Walking home from the shops just now I spied Blokey’s car outside our house.

Uhoh! thought I.  Something must have gone wrong at the hospital; my day will now be full of whinging.

It wasn’t until I was unlocking the front door that I remembered we’d had to get up at some ridiculous hour this morning so that Blokey could get in the taxi that was arriving at 7am. 


In a dream last night we didn’t wake up till 9.30am and the hospital had left countless messages on the landline, screaming at us in disgust.  It stands to reason that this dream woke me up and stopped me from falling into a deep slumber.  After a spot of gardening this afternoon (because it is actually sunny and not wet today) I think I’ll be curling up in bed, perhaps with some cheesy Stephenie Meyer novella and one of the cats.

Blokey is having his tenckhoff catheter removed (under a local anesthetic) and then having his fistula surgery (again, under a local anesthetic).  He’s apprehensive about the tenckhoff removal; I’m more concerned about the fistula surgery.  Not because it might be painful or he might see blood and go all queasy.  No, I’m worried (selfishly, perhaps) about the state of his arm. 

It’s silly really.  I’ve been to the dialysis unit with him a couple of times and don’t even notice the fistulas of other folk.  But then, I don’t oggle them.  But I have seen the terrible images online, of incredibly bruised, ugly arms.  And I have heard the stories of horrid pain when they first get used. 

To be honest, I don’t really know what to expect.  And by the time I realise what to expect I imagine it will just be something which is there, that we live with, and that I barely even notice anymore.  Just like all the other little things.

And besides, it will be keeping him alive … it must be Good.


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