Louie was my mother’s dog. When she died, Louie became my father’s dog. When Bob, my dad, went into assisted living, Louie became my dog. Every Tuesday I take Louie to see my dad. I also might take a couple chocolate éclairs.
You just have to enjoy life. My dad doesn’t say much. He can still devour an éclair very quickly.
Dialysis changes you both physically and mentally. The vein in my left bicep has been altered to carry large amounts of blood. This is my access, or fistula. Before the nurses stick needles in my arm, I like to ask them if they think my fistula makes my muscle look bigger. The nursing staff at dialysis, mostly young women, have helped me mentally. Sometimes instead of reading or watching TV, I just stare at the nurses. I always tell them when I am leaving that it was nice looking at you.
She was getting ready to stick big needles in my arm. She asked me if I had smoked pot before I came in. She said, “Your eyes are bloodshot, you smell like pot, and you haven’t stopped talking since you sat down.” I asked if she also worked for the FBI or the city police. I told her nicely that what I do in the privacy of my own home is confidential. She stuck the needles in, and I think it may have hurt more than it normally does.
I think more clearly when I am stoned. The trouble is, a good buzz lasts me, at the most, a half hour. Then I revert back to my quiet, slow thinking self.
This year I am going to act my age. I am going to be kind and generous, all the time. I am only going to eat lean meats, fruits,and vegetables. I am going to be proud of who I am, and forget what my family thinks of me. I’m going to break a sweat more often. I am going to stop looking at women as sex objects. I’m going to take all my meds, legal and illegal. I’m going to do all these things. This Year.