I reach the Tube station and trot down the stairs to take me to the tunnels below. I swipe my Oyster card at the gate and slip through to join the thousands of other passengers waiting to catch trains. I wait on the platform and, within minutes, the roar of the train signals its arrival, followed by a blast of hot air, and then everyone’s moving, bodies streaming out, while others pile in.
I look around for a seat, but there are none. I’ve been lucky to escape some of the side effects of my treatment, but fatigue is an issue for me when I get this close to the next session. Sometimes I wish I could wear a badge that tells people I’m ill so I can do things like claim a seat on the train when I feel like my legs are going to give out from under me, and other times I’m happy no one can tell what’s wrong with me.
Eventually, someone who’d occupied one of the seats gets off the train, and I’m able to slide into the person’s spot. I breathe a sigh of relief. As well as the fatigue, I often get hit with bouts of dizziness as well, and I can never quite tell when one is going to strike. The Tube gets cramped and hot and stuffy, too, whichis never a good combination for me. My parents had offered to drive me, but I can’t stand the idea of giving up my last little bit of independence of being able to get around on my own. Maybe I’m silly, but I’ve lost everything else.
The train arrives at the stop for the hospital, and I leave the station with numerous other passengers, many of which seem to be heading the same way. I’ve done this routine enough times now, I probably could make it to the ward with my eyes shut.
“Hi, Linda,” I say to the staff nurse as I approach the reception desk.
Linda’s a slightly overweight woman in her late forties, who’s one of my favourites. Some of the other nurses can be a bit snappish and impatient, but Linda never fails to take time to come and sit with me and make me laugh during the long, boring stints.
“Hi, Sophia. All ready for today?”
“I guess I have to be. I’d rather be outside in the sunshine, though.”
“Wouldn’t we all.” She smiles, flashing a couple of matching dimples in each cheek.
“True.”
I pull off my long-sleeved top, revealing the tank top I deliberately wore beneath for this purpose. Over the last few months, I’ve discovered it’s easier and more comfortable to wear short sleeves rather than have longer sleeves rolled up for hours. But I won’t leave the house in a short-sleeved top, no matter how warm it is outside. I know I’ll get too many questioning stares at the state of my arm.
I get everything I’ll need ready and within arm’s reach— my phone, my book, my AirPods. I have drinks and snacks if needed, too. Then I take a seat in the comfortable, padded chair, and sit with my arm out to allow Linda to thread two needles into the special blood vessel—the fistula—that’s been createdto allow easier blood flow between me and the machine I’m connected to.
There are several other people sitting around the room, and I recognise a couple of them, and exchange nods and smiles. Some people strike up friendships during the long hours here, but I tend to keep to myself. I know it’s my own issues that prevent me from starting conversations, but they always seem to go the same way and revolve around our illnesses. I’d rather forget that I’m sick than have to talk about it all the time. It already takes up such a huge part of my life.
“So, how have the side effects been since last time?” Linda asks me as she sets up the machine that will clean my blood.
I shrug. “Not too bad, I guess. I get a bit of itching sometimes, but I can handle it.”
The itching gets worse the closer I get to the next dialysis session. My non-functioning, remaining kidney can’t filter out the toxins in my blood, and that’s what causes the itchy skin. Sometimes it drives me crazy, keeping me awake all night, so I’m crabby and frustrated the next morning, but I don’t want to make a fuss. I want to be strong—like my tattoo.
“We can always get you a topical cream to help, if you need it.”
“I know, but I’m fine for the moment, I promise.”
The nurse catches sight of the cling film wrapped around my ankle and lifts her eyebrows. “And what’s that, young lady?”
I grin. “You sound like my mother.”
Her lips purse. “You know we don’t recommend tattoos for dialysis patients. What if the needle was dirty and you contracted Hepatitis B or C? You know that would put you off the waiting list for a new kidney.”
I exhale a sigh. “If I lived my life around waiting for a kidney that never seems to be coming, then I’d never do anything I wanted. Anyway, the place was reputable. I did my research, andactually, the guy who did it was my best friend from childhood.” A smile creeps across my face as I remember.
Linda studies my expression. “Was he now? From the way you’re blushing, I’d say he was more than a friend.”
The heat in my face deepens. “Yeah, he was actually. He was my first boyfriend—my only real boyfriend. He was my first everything, really.”
“But the two of you stayed friends all this time? How come you never mentioned him before?”
I flap a hand. “Oh, we lost touch. I moved away suddenly with my family, and then I started getting sick. I didn’t want to burden him with all that.”
“So are you staying in touch now?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. We swapped numbers, but I didn’t tell him about all of this. It’s a bit much to dump on someone you haven’t seen for ten years.”
Her voice softens. “Not if that someone cares about you, Sophia.”
I shrug and glance away. “Maybe.”
