Preface:
There are stretches of life so heavy that memory blurs around the edges. Much of my eighteen months on kidney dialysis felt that way. Fatigue settled into everything, limiting the details of ordinary days and leaving only fragments of what happened from one moment to the next. Still, even in that fog, certain truths stayed with me. I wanted to share the reality I faced and the support I gained in that season, not as a perfect record, but as a glimpse of what it was like to walk through it.
This is the story I carried. What follows is the part that remained clear when everything else blurred.
There are places in life that feel like shelter. Not because the walls are special, but because the people inside know how to notice the things you do not say out loud. The dialysis clinic near Old Cheney always marked the line between the world of lab numbers and the rest of my life. The shift hit the moment my tires crossed into the parking lot before each monthly appointment and again when I pulled back out afterward.
My dialysis clinic became one of those places. I walked in with my legs feeling heavier than they should have been, the kind of weight that made even getting out of my car take an extra moment. My mind kept snagging on the same thought every time I tried to focus on something simple, like locking my car door: “What if the test results show my adequacy isn’t enough, again?” That question followed me inside before I could push it away, and every step carried a strain, the kind that made it clear my body was asking for help I could not give it on my own. For eighteen months, that clinic became a place to lean on. I had never gone through anything like kidney dialysis. Since they had helped many people before me, I knew I was in excellent hands.
Before any of those monthly appointments began, I spent a full week there learning how to use the peritoneal dialysis machine (cycler) that would sit beside my bed each night, helping to sustain my declining kidney function. The days blended together as I practiced connecting lines, priming bags, and responding to alarms, each task stacking on top of the last until my hands and mind moved with confidence. During training, the machine gave off a soft, white noise-type sound, a reminder of the work the cycler would take on while I slept. By the end of the week, after hours of repetition and concentration, they sent me home with the cycler, a stack of supplies, and the hope that I could handle the nights alone.
Being able to do this at home while I slept seemed like the best dialysis treatment option for me. The alternative would have meant driving to the clinic every other day and giving up three to four hours of daylight, hours when I wanted to be getting things done, resting, or simply living my life. I chose the overnight hours because they seemed easier to fit into the way my days already ran, especially since I worked from home.
Each month, I returned for labs. A few vials of blood told the story of how well my kidneys were sustaining with the dialysis solution, and those results set the tone for everything that followed. Once the numbers were processed, I would come back a week or so later to meet with a rotating group of people who showed up just to help me (and others, too, I suppose).
In the early days, before the nephrologist stepped in, I pulled a small, folded list from my pocket of questions I had written the evening earlier, things I did not want to forget once the conversation began. It was my way of staying in a process that was bigger than me. Also, I was often too tired for my brain to remember everything.
A few moments later, my doctor knocked lightly on the door and walked in with a smile and a greeting. After some small talk about how things were going, she would glance at my results conducted ahead of time in my patient chart to decide how strong my dialysis solution needed to be and how many hours I would need to stay connected to the cycler each night. I asked questions about the changes, sometimes pushing for clarification when a number dipped or a level rose in a way I did not expect. She helped me understand what my body needed and why. Sometimes the plan stayed the same. Sometimes it shifted, though not always in my favor. During the best appointments before leaving, she would say, “Everything looks steady today. You’re doing well, so I don’t see a reason to change anything.”
Some days, the first sign of care came from one of the nurse’s questions before I even sat down. She picked up on details I did not always offer up or asked questions that forced me to remember if I noticed this symptom or that one, such as if I noticed my ankles being swollen between appointments. She asked about my sleep, my appetite, my energy, and the alarms that pulled me from REM, and I told her about any patterns I had noticed between visits.
Her care extended to places that charts never reach. One afternoon, after noticing how tired my eyes looked, she paused before reaching for a stack of papers and asked, “I checked your logs, slow flow again last night?” Slow flow was my nemesis, the machine’s version of a printer error, except instead of a blinking light, it blasted a sharp beep that dragged me out of bed repeatedly. No wonder I walked like a zombie too often. Her question was not clinical. It was an invitation. For a moment, I let myself answer honestly. First to myself, and then to her.
While she secured the new dressing on my peritoneal catheter, gentle pressure moved across the skin as she checked for any signs of infection and made sure I understood what my body was trying to communicate when it came to things like the area being irritated or discolored. “Looks good today,” she’d say, leaning in the way she always did when double-checking the area. “If it looks different from your usual, more tender, more red, just give us a call.” People in my peritoneal dialysis Facebook group had shared photos and explained the pain of what could happen if it became infected (known as peritonitis), and once you see something like that, you cannot unsee it. That was enough motivation to keep that area sterile.
The dietitian often began our appointments by sharing lab results that highlighted my protein, phosphorus, magnesium, and a handful of other topics to discuss whether my levels went up, down, or stayed the same during previous months. Conversations with, let’s call him “Tom” (because that is his name), often began with food, but they always ended with hope. He helped me navigate the world of sodium, phosphorus, and protein. As he talked through different options, I pointed out the meals I relied on most and asked how to adjust them without losing the parts I enjoyed. He showed and explained ways to help me think about and build meals that supported the work my kidneys were trying to do. He never made me feel judged and usually laughed at my open mic attempts at improv. He helped me find a way to live within my dietary limits without losing the joy of eating. This all made my food restrictions feel less like a punishment and more like a partnership.
As the months passed, the hours connected to the cycler grew longer, and there were days when I caught myself questioning how much longer my body could keep up with what it required. The social worker asked about those parts of the journey that were not listed on my chart. She wanted to know how I was coping, whether I had enough support, and if I could keep up with the demands of the nightly routine. She made room for the heaviness I carried in my shoulders and the way I sometimes sat across from her, hunched over, as if the long hours on the cycler had settled into my posture. With her, those things could finally be spoken aloud. When she spoke, her voice was softer. “If you hit a day where it feels like too much, that is normal. Just let us know so we can help.” It was the kind of truth that helped me keep going.
Between visits, the clinic was still with me. If the machine struggled to drain or the solution refused to flow, I could call any time of day or night. Someone always answered. They talked me through each step until the alarms stopped and the room settled again. Those alarms had a sharp, insistent tone that cut through the stillness of the bedroom, and the glow of the machine’s screen cast a pale light across my face. Those calls, though I probably only called six times, kept me going on nights when exhaustion tried to take over.
Looking back, those monthly labs and appointments held me together in ways I did not understand at the time. But they were more than appointments; they were reminders that support often comes through people who show up again and again, even if it is their job, after all, they got into healthcare for a reason.
The dialysis clinic staff carried me through a season I could not have managed by myself, one month at a time, until the morning of my kidney transplant, when I put the cycler away for the last time. The nights of dialysis solution and beeping finally came to an end.
A few weeks after my transplant, I dropped by the clinic. They were happy to see me. Also, I was returning the dialysis machine. I had joked and promised not to destroy it “Office Space” style, even though it had been my nemesis for so long. It was my third cycler in eighteen months, and the two before it had issues we could not solve.
Walking out of the clinic that day, I thought about the people who would be starting this journey after me, stepping into the same rooms with the same questions and the same weight I once carried. I hoped they would find the support at their clinic, the kind that I found at mine, the kind that helps you through long hours and uncertainty.
Kidney dialysis changes you, but it does not take away your ability to keep moving forward. You learn to take things one step at a time, and you learn to be gentle with yourself along the way.
Final Review:
Dialysis Clinic: ★★★★★
Being on kidney dialysis: ★
Related Posts:
Being on Kidney Dialysis
To eat, or not eat, that is the question
About Kidney Dialysis
❤️