It’s Friday, and I’m on dialysis. The situation has calmed down a bit, and things aren’t as tense as they were in the beginning. Both the patients and the staff are almost as calm as they usually are. When it all started it was quite a shock:

  • Let me see you wash your hands!
  • I beg your pardon?
  • Your hands, let me see you wash your hands.
  • I’m sorry, but this is humiliating. I’m flabbergasted

It suddenly hit me that people don’t wash their hands. People don’t change out of the clothes they came in for their treatment. Some of them are offended that they’re being called the day before to check how they’re feeling. The same people that get offended at things like these are the ones who come into dialysis with a fever, which they had the whole day before, but didn’t bother to report on the call. They are offended but fail to realise that the whole point of the call is to prevent things like that, which could turn into much larger problems, from happening. 

Now, everyone is pretty much used to it. Everything, even something as odd as this becomes normal-ish, as soon as you develop a routine. My typical day on dialysis is: Reading e-mails and expanding my Italian vocabulary (hour one); Breakfast, which is always the same, a potato pie, my choice. The other three options are very bland (hour two); Some sleep, if I’m lucky (hour three); Some more sleep hopefully, and impatiently waiting to be plugged off (hour four).

A new problem arises, and it’s called the weekend. The weekend during quarantine, to be more precise. Everyone is locked inside after 5pm, and we have to make do with the little time we have available before that. After doing work related things, and the odd job around the house, time’s up.

Books? Reading is a bit difficult these days. As per usual, I’m reading a few books in various genres, but it’s not really working for me at this point in time

Television? Can’t take it anymore. I’ve watched so many films and TV series that the col­­­­ours of my TV screen appear to be dissolving. It’s become unbearable, to be completely honest.

It’s Friday around 8pm. I’m forging plan, researching a plethora of activities available  to me. Should I watch kitties and puppies dance and play with their owners? Not tonight. Facebook? Even worse.

The following two hours are very well spent. I’m playing Candy Crush saga, a game meant for three year olds, to keep them occupied while their mothers drink coffee with their girlfriends. It turns out I’m quit the proffesional, seeing as I’m the points leader, represented by a cat in a tiger suit, with an alter ego of a frog.

Time for some Youtube. I’ve decided to, with the help of the many available tutorials, learn to sing properly. Like an Opera diva. I’m on my third video, and hard at work with vocal chord warmups, with my tongue stuck out over my bottom lip. It looks as funny as it sounds, I can assure you.

I check the time. Friday night, 10:51pm. Luckily I have a dog. Two, in fact. I’m going for a walk at 11, for twenty minutes. Am I allowed forty minutes because I have two dogs?

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