrong, I include myself in this deplorable crowd.

Medicare pays thousands upon thousands upon thousands of wasted dollars keeping miserable people like myself and my fellow brethen alive.

So I ask again, what is the point of my life?

After thirty-eight years of wasted opportunity shuffling about on this little blue ball of terror, I have come to the realization that there are only two truths in this life:

True love and true health.

A truth I've known and lost. Another, I've never had.

This time I ask and I'll be more specific:

What is the point of wasting taxpayer money on my miserable existence?

Dialysis has stolen friendships. Made me completely undesirable to the fairer sex. Given me a lack of appeciation and adoration for a career that I used to hold dear.

I exercise everyday. I eat incredibly well 90% of the time. No alcohol or tabacco.

But what is the point of treating the body well and attempting to extend one's life when that life isn't worth living?

True love and true health.

If you have both, I envy your existence.

If you are of the cynical type (and if you are, I'm a fan) I can feel you asking why I don't just give into my urges to end it all.

I'll give you three reasons: Mom, Dad and my sister.

I've taken two kidneys and endless hours of worrying from their lives. It would be offensive to take my life now.

But it sure would save the government a helluva lot of money.

The Lowest Common Denominator of Humanity

2008-10-15T21:17:00.001-07:00

You want to know what my biggest complaint about my Dialysis clinic is?

It's not the staff (they're awesome) or the debilitating pain (it's awful) or the amount of time it steals from my life (plenty.)

It's the patients.

Don't get me wrong, when I first started, I tried to make friends. Tried to give my fellow members of mankind a chance to know me.

After numerous sneers, snubs and snot nosed grins, I eventually gave up.

I'm a Veteran of Dialysis and I believe after surviving four and a half years of humilating escapades at this place, I believe I've earned the right to ask for just one simple request.

Turn down your motherfucking TV.

Jesus H, God in heaven almighty, there is never a good time to turn "Friends" up to full volume.

"Oh, I'd tap that Chandler. He could take my hand, rip off my LALALALALALALALALA!"

There is never a good time to hear a seventy year old woman say, "I'd tap that."

Never. Uh uh. No way.

As a gentleman was being taken off the machine, he pontificated, "You know, if the Confederacy had won, I could have a slave doing this."

Was that some sort of History Channel joke? Are you trying to get a rise out of your black PCT?

But these past annoyances are distracting me from the extremely unbelievable present one.

From the moment I walked up to my chair I knew there was going to be trouble.

Because the DEBATE WAS AT FULL VOLUME.

Since my life is a no-sum game, I enjoy listening to the debate in the comfort of my office while scheduling music after treatment. That way, when I scream about Obama's economic policy or McCain's immigration reform plans, no one will hear my vile language.

Once again, I digress.

I told Tall Good-Guy Tech that I was not happy. He said he'd do his best to find her headphones, but it's unlikely she would wear them.

"That McCain, that McCain, that McCain is a loser. Such a fuckin' rich loser. Criminal fuck."

Fine. You have an opinion about one of the candidates. None of us want to hear it at the top of your lungs.

"Obama! Ugh, that Obama is a n*****. I'm not voting for no n*****."

I closed my eyes for a moment to dredge up some inner peace as I placed all my items on the adjoining table.

This was unbearable and unacceptable. I could sense two hours of boiling rage inadvertently bubbling to the surface.

As the PCT (Patient Care Technician) hooked up my needles, she began to berate her nurse.

"Where the fuck is she? She probably went on her two hour break. Fuckin' nurses. I hate them. Hatehatehate those fuckers."

Some amusement did present itself when she tried to tell time.

"I, well, um, ugh, Christ fuck. I have thirty minutes left, so I won't, I won't, well...ugh fuck! I'm not going to fuck this place until, um, like, well...ten o'clock. Fuckin-a."

It was presently 6:30pm.

As the nurse approached her to supply her medications, I knew this wouldn't be pretty.

"Uh, oh, here comes the Filipino nurse. Are you one of those dirty Flip's or a good Flip."

I tried to give that nurse a look like I was willing to slam my DVD player closed and fling it at her ugly mug.

Some people wonder why people who work in the Dialysis field get so tired and burnt out.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I give you Exhibit A thru ZZZ.

Tall Good-Guy Tech did his best to get her to turn down her volume, but once he walked away to help another patient she responded with...

"Fucker turned down my TV. Nobody turns down my motherfuckin' TV. This is my TV motherfuckers."

Now it was louder than before.

What I could only guess was a family member came in, sat down and said very little. He looked to either be her father or grandfather as she was middle aged. The look in his face screamed, "I'd rather burn off my chest hairs with a blow torch than deal with this creature."

"That fucking guy's a n*****, but he's a smart n*****."

I'd had more than my share of her rantings. I cranked up "Don't Mess with the Zohan" to full volume and did all I could not to go deaf.

Idiocy. Racism. Foul-mouthed and uncouth. This woman had it all for your Garden Variety Redneck.

Maybe I should introduce her to Confederacy Guy.

A Haphazard Conversation with a Merciless God

2008-10-11T21:24:00.000-07:00

I grabbed my omnipresent comfort items for Dialysis and was about to slam the door to my truck when He appeared out of nowhere.

At first I thought he was a homeless guy just milling about under a tree. It was giving way to the eventuality of Autumn.

I decided to close my door softly so as not to startle him. I was about to turn away and scuffle into treatment, but our eyes managed to catch.

There was an amazing energy to his eyes, so I couldn't turn away. I placed my blanket and DVD case in the bed of the truck and timidly walked closer.

He just continued to lean against the base of the tree, grinning as if He didn't have a care in the world.

"So here we are again."

As the leaves were losing their grasp on the branches, they would somehow land, one by one, into his outstretched hand.

"No, here I am again. I've never seen you here before."

He just smiled a huge grin from underneath a tattered beard and chuckled to himself.

"I'm always here. The problem is, you never look."

The leaves started to pile up, one atop another, defying gravity in his open palm.

"I don't usually hang with middle aged bums." I wanted to head back to my truck and get the entire affair over with, but the leaf trick was interesting. The entire time this fellow is chuckling.

"I always loved that about you Stacy. No politically correct bullshit censor built in."

My mind searched wildly trying to explain how this guy knew my effeminate name.

"Are you a cop? Or a lawyer? Am I going to receive some paperwork telling me I'm being sued? Because whatever it is, I was probably too tired and weak to do it."

The red and gold leaves started from the top of the pile and started swirling like a tornado, faster and faster until the final leaf was swept up in this minor weather anomaly.

"You know who I am. You've just forgotten how to speak with me. It's pretty easy actually."

The hyperactive leaves suddenly left his vicinity and began to spin around me. It was hard to decipher whether I was entertained by this or just hallucinating. I had skipped treatment the previous day.

"This whole 'Dancing With the Leaves' deal is highly impressive, but I don't see the point."

I grabbed one of the leaves and immediately the remaining ones fell to the ground. I glanced down to witness them scamper away like ants. I opened my palm and felt an extreme cluster of burning pain.

"What the hell? Was that really necessary?"

He stopped leaning and stood upright, looking concerned.

"What did you just feel? Just now?"

He started to approach me and I took a few steps back. Even though his flannel shirt was stained and his jeans were torn, a smell of lilac filled the air.

"That's a ridiculously annoying question. It felt just like my needles do most nights."

He stopped moving forward, but His look of concern didn't waver.

"I ask you again Stacy, what did you just feel, once the pain subsided?"

My eyes moved downward as I searched for an answer. The leaves from earlier were dancing slowly with one another.

"Anger."

"And what else?"

"Frustration."

"Anything else?"

"Bitterness. Oh crap. God damnit. I'm going to be late. You made me late. They're going to dock my treatment time now."

The self assured smile from earlier slowly came to His face. He placed both hands on my shoulders and held me with an extremely firm grip.

"I know you're suffering. And I know you're in pain. Once you let go of it all, only then will you begin to heal."

I paused for a moment and allowed my eyes to wander. Eventually, they came back to His.

"You realize you sound like a fortune cookie, right?"

He let go of my shoulders and began to turn around.

"Divine wisdom comes from the strangest of places."

"Like an old guy loitering around at tree?"

As he shuffled back to his original spot, I could hear the leaves shuffle around still. They eventually came to a rest in the shape of an arrow, pointing to the clinic.

"Now you're just showing off."

My head darted around to find that He was gone. I began to grab my stuff as a realization entered my mind.

"That's a really ABC Afternoon Special kinda move, you know that right."

His voice came from above.

"Yeah, I know."

From the top branch of the tree I could see Him, playing with the leaves again.

"One thing I do know." I stopped walking to the clinic doors to turn back to the tree.

"You're not going to follow me inside. Admit it, you've never been in a Dialysis clinic in your life."

This time, He was gone. I turned back to the clinic to face my fate when I heard more scuffling on the ground.

The same dancing leaves from earlier had formed a smiley face, with the right eye appearing to be winking.

I just shook my head and laughed out loud. I stopped short as I realized I hadn't done that in a long, long time.

The Old Man just might have something left for me after all.