My left hand

I always fear a progression of my illness. I await it, in fact. You may call me a pessimist, but it’s just been that class of a life thus far.

I am conscious of the fact that I have escaped fairly lightly in dialysis terms. I have had no real, or at least no prolonged loss of appetite, so I don’t bear the...defined bone structure...that marks some of my fellow D patients. I have not had to spend any time in hospital, have managed to keep myself infection-free, and have had no difficulties with the tube inside my tummy.

It’s all going swimmingly, so I am prepared for the inevitable tragic twist that will no doubt hurtle in my direction one fine day soon.

I thought that day had arrived this week, when some odd looking blisters appeared on my left hand. To my increasingly forgetful mind, it seemed these blisters came from nowhere. They began as an itchy patch on the index finger, and painfully bubbled their way above the skin.

Aside from enjoying showing them off, in the same way I spent most of my childhood flaunting cuts and scrapes and scabs, I did genuinely worry that my condition had moved up a gear.

I visualised a gradual spread of Wicked Witch of the West type boils across my body, and wondered whether I should go straight to see the consultant.

Then I remembered an ‘ouch’ moment from last weekend. Getting ready to head to the Races for the day, I was in too much of a rush to give due note to the sensation of pain.

Had I paused, I would have allowed my brain to register the contact between my finger and my hair straighteners.

Panic over, but still. Ouch.

The replacement

Brendan has been taken away for his service. He needs a little TLC from his makers, a holiday, a few nights away from life-saving.

The lucky bastard. No such break from this toil for me.

His lights stopped working a while back, no doubt from the numerous car journeys I insist on bringing him on.

I don’t believe the dialysis machine was made for traipsing around rural Irish roads in the boot of my stupid car, which has a suspension that buckles at the sight of a pothole.

I now have a substitute in place in my home, and I like him even less. He is older, noisier, more obnoxious in the night-time hours.

He is probably a cantankerous old uncle to Brendan’s youthful boyishness. He has no time for my hasty set-up practices, the shortcuts I increasingly take, my strolling in home at 2am, with a tummy full of toxins mixed with vodka.

I feel the need to treat him as we did sub teachers back in the schooldays. With derision. You’ll note I’ve not even given him a name, and I name most objects in my possession.

But as with Brendan, and as with sub teachers, he will win all of our battles. I will return to him night after night, to curse him, and hate him, but knowing I need him.

Like a good little puppet on a string.