November had been a gadawful time–while I really didn’t have one huge project at work I had been juggling what felt like 10,000 little deadlines–I can’t tell which is more taxing, truth be told. But more than the work itself, the past month has been marked by how totally exhausted I was.
An exhaustion which panicked the planner slash OC in me; I couldn’t bear thinking about the next day, much less the following week; my only thought had been to ‘just get through each day.’ And it didn’t help that towards the tail end of the month, as I was getting ready for work, my feet were already visibly swollen–something that only used to happen at the end of the work week; egads, I knew, but was in denial, that something’s going down.
By the first week of December, I had been so out of it. Even so while I couldn’t wait for the long work hours to end, I was able to practice with my colleagues for our holiday performance, I rocked like a millennial during our Christmas party, bonded with the boss, hauled my ass to Tagaytay the day after, and panic shopped with my daughter on the Sunday. Monday, I remember my friend Badj saying, D you look ill, and that night I told myself, OK bitch that’s enough; you know you want to get well, you can’t go on like this. In my head, I made a haphazard plan to check in with my doctor the following week, postponing it yet again because I had an out of town trip on the weekend–a trip that, well, didn’t happen for me…
Wednesday came and believe it or not I was able to squeeze in some gift shopping before heading to work. But soon as I was in the office, this gadawful pain on my tummy started and next thing I know, I was getting wheelchaired to the hospital across the street.
My labs showed I was running low on hemoglobin: my results were a pitiful 6, way below the ideal 11-15 range; my creatinine, that magic word as far as kidney diseases are concerned, was magnificently high: 19.03 which at normal levels should be a mere 0.60-1.20. The stomach pain was actually cramps from dangerously low calcium levels. My body raised the white flag, and caved, and it only spelt one thing: D day has come.
So here’s the deal, I knew hemodialysis was coming but I was so batshit scared of it: the long hours, the lifestyle change, the monies I will need to spend, all the unknowns of what the treatment entails. While I knew that my tribe would be with me every step of the way, the journey is mine alone, and the mere thought of it makes me want to go back in time and make that little adjustment so that I don’t have this disease.
But I can’t. So I suck everything in, like any big girl would. But just because I know I am brave and just because I know how strong I can be doesn’t take away the fact that the process smarts; it can get uncomfortable, a literal pain on the back; the it’ll-be-just-four-hours is a lie because they don’t account for the 2, 3 hour wait, and saying you can sleep through the procedure is a joke, that’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one seated on the chair for a session. Let’s see: I’ve had five sessions so far, and it’s a 2-out-of-5 of super fucking painful, scale of 10 experience; mind you, I’ve very high tolerance for pain, (because my relationship exes have trained me well haha).
So D, is for dialysis. I’ve fought off the inevitable for three years but the day has finally come. On good days, it is uneventful and that’s what I hope each session to be: insignificant, mundane, nothing special, totes boring. I don’t want a memorable session, I want it to fade away in the background–and better yet define my days not with gadawful HD episodes but rather by things I love to do: warm showers on cold mornings, full volume Bastille while I travel to the office, coffee breaks with my GFs at work, ticking off boxes on my to-do list, talking with my team, nightcaps with my tribe, weekend getaways with my kids. Life as usual, as it should be, if not much better because yes after only five sessions, I now I feel this energy that I haven’t felt in years. Years. So yes, what an experience last week had been but as I always say: nothing that can’tbe be fixed, things always even out, everything falls into place.
What a way to end the year, no?
Yesterday was my fistula’s 3rd year anniversary and I sang it a happy birthday song. Then life went on: I clocked in for work, where good friends greeted me with real tight welcome-back hugs, and in yet another Christmas party we laughed so hard I felt ringing inside my ears, and at our usual nightcap, the chatter among friends warmed my heart. I know, I know, dialysis is good for me, believe me, I know that now, but I also do know it ain’t a happy place, and I’ve to get happiness elsewhere.
So hell yeah, if only for days when there are warm hugs from friends and fam, for afternoons of sheer happiness from completely idiotic convos with the Niner gang, for nights when there’s quiet giggling, or film trivia, or of working for a sense of fulfillment and all that crap; if only for all of these wonderful things, Imma say, sorry Big D but Imma havta bite down on you.
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Pictured: Pic from one of my favourite magazines, How
Finally Dee 