A Dialysis Day with Dave

Just wanted to run you through an average dialysis day for me and so many others.

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The alarm shrieks, cutting through the dawn quiet at 7:30 AM, sharp and insistent. Dave groans, rolling over to silence it. His body feels heavy, like it’s still tethered to the bed, but he knows he can’t linger. Dialysis days start early, and the clinic waits for no one.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pausing to catch his breath. The familiar ache in his lower back is there, a dull throb---a reminder of the fluid his kidneys can’t clear anymore. He shuffles to the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, and stares at his reflection. His eyes are a little puffy today, but he forces a half-smile. “You got this,” he mutters, a mantra he’s leaned into since his diagnosis. He knows that it's only the strength from God that is getting him through each day.

Breakfast is light—oatmeal with a few blueberries, no salt, no bananas. He’s memorized the renal diet like a sacred text: low potassium, low phosphorus, low sodium. His kitchen is a fortress of Tupperware and carefully labeled portions. He packs a small bag for the clinic: a blanket, his latest favorite book (a dog-eared copy of The Harbinger ), wireless earbuds, and a water bottle with exactly 500 milliliters. Fluid restrictions are non-negotiable.

By 8:00, Dave has gotten ready and is making a quick check around his house and work site to make sure all will be good till he gets back around 3:00PM

9:00AM and Dave’s in his truck, feeling fortunate that he is still able to drive himself where he needs to go. The dialysis center is 10 minutes away, a squat brick building with frosted windows and a parking lot that smells faintly of antiseptic. The radio plays the latest episode of the Jenna Ellis Show, but Dave’s mind drifts, watching the miles and stores blur past. He’s grateful for the company of fellow Christians even if it is only through the radio. Dialysis can feel like a solitary marathon, even with a crowd around you.

At the clinic, the receptionist, Carla, greets him with a warm “Morning, Dave!” The waiting room is already half-full—regulars he recognizes, like Mr. Henderson, who’s always got a crossword puzzle, and young Jamal, who’s glued to his phone. Dave checks in, gets his weight taken (up 3kilo since last session, not great), and settles into his assigned chair in the treatment room. The hum of machines and the soft beeping of monitors fill the air.

Nurse Tara, one of his favorites, approaches with a smile. “How’s my VIP today?” she asks, prepping the dialysis machine. Dave chuckles, but his stomach tightens as Tara inspects his fistula—the surgically created access point in his left arm. It’s a lifeline, but the needle sticks still sting, physically and emotionally. Tara’s gentle, though, and soon the machine is whirring, pulling blood from Dave’s body, filtering it, and sending it back cleaner than before.

The session lasts a little more than four hours. Dave wraps himself in his blanket, the clinic’s air conditioning always a touch too cold. He tries to read, but his focus wanes, so he switches to a podcast about crypto investment—something to distract from the faint cramping in his legs, praying that it doesn't get worse. Halfway through, his blood pressure dips, and Tara adjusts the machine, asking Dave to wiggle his toes. He replies "Only if I can watch you do the same.".  Flirting, just another way to keep his mind away from the idea that nearly a quart of his blood is running through the lines and filters of the machine at any one time. It’s routine, but it’s a reminder of how fragile this balance is.

He glances around the room. Some patients sleep; others watch TV on the small screens above their chairs. There’s a quiet camaraderie here, unspoken but strong. They’re all in this together, tethered to machines that keep them alive. Dave thinks about his old life—spontaneous road trips, late-night tacos, long visits with family. Now, every choice revolves around dialysis schedules and lab results.

Lunch is on his mind…what to have—a turkey sandwich, an apple, and a tiny cup of Jell-O. Dave plans carefully, mindful of his fluid limit. He chats with Emily, one of the nurses during her rounds, who shares a story about her dog chewing up her couch. It’s a small moment, but it grounds Dave, pulls him out of his head.

By 1:30 PM, the session’s done. Tara disconnects him from one needle at a time, hold for 10 minutes taping the access site with care, then pulls the second and the pattern repeats. He is praying that one or the other of the sites doesn't leak today and make a mess like has happened too many times recently. Dave’s tired, his body drained in more ways than one, but he feels lighter, like the machine took some of his fog with it. He thanks Tara, grabs his bag, and heads out to the parking lot.

A short drive to grab the planned lunch and a few things for later.

The rest of the day is quiet. Back home, Dave naps for an hour or so, his body demanding rest. He wakes to texts from friends inviting him to dinner, but he declines—too much effort, and he’s wary of restaurant food sneaking in extra sodium. Instead, he spends what's left of the afternoon working in one of the buildings he's responsible for or out on the grounds working. Later writing in his notebook, an old hobby he took up again post-diagnosis. The lines flow freely, a small rebellion against the rigidity of his routine.

Dinner is grilled chicken and steamed broccoli, measured and bland but safe. Dave puts an old movie on, laughing at the remembered jokes. By 9 PM, Dave’s eyelids are heavy. He checks his weight again—down a bit, good—and takes his meds: a handful of pills for blood pressure, phosphorus, and cholesterol. He sets his alarm for the next dialysis day, two days from now, and slips into bed.

As he drifts off, Dave thinks about tomorrow. He plans the day's work. Maybe he’ll call some of his friends, plan something small. Dialysis days are long, but they’re not his whole life. He’s still here, still fighting, still finding moments of joy in the spaces between. He says a prayer for those going through the same as him, and that one day soon that call comes saying that they believe that they have a kidney match and to make his way to the transplant center. Three years so far and no real indication how much longer he'll need to wait.

Dave knows though that he is on God's time not his own and holds that idea tightly in his mind as he finally rides the ship of Morpheus to sleep 

DMMC 6-20-25