Tales from the Hemo ward

Monday

It’s a morning of blue lips and much trembling at Hemo today. The dialysis clinic’s AC is on full throttle and an arctic air mass sweeps through the place. Patients request extra heated blankets. The Filipina nurses rely on their go-to expression of alarm: aye-yi-yi! Many of them step outside to warm up. All this shivering is compounded by the fact that today is monthly bloodwork. Vial after vial of precious, warming blood is bled away. I cling to my hemo tubes in the hope that the warm blood coursing through them will restore feeling to my icicle fingers. This is the sub-zero fun you find at Hemo.

Wednesday

A yearning for the past at Hemo this morning. Our resident conspiracy theorist Sam is waxing nostalgic about his childhood in Guyana. He tells of the “diamond seekers” who come in from the diamond fields laden with precious stones and are prepared to donate large sums to help restore villages. There are the Hindu weddings in which revellers toss shillings and pounds in the path of the oncoming couple. Sam recalls the time a Jamaican woman offered him “night food” which is a euphemism for sex. He recoils at the memory of alligators pulling locals into the deep bush never to be seen again. These are the morsels on offer at Hemo.

Friday

This morning in the Hemo waiting room we are reminded of Norman Mailer’s famous aphorism: if there is one fell rule in art it is that repetition kills the soul. The sentiment of that is felt in a way at hemo as the sheer tedium of the dialysis routine hangs heavy on the renal warriors. Having to come in to the hospital three and, in some cases six times, a week grinds you down. What is a novelty at first is a numbing chore in time. Many patients talk of one day just not coming in. Some near the end of their rope decide to end taking treatment and go home to wait for the end in eight to 10 days. This is the reality of hemo.

Monday

Random observations on a quiet morning at Hemo: To the untrained ear Tagalog sounds somewhat similar to Inuit. A glottal quality. One wonders about the ancestral commonalities. A trait shared by many renal warriors is their inability to lock the door of the toilet. It has been my distinct displeasure to walk in on many a patient in mid-dump. Nurses uniforms are so much more stylish, comfortable and practical today compared with my mother’s time as a nurse. Long gone are the ridiculous starched white cotton hats and breastplates of yore. This is the joy of Hemo.

Wednesday

Much back and forth at Hemo this morning. I refer to the important negotiation between nurse and renal warrior at the beginning of each treatment. The vital decision of how much fluid to take out of each patient must be made before the connection to the dialysis machine. It’s a combination of the nurse’s knowledge and expertise and the ever-changing reality of the patient’s weight and what they feel they can tolerate on a given day. Some patients come in heavy because they are retaining a lot of fluid. In a healthy person this is shed through regular urination. But for a patient with end-stage renal disease urination is often impossible. And so the negotiation with your nurse is critical. Some patients will have four or five litres of fluid pulled out of them. Others as little as a litre and a half. It depends on how much they are retaining and how well they can tolerate the removal before severe cramping kicks in. For some dialysis can be an exhausting, painful ordeal. A good nurse can make a huge difference. This is the gratitude we feel at Hemo.

Friday

Clouded judgment and extreme delusion at Hemo today. A scheduling change has me back in the waiting room with the dreaded Red, purveyor of Skelton jokes that bear no resemblance to the originals. After one sketch involving a Dr. Hemoglobin Red asks me if I have any money. I never carry cash, I tell him. But do you have a bank ATM card, he asks. I nod. Any chance you could give me some money, he wants to know. How much would you like to give me? We agree that I can finish my muffin and coffee and then I’ll go upstairs and withdraw $20 for Red. After all, he needs to buy a couple of loaves of bread and some ham. I hand over a crisp twenty and he says the world is a better place because of people like me. I feel the need to lie down. This is the acid trip that is Hemo.

Monday

Hemo seems especially unhinged today. Fellow patient Sam, our resident conspiracy theorist, says he has to pay $6,000 every two months for his cell phone and he has the paperwork to prove it. When I ask for the proof he tells me that a certain nurse advised him to breathe in deeply but not to breathe out. He says this as crackers fall out of his mouth. Sam adds that Doug Ford leaves toilet paper at his apartment door every two weeks. This is the Heironymus Bosch painting that is Hemo.

Wednesday

We are getting our funk on at hemo this morning. Mister Siwak, in the station across from me in the coveted middle pod, blasts Kool and The Gang from his smartphone. Oh what a night! A mental patient from upstairs finds his way into the hemo clinic and hovers over oblivious blind Renato in the chair beside me. If ever there was a time for one of Renato’s patented wet farts, this was it. Alas, nothing. Charge nurse Ana appears and begins to whisper to the disoriented young man. The whispering engages him and he follows Ana out of the clinic. This is the passing parade of Hemo.

Friday

Major interrogation at Hemo this morning. First day back from my sojourn to Sunnybrook. I sit alone in the waiting room nursing my cup of tar. In comes blind Renato. He yells Hello Everybody to me. Sam, our resident conspiracy theorist, asks me how was my cruise. Modestine posits I was tending to my commune in Central America. Maria, the much liked Pilipina chef in the motorized chair, thinks I was seeing a Hemo nurse on the other team. What none of them knows is that under my Roy Jones Jr. sweats I am packing a leg bag. That’s the beauty of a Foley catheter. You can pee your pants with impunity. This is the anonymity of Hemo.

Monday

Scheduling drama at Hemo this morning. I’m having an MRI this afternoon at another hospital. This means I need to get dialysis within 24 hours to remove the toxic contrast dye from the MRI from my system. I must shift my Friday dialysis treatment to tomorrow morning. Ana the charge nurse and the nephrologist are on board. What they don’t realize is that this will put me in contact with the dreaded Red Skelton, another patient who has elevated tormenting me to an art form. If I hear one more of his Red Skelton routines there will be murder. This is the horror that is Hemo.

Wednesday

A new low at Hemo today. My reunion with the dreaded Red Skelton is singularly unpleasant. He sits scratching his lotto tickets when a lost-looking woman sticks her head into the Hemo waiting room. Red yells, “This isn’t for you!” I ask the woman what she’s looking for and direct her accordingly. Fellow patient Leo enters. Leo is a 6’5” Indigenous film student from my hometown of Saskatoon. He’s also a fan of Saskatchewan phenom Connor Bedard. I greet Leo with the news of Bedard’s being picked first by Chicago Blackhawks in last night’s NHL draft. Leo smiles. Red Skelton interrupts with, “I bet you liked that, eh, Chief?” Leo says, “What do you mean?” Red says, “Blackhawks. Bet you like what’s on their jersey. Blackhawks. Get it?” Leo says, “I know what you’re getting at and no, I don’t like it.” The conversation mutates to the old TV show The Lone Ranger. “Tonto,” Red says, “Bet you like him, too!” Leo explains that Tonto is not really representative of Indigenous people. An awkward silence falls over the room. This is the bigotry of Hemo.

Friday

Shakeup at Hemo this morning. Leo, the 6’5” Indigenous film student from Saskatoon, makes an appearance in our waiting room. He’s changed his weekly Hemo schedule to avoid encounters with the reviled Red Skelton. We begin with a thorough Freudian analysis of Red’s most alarming sociopathic traits. It is generally agreed that Red has no self-awareness. Oh, and he’s a racist. Leo asks me how do I clean my hearing aids. I let him know that I do not use hearing aids. We settle into an awkward silence just as Sam, our resident conspiracy theorist, enters carrying a large roll of Bounty under his arm. This is the joy of Hemo.

Monday

Fellow Hemo patient Modestine is frail but fearless. When the wholly obnoxious Red Skelton hears her name he bellows, “My Esteem, My Esteem.” This continues for a good five minutes. Modestine bristles and says in her Barbadian lilt, “Are you mocking me?” Before there’s an answer she jumps up and whacks Red three times with her Hurrycane. The rest of the room seems pleased.

Wednesday

Tension at Hemo this morning. We’re short three nurses and Ana the charge nurse has put out an all-hands-on-deck appeal to off-duty staff. I’ve raised my hand and offered to step in. I’m confident I can do connections and disconnects though I have no clue how to program the machines for treatment. Ana says she is taking my offer under advisement. Strangely, several of my fellow patients glare at me. This is the fear and trepidation of Hemo.

Friday

A Hemo pot pourri today. Leo aka Chief Broom, the 6’5” Indigenous film student from my hometown of Saskatoon, is in the house. He talks of his next film project. It’s about the infamous Starlight Tour where Saskatoon police would pick up lone Indigenous men on the streets of downtown, drive them out of town, remove their shoes and socks and abandon them in the cold. Some of the poor bastards froze to death. On a lighter note, my nurse Mandy and I talked about the merits of the floral pattern shirt and what men are comfortable wearing one. A camp I happen to belong to. Mandy waits for the sales at Harry Rosen. That’s her secret strategy, she says. She also likes it when Dr. K, our only male nephrologist, wears his celebrated pink shirt. This is the joy and heartache of Hemo.

Monday

Much confusion at Hemo this morning. I bump into our resident conspiracy theorist Sam at the main doors to St. Joe’s. The doors are locked. Sam has arrived early for hernia surgery. It’s a day surgery. He has packed for a week. He says he needs to check in on the seventh floor. He asks if I’d mind showing him the way. I take Sam to another entrance I know always opens at 6 am. We make our way to the elevators and ascend to the seventh floor. We come out into a ward fortified like a prison. The sign says Mental Health. That’s appropriate, I think. I tell Sam I think day surgery is the second floor. I get him to the right check-in desk and settled. Sam tells me he’s jumpy. I wish him luck. This is the Mint Julep that is Hemo.

Wednesday

Modestine, aged 77, has been coming to Hemo for many years. She laments having to come in for treatment at so early an hour three days a week. “Damn dialysis,” she mutters, “all I want to do is go home and get in my bed.” We remind her that Hemo is the only place where she gets to participate in the sparkling badinage of the waiting room. She titters like a canary on nitrous oxide. This is the joy of Hemo.

Friday

Everything’s coming up sanguine today at Hemo. That’s a bad pun that tells you it’s monthly bloodwork today. At the beginning of the treatment one’s nurse draws three or Four vials of blood for laboratory analysis to tell the nephrologist how well or badly you’re doing. The blood always tells the story. Happily, because renal warriors all have a CVC (central venous catheter) or an implanted arm fistula blood access is immediate and painless. No needle pricks. Vampires everywhere salivate. By the end of today I can go online and review the results of my bloodwork. On Wednesday my nephrologist will review these results in detail with me and make whatever adjustments in diet and treatment are required. This is the beauty of the science of Hemo.

Monday

A sense of renewal and bewilderment at hemo this morning. Mister Multi-Drinks is back after three months in hospital battling gangrene. He says he needs to learn how to walk again. One marked difference: Mr. MD’s portable bar is closed. He sits without his customary four or five beverages. Meanwhile Sam, our resident conspiracy theorist, is in a lather. He cannot find the tube of Voltaren he usually rubs on his feet. He asks me to go through his stuff to try to find it. Sam has a large Backpack and two grocery tote bags. They are groaning with pill bottles and various toiletries. Without exaggeration he has four dozen bottles of pills. There is a large full bottle of Listerine. Multiple tubes of toothpaste. A tattered New Testament. Sam is clearly ready for the hygiene apocalypse. But no Voltaren. He sits with his bare feet disappointed in me. On a good note, Eleanor, one of my favourite nurses, is back from a week in Iceland. She raves about the tap water there. This is the joy of hemo.

Wednesday

Fellow patient Sam, our resident conspiracy theorist at Hemo, has informed the dietician that he left his phone at home today so the bad orderly can’t track his movements. The dietician grins, nods and backs away. This is the joy of Hemo.

Friday

Sextants out at Hemo this morning. Ana, our beloved charge nurse, is giddy with the prospect of a two-week holiday beginning at the end of shift today. She tells me of a book of Portuguese poetry devoted to the explorations of Vasco da Gama. He had to navigate the most perilous waters. I never understood a word of it, Ana admits. These are the horse latitudes of Hemo.

Wednesday

A melange of ecumenical delight at Hemo this morning. We get talking about the age-old divide between Catholics and Protestants. Francisco says he was born and raised a Catholic but as a young man crossed over to the Protestants. More recently he’s come back to the Catholics. Being a Catholic, he says, is like being in the slammer. He doesn’t explain. Mister Multi-Drinks shares that his sister-in-law is the Mother Superior at Montreal’s Hotel Dieu. Years ago she switched from wearing her habit to a more practical nurse’s uniform. This upset her neighbour because he would know never to swear in the presence of an obvious nun but he was decidedly profane around plain-clothes people. The Mother Superior suggested he didn’t swear in front of anyone. Modestine informs us as a girl she divided her time between the Catholics and the Anglicans. But more recently she likes going to the local Hindu temple because the food is better. This is the salvation of Hemo.

Friday

Sticker shock at Hemo this morning. Fellow renal warrior Jon, whom everyone loves, just returned from Miami where he attended his father’s funeral. While there he decided to check out possible dialysis clinics for future reference. The first place he saw was a luxury clinic with valet parking. One session of treatment costs $9,000. That’s right nine grand. That’s it. That’s the post. This is the madness of Hemo.

Monday

This morning in the Hemo waiting room I was listening to an animated conversation in Tagalog between two Filipino patients. I caught a familiar phrase: Ali bomaye. I cut in with a reference to the epic fight in Zaire between Ali and Foreman. Crickets and blank stares. This is the joy of Hemo.

Wednesday

Overheard at Hemo today: “I have a husband!” (A nurse yelling at a patient.)

Friday

A frisson of anticipation at Hemo this morning. Today is the annual renal BBQ for the St. Joe’s dialysis patients and staff. It will be in the parking lot of the satellite clinic on Islington. Kidney beans are not on the menu. But there will be burgers. Dot One will be my date. She has memorized a Red Skelton joke to torment reviled racist Red with. Watch this space for bulletins. This is the joy of Hemo.

Monday

A tremor of excitement in the Hemo waiting room today. The hospital has hung a new whiteboard on the wall. It is blank. Renal warriors Francisco, Modestine and John gather before it and stare. They say nothing. Transfixed, they keep looking at it as if some secret message might appear any second now. The whiteboard is the monolith from Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. This is the science fiction of Hemo.

Wednesday

Footloose and fancy-free felons at Hemo today. Mister S, late of Miami, comes into the waiting room in a bit of a lather. A shadowy figure on a Parkdale side street tried to mug him on his walk to St. Joe’s. Mister S, who sports a four-foot-long mane of black hair and has done time in prison, stood his ground. The assailant stopped Mister S demanding his money. “Look, I’ve killed people,” Mister S warned, “you don’t want to do this.” Still, the thug demanded the money. Mister S tore into him. Later, in the waiting room, Mister S says he thinks the guy might be dead in the street. All I wanted to do is get to Hemo and this guy tried to get in the way. I just want to be left alone. This is the joy of Hemo.

Friday

A pot pourri of emotions at Hemo this morning. Mister Multi Drinks is miffed. The pop machine in the cafeteria isn’t working. He had to go to Second Cup for a 500 mL Coke at $4. The broken machine has 650 mL Pepsi for $3.50. Frugality is everything is the unwritten code for renal Warriors. Meanwhile, newbie Zigmond tells me he speaks Polish, Russian, Ukrainian, Serbian and French. Modestine arrives looking resplendent in flamboyant pants bearing a kind of Ukrainian-style pattern. She does a pirouette on demand. She tells us she yearns for the warmth of her native Trinidad. If she were there, she says, she wouldn’t need dialysis. Instead, she’d drink the tea made from the leaves of the Keraly (sic) bush. It cleanses your system, she touts. From the corner Renato releases a 12-second ass blast. The room falls silent. This is the joy of Hemo.

Monday

In this morning’s Hemo waiting room it has been revealed that in the matter of seat assignments bribing the charge nurse is the best route.

Wednesday

Once a week at Hemo they put me in the back with the goats and chickens.

Friday

Revulsion and loathing at Hemo this morning. The dreaded Red Skelton makes an unexpected appearance at this Friday sitting. He launches into a 40-minute lecture on why the Bad Boy chain of furniture stores is going bankrupt. Red, who got his business degree from a college advertising on the back of comic books, says it’s because Blaine Lastman continued to use Mel Lastman’s image in the advertising long after the father’s death. He pretended his dad was alive, Red blusters. He also refers to Mel as the “matriarch” of the family. I tell him it’s patriarch but this distinction is lost on him. When the lecture ends Red asks if he can have a quiet word with me in the corner. We both stand and retreat to the back of the room. Red reminds me I helped him out with a gift of $20 a few months before. He asks for another $20 now. I say no. I resist saying to Red, “Who can beat my generosity? Nooooooobody!” This is the joy of Hemo.

Monday

A spasm of apprehension sweeps through the Hemo waiting room today. It’s monthly bloodwork today and a few of us renal warriors are nervous that the blood analysis will expose us as cheats. Dietary cheats that is. Modestine says bloodwork is their way of spying on us to see if we’ve been good eaters or not. I say, yes, I expect they’ll find out I ate too many spuds on the weekend. I worry about my potassium levels. Mister S from Miami comes in dressed entirely in camo. I don’t want to be seen, he declares. This is the joy of hemo.

Wednesday

We are high and dry at Hemo this morning. There is no water to run the machines. The assembled horde of renal warriors waits. To fill the time we bombard the much-loved Modestine with good wishes and insults in celebration of her 77th birthday. In response she promises to beat me up. This is the dry-dock that is Hemo.

Friday

As I organize Hemo treatment in the south of France for a trip to Cannes over Christmas my Toronto nephrologist wants to know if she can come with me, just to be certain. I suspect she has an ulterior motive.

Monday

One of the most exciting dynamics at morning Hemo is the haggling between patients and nurses over how much fluid the machine will pull out of you. The air is electric with the back and forth. We are rug merchants in the bazaar. We are commodities dealers trading pork bellies.

Wednesday

We’re learning to count this morning in the Hemo waiting room. Szigmond, our newest addition to the Renal Warriors club, likes to count how many fellow patients entered the room before him. Today he determines he is the fifth one in. He does this every day. He takes particular delight if he cracks the top three. One imagines the joy he’ll experience if he’s ever first. As he looks for a seat Szigmond notices I am not in my usual seat next to Modestine. This is because for once Modestine beat me into the room and as she was removing her many shawls and layers of clothing she had piled everything on my usual seat. I took the next seat over. I tell the room that I’m trying to keep my distance from Modestine otherwise people will talk. I’d rather others didn’t think we were dating. Modestine makes a high-pitched wail not unlike a peacock in distress. “You big-head boy,” she cries. This is the joy of Hemo.

Friday

The nurses think theyre hallucinating at Hemo this morning. Rosie shouts, “Am I hallucinating or what?” J-Lo and Rachelle reply, “Hallucinating? What are you seeing?” Rosie explains she saw a Patient named Patel but she was certain Patel had been discharged. Charlene weighs in: “How long have you been having these hallucinations.” Too long, shrieks Rosie. A few minutes pass as Rosie checks online the comings and goings of said patient Patel. “Yes! I was right. She was discharged yet I keep seeing her here.” J-Lo wonders if perhaps Rosie is imagining it. No, Rosie says, these hallucinations are very real. Charlene expresses interest in taking a trip through Rosie’s mind. Rosie laughs. It’s too crowded in there, she warns. This is the joy of Hemo.

Monday

Hurled invective at Hemo this morning. Now it is time to talk of the ways various renal warriors respond to the alarms made by their dialysis machines. First, understand there are different levels of urgency to these alarms. There are sounds for low blood pressure or high, low or high arterial volume, a possible blood clot or tangled line. Sometimes even just clearing your throat can trigger an alarm. Modestine has a standard response to the ringing bell: “Oh shut up!” Sam always asks, “Now what?” Renato often yelps. Mister Multi-Drinks takes a more polite tack: “Please be quiet,” but then adds, “you incessant sow.” Me? Ever the Canadian, I simply apologize to my nurse for the disruption. “Sorry.” The thing is, the nurses never seem to mind. It comes with the territory. This Is the joy of Hemo.

Wednesday

Today’s Hemo waiting room doubles as a den of inveterate gamblers. Modestine admits to a weakness for the slots and ponies of Woodbine. Mister Multi-Drinks tells of the time he and two other postal workers called in sick and hopped the bus to Casino Rama only to be greeted by their manager at the craps table. Ashamed, the three posties got back on the bus and returned home without so much as a nickel wagered. Mister Miami shares the story of his betting on a recent UFC fight paying 65 to 1 each round. He took home more than $80,000. Zsigmond, our newcomer to Hemo, suggests we establish a pool based on what colour uniform our nurses are wearing. The joys of Hemo are many and life is a parlay waiting to be taken.

Friday

A tip o’ the chapeau this morning to fellow renal warrior Modestine who is a shining example of what makes Canada beautiful. She came here in the early ‘70s from her native Trinidad and Tobago. One of 10 children she began the practice of sending home two barrels a year filled with essentials such as flour, sugar, baking powder, rice and cooking oil. To be able to afford this Modestine held down three jobs at once: housekeeper at Toronto General Hospital, kitchen aide at Sunnybrook and a cleaner in a Jewish nursing home. Can any of us imagine what it’s like to work three jobs at once? When did she sleep? Now only her younger brother is still alive. She still sends him barrels of staples to help him get by. And she does this with her trademark high lilt of a laugh. Modestine: she is the bedrock of Hemo.

Monday

The waiting room TV is on this Thanksgiving Monday. Perhaps the hospital paid its rent and power has been restored. We watch a special program on innovations the Netherlands has given the world. An impressive litany of inventions fills our screen: the microscope, the thermometer, the eye chart, windmills, the ECG and land reclamation. Suddenly, six arms shoot upward pointing at the screen. The Dutch gave us dialysis! From the enormous filtering barrels of ancient dialysis systems to the compact wonder boxes of today, our friends in Holland pioneered advanced kidney care. We nod and cluck our approval of these Gouda people in wooden clogs. This is the joy of Hemo.

Wednesday

My nurse just pretended to do a hold-up as she put the thermometer to my forehead. “No money, no honey,” she said. This is why I come to hemo.

Friday

Hemo bulletin: my nurse Jennifer Lopez, who goes by J-Lo, just said to Dr. Ali that Mr. Neary is the best patient ever. He replied I agree. All because I said It’s easy when you know how. The love is deep at Hemo.

Monday

Rampant envy in this morning’s Hemo waiting room. The renal warriors have caught wind of a rumour that the dialysis staff are having their annual Christmas gala at a local golf club this Sunday. Modestine wants to know where her invitation is. Mister Miami asks whose Palm do I have to grease to get in? Szigmond wonders if the gala is black tie. Francisco asks will there be dancing? Maria, our much loved Hemo clerk, declares it’s all irrelevant, folks, none of you is invited. Otherwise, how can we talk behind your backs? This is the joy of Hemo.

Wednesday

A time for reflection at Hemo this morning. Here’s to our angels of mercy, the nurses, orderlies, technicians and cleaners who keep our Hemo clinic running so well. I salute Eleanor, Ana, Charlene, Phyllis, Jessy, Jemsy, Leilani, Raj, Jackie, Sija, Jennifer, Robert, Lio, Vera, Kellee, Kathy, Par, Behar, Floyd, Merrill, and the few whose names I don’t yet know. Thank you for your professionalism, knowledge and attitudes. Signed, the Hemo Misfits.