Hell's Angels

by Dennis Green

The good news is that one more session of hemodialysis, on Saturday, tomorrow, will probably be my last. I start peritoneal dialysis training next week, which I’ve done before, and which is much less hellish than hemo. There is really no bad news. But after six weeks, and on my way out, I suddenly realized today how much adjusting I’ve done at the hemo clinic.

There is a real community of like souls there, in spite of our many differences, and even though it’s definitely the Ninth Circle of Hell. Today, a Hawaiian gentleman all puffed up by water retention helped me in the door, and was very friendly. And Nurse Irene has a crush on me. I tease her about bringing in some port wine next time to relax a bit. “A big canteen of the stuff!” I laugh. She does too.

Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday afternoons the same patients come for dialysis, and most of the same attendants. They were a little underhanded yesterday, and Irene was a’hoppin’ and a’jumpin’ and even a little stressed out. At the end of my three hours, though, my blood pressure was a little high, so she made me sit until it come down under a hundred.

So I pondered it in my heart today while in hemo…how we humans adapt, bond and share whatever it is we have in common. That applies to writers in a writing group who share a love of words as much as the audience at a Grateful Dead Concert who share a love of the music. But in medical or therapeutic situations, the bond is often based on mutual disabilities or illnesses.

I took a T’ai Chi class at Alameda Hospital for three years, and became very tight with my classmates, many of whom had also suffered heart attacks, or even, as I had, bypass surgery. There was one older Chinese gentleman in his Nineties, whose wife and daughter came with him just to make sure he didn’t fall during some of our more strenuous stretching poses. The bond was quiet but powerful there.

When I worked at Children’s Hospital Oakland, I observed the bonding that took place between parents of, say, kids with cystic fibrosis, who sometimes took classes together in such techniques as clearing the lungs of their kids with some vigorous thumps to the chest, or the parents of diabetic kids who had to learn how to test blood sugar levels, keep the sick kids to a special diet, and know what to do in case of a diabetic coma.

These medical groups tend to be very practical, but also have about them, over time, a spiritual dimension. Any stress that reinforces one’s sense of mortality will do that. And for me, over the past six weeks, the prayers and blessings and just plain positive, affectionate thoughts from my Chums has made a huge difference in my regaining my will to live. Quite honestly, I was within days of calling off all treatment and just letting myself go to that last big sleep.

Now, at this point, I will endure almost anything to have a few more decades with Diane. If I do, I’ll no doubt outlive my darling dog Lucca, but if I can be there for her in her final days and hours, love and comfort her, make sure she’s not in pain, I will be thankful.

I see people at the hemo clinic who are on their last legs, who have strokes during their therapy, or go into shock. Anyone over 65 knows as well that they are very unlikely candidates for transplant. Anyone over 50 has to agree to accept the kidney of a donor who is also over 50, or even older. It’s quite an exclusive little club!

And we feel sorry for each other, rather than feeling sorry for ourselves.

©2010 Dennis Green