Dialysis is a terminal thief of time and success. It abhors those who possess the will and drive to ignore it's impulse to detract from one's own potential.
The first eighteen months were excruciating. Staff members thought I was exaggerating the amount of suffering I was enduring. Whispers of my weakness still color the walls at the now defunct Dutton Avenue clinic.
3000mg. of Vicodin begs to differ.
I've never considered myself a drug addict, but Dialysis likes to mock me when I make that claim.
But I'm not typical of those who ingest such substances. I never felt the need to climb into the bottle when I wasn't at treatment.
Dialysis and Vicodin. It sounds like a really awful buddy cop comedy starring Kurt Russell and Steven Seagal. They start the film on opposite sides of the same side of justice, only to discover that they're really the same individual in the end. The inevitable sequel would introduce Danny Devito as a witness to the murder of their boss who blah, blah, blah.
We've all seen it before and Hollywood will regurgitate it over and over.
And so did I.
I've paid dearly for my hydocodone indulgences. And Dialysis knows it.
The hearing ability in my right ear has been severely depleted. My intestinal tract hasn't been the same in two years.
But still, we visit, like old friends.
Dialysis likes to take this knowledge and splash it in my face like so much splattered blood.
"Why aren't you strong enough? Eww, my arm burns. Pansy-ass-pansy."
He enunciates every word and engages every syllable. It's as though he's speaking in slow motion while the entire world continues forth in real time.
One evening I discovered something very discouraging. My Vicodin had evaporated, depleted by Dialysis' continue torture of my deteriorating frame.
Forty-five minutes into treatment I closed my eyes and was determined to visualize the pain in hopes of controlling it's power.
I imagined my flittering soul, dancing and flickering upon a huge bonfire. My physical form remained a few feet away, strong and vital. From the bowels of my imagination comes a cavalry of fire hoses and helicopters prepared to extinguish my flourishing pain.
Of course, all these vehicles were manned by luscious women in bikini's, but that's beside the point. Or next to the point.
All I know is scantily clad women are an amazing analgesic for pain.
Seventy-five minutes later the pain was tolerable. Ten minutes more and it returned to it's earlier volume. And brought some friends.
It was at this point that I believed all this suffering would one day equal a life altering epiphany. In suffering over and over and over again, continually and without abatement, I believed that the reason for this suffering would become crystal clear and I would be saved.
That day has never come.
I'm not angry, or dismayed, or even sad.
In fact, I don't feel anything at all.
That's the problem with continually fighting the pain demons. Wishes and desires, wants and needs for the pain to just halt it's continual presence presents an awful side effect to the sufferer.
Feeling nothing at all.
You could ask next Tuesday, or the Friday after next or even the following April and I'd have the same answer for you.
I feel nothing.
Happiness smothers sadness which suffocates fear while extinguishing desire concurrently murdering happiness.
It's a dizzying array of circular death whose only purpose is to flush all hope from my system.
Once the spinning ceases to be, I worry for what remains.