Over the history of this absolutely, ridiculously true record of the antics at your local, all-American, torcherous Dialysis clinic, I have introduced you to some interesting "characters" over the last 6 1/2 years.
(I place that word in quotes, because they're not truly human beings, just creatures infesting this horrofest of blood and vomit.)
Kidneys, Death, and documented police reports have changed the cast. My play remains the same.
Which brings me to our newest "couple" that was sandwiched next to me at treatment this evening. Let me introduce Gelatinous Mom & 40ish Mamma's Boy.
The first day they entered, I assumed the woman was the patient, and that the gentleman with her was her husband.
They look roughly the same age in person, so I admit, my mistake.
I'm very good at estimating weight, for I have been seated near a scale and played the Super Happy Fun Stacy Weight Game (TM 2004)
A person shuffles to the scale, and I guess their weight. As an added bonus for math fans, you get to multiply that number by 2.2 to discover what their weight is in pounds. (I don't do this game with wheelchair patients. I have no frickin' idea what a wheel chair weights, nor do I wish to learn.)
In the old clinic, I became an expert at this and awarded myself prizes, like a hospital mask when Whiny, Crappy Pants exploded. Or I asked for another mask, doubled up, and made a cover for my eyes so I didn't have to witness all the disgusting, appalling behavior of the patients visiting that day.
So when I mention Gelatinous Mommy's weight, I'm going to be pretty accurate: over 400 pounds.
Now in general, this couple seems on the surface to be nice enough people, but tonight they committed 2 Cardinal Sins of Dialysis which I will now explain:
1) Don't eat in the clinic.
Yes, you're allowed. No, you shouldn't be.
When I schlub my way past the automatic door, every single treatment a wave of bean farts, stale swiss cheese, and raw feet thrust themselves upon my nostrils. Some nights, my nose hairs catch on fire. Since they're small, its usually out quickly. Plus, there's little oxygen remaining within the clinic walls, so I'm usually okay.
I bring this wonderfully alluring aroma to your attention to make you aware that its the last place on the planet you would want to eat. Imagine eating in a Porta-Potty that hasn't been cleaned since the Reagan Administration. You get the idea.
Apparently these two haven't eaten for 45 minutes, so now they must make themselves a plate of off brand Cheetos from Mexico, and some sort of toxic, fishy smelling mung butter. They commence shoving it down their gullets as quickly as the human jaw will allow.
I want to vomit. Right now. On your right side table. But I hold it in because I have what's called "manners" and "self control." Ugh.
2) If you're not a patient, you're not in a clinic chair.
This just reaks of disrespect to those of us who are forced to call these chairs our home for hours on end. Because of your excessive mass, you have to ask a staff member to help you back. Thus, they're wasting time on your entertainment, instead of helping a patient that could be suffering a heat attack. Or Death.
Then you plop on the headphones, enjoy free digital cable, and shove more disgusting food into your piehole (or cakehole, I'm not really sure what you're preference is.)
The personal actions of these individuals above is symptamatic of what's overwhelming wrong in this country.
No personal responsibility. No shame. No respect for others.
That America is gone. Done for. Finished.
You don't take care of your body. No problem. The government will pay for you to sit at home and watch "Judge Judy" all day.
When I was a child in the 1970's, you were embarrassed if you let your body get this bad. Not anymore. The government will take care of you now.
"Respect" has become one of those nice words we remember, but no one knows the defition to. Like saying "your" when you mean "you're." Its a nostalgic slice of the past that has been devoured by present day society.
There will be those who will accuse me of attacking individuals who have "weight issues."
That couldn't be farther from the truth.
This entire post is a dire warning. A four alarm fire of truth.
And its really very simple, so I'm going to narrow it down into its lowest common denominator: