Bob Here.
I think that people in general always want to look their best. You know, put a good foot forward as they say.
One notable exception, however, is a person who is going for a dialysis treatment. It's probably safe to say that at least most dialysis patients could give a rip how they look during treatment.
In performing an in-depth analysis of this cultural phenomenon (in other words, pondering the issue while there was absolutely nothing else to do during a looooong dialysis session), me and my hot little brain came up with two potential reasons why otherwise decent people look like something that got run over in the highway when they report to a dialysis center.
(And keep in mind that there is absolutely no scientific basis for either of these possibilities.)
I think that people in general always want to look their best. You know, put a good foot forward as they say.
One notable exception, however, is a person who is going for a dialysis treatment. It's probably safe to say that at least most dialysis patients could give a rip how they look during treatment.
In performing an in-depth analysis of this cultural phenomenon (in other words, pondering the issue while there was absolutely nothing else to do during a looooong dialysis session), me and my hot little brain came up with two potential reasons why otherwise decent people look like something that got run over in the highway when they report to a dialysis center.
(And keep in mind that there is absolutely no scientific basis for either of these possibilities.)
First, dialysis is notoriously rough on clothing.
When you first start out, you're probably only worried about wearing something comfortable, since these treatments tend to feel like they're going on 'til the next millennium.
You might wear a fairly decent pair of jeans. Maybe a polo shirt, or long-sleeved flannel.
But over time, these once-respectable garments will be exposed to blood, dialysate, blood, saline, blood, bleach, blood, spilled coffee, blood...and then even more blood.
So you quickly start to realize that a dialysis treatment is akin to a death sentence to anything you decide to put on.
Then the problem compounds itself.
After your clothing has been all but destroyed, you realize that you don't want to ruin anything else, so you figure, ah, what the heck. I don't get any points on my monthly labs for having fashion sense. Might as well just wear the same outfit again.
And again and again and again...
Well, you get the picture. Three treatments per week ad infinitum, right?
Now, of course you'll run your dialysis "uniform" through the washer to prove you're not a complete savage. But the stains you incur (most especially bleach and, well, blood) are likely to leave a, shall we say, lasting impression?
So after a couple of weeks...months...years...
(Okay, I won't say decades, but really...)
...your dialysis attire starts to look like it has gone to war.
And lost.
You patients, if you have the chance to see a relatively new attendee, compare and contrast their appearance with someone who has been around a while. (I hate to say it, but especially men.)
The new guy probably looks like he just stepped out of an issue of GQ Casual. While the more experienced patron probably looks like he just went through the car wash.
Anyway, the second reason I devised was that once you know how dialysis affects you, about the last thing you're going to worry about is how you look.
Again, maybe it's different to start out. You might want to make a good impression.
Then, after a while, you'll wonder how you ever worried about such a trivial matter.
With the bleeding, itching, cramping, nausea, dizziness, fainting, restlessness, fatigue, and general brain dysfunction, needless to say, your togs are not going to be on the top of your priority list.
Not for long, anyway.
I should point out that it's easier for some of us to let our looks go to crap than others.
And, I daresay, I was probably one of the easiest cases.
The skids on my fashion sense had been greased long before I started the Big D.
A long, long time ago, the wife and I were heading out to dinner.
We didn't go out that often, and we were going someplace casual, so I felt that I had dressed accordingly.
So, I was be-bopping toward the front door when I heard, "What do you think you're doing?"
I stopped in my tracks, befuddled.
"What do you mean? Aren't we going out?"
"We're going out to dinner, not to compete in a mud-wrestling tournament."
Still clueless, I said, "Ah, cool. They have mud-wrestling at this place??"
"No dimwit. We're going to a decent restaurant. You know. Where civilized people go to eat?"
"Yeah, so what's the issue?"
She took a deep breath. "The issue is, do you have to go looking like a hobo?"
I just looked down at myself, as if realizing what I had on for the first time.
"Well, I mean, what's wrong with this?" I asked.
"What's wrong is we're going out to dinner, not looking to freeload a ride on a train."
"Hey, I don't think I look like a hobo."
"You're right. That's an insult to the rest of the hoboes. You know. The ones with some fashion sense?"
I realized I was fighting a losing battle. "Okay, fine. I'll go change."
So I went back to our room and put something else on.
"How's this?" I asked, heading back to the door.
She just stood staring.
"Ah hah hah. I probably wasn't clear. See, I wanted you to put something on that looked better."
"This doesn't look good?? I'm running out of options here."
She said, "Come with me." She didn't finish the sentence with "numbnuts" but I felt that was what she meant. Then she all but dragged me by the ear back to our closet.
She picked something out of the very back. "What would you say if I asked you to wear this?"
I just looked at the shirt she was holding out. "Hmmm. I'd probably say the disco era called and wanted their wardrobe back."
She let out an exasperated sigh and, after a few more iterations, we finally arrived at something we could both live with.
As we were going back to the door she muttered something like, "Well, the night can only get better from here."
Hearing that, I couldn't resist a final jab. "Oh, I'm gonna bring my radio along so I can listen to the game. You don't mind, do you?"
She just snorted and said, "I was wrong again."
At any rate, you know the apparel issue is getting pretty bad when even the dialysis center staff starts getting on you.
In one of my first centers, I had a regular attendant.
I got along great with her, at least partially because we would routinely give each other a hard time over just about anything that we could think of.
For instance, she was an excellent needle sticker and all dialysis patients know there's a wide range of abilities among different staff members. She took pride in being as painless as possible.
nowing this, of course, I sat down one day and said, "So, what's it going to be today? Miss Lancelot or two-twist torture?"
"What?"
"I just want to know what technique you're going to use to see if I need to upgrade my living will."
She just guffawed a little and went about her business.
The next time I came in, she walked over with what looked like a pair of huge knitting needles.
She was completely straight-faced and calm. "Ready?" she asked holding the needles up.
Then she was cracking up. "You should have seen the look on your face!"
Ah, I miss those good times.
Anyway, I was dialyzing after work and one day I must have been looking especially beaten and bedraggled. I was wearing my hemo-special jeans with a kaleidoscope of stains and one of my favorite shirts that looked like it had been dropped off a cliff.
When my attendant saw me she said, "Oh hey Bob. You didn't have to dress up just for me."
It took a minute for her jibe to register since I was feeling a little out of it. I just looked down at myself and when I looked back up, she was trying hard not to laugh out loud.
Finally I said, "Pretty chic, huh? It's just a little something I threw on."
Then we were both laughing, and I hammed it up a little more.
She was putting my blood pressure cuff on. "Hey be careful," I said, all serious.
"What? What's wrong?"
"No, nothing. I just didn't want you to wrinkle my shirt."
She just about busted a gut on that one.
After we started treatment, I said, "All kidding aside, I do have new underwear on."
She gave me a "TMI" look and said, "Really?"
I said, "Well they're new to me, anyway."
She snorted and moved on to the next patient.
Needless to say, the fashion issues have continued in my transition to home hemo!
Thanks for reading. Take care.
When you first start out, you're probably only worried about wearing something comfortable, since these treatments tend to feel like they're going on 'til the next millennium.
You might wear a fairly decent pair of jeans. Maybe a polo shirt, or long-sleeved flannel.
But over time, these once-respectable garments will be exposed to blood, dialysate, blood, saline, blood, bleach, blood, spilled coffee, blood...and then even more blood.
So you quickly start to realize that a dialysis treatment is akin to a death sentence to anything you decide to put on.
Then the problem compounds itself.
After your clothing has been all but destroyed, you realize that you don't want to ruin anything else, so you figure, ah, what the heck. I don't get any points on my monthly labs for having fashion sense. Might as well just wear the same outfit again.
And again and again and again...
Well, you get the picture. Three treatments per week ad infinitum, right?
Now, of course you'll run your dialysis "uniform" through the washer to prove you're not a complete savage. But the stains you incur (most especially bleach and, well, blood) are likely to leave a, shall we say, lasting impression?
So after a couple of weeks...months...years...
(Okay, I won't say decades, but really...)
...your dialysis attire starts to look like it has gone to war.
And lost.
You patients, if you have the chance to see a relatively new attendee, compare and contrast their appearance with someone who has been around a while. (I hate to say it, but especially men.)
The new guy probably looks like he just stepped out of an issue of GQ Casual. While the more experienced patron probably looks like he just went through the car wash.
Anyway, the second reason I devised was that once you know how dialysis affects you, about the last thing you're going to worry about is how you look.
Again, maybe it's different to start out. You might want to make a good impression.
Then, after a while, you'll wonder how you ever worried about such a trivial matter.
With the bleeding, itching, cramping, nausea, dizziness, fainting, restlessness, fatigue, and general brain dysfunction, needless to say, your togs are not going to be on the top of your priority list.
Not for long, anyway.
I should point out that it's easier for some of us to let our looks go to crap than others.
And, I daresay, I was probably one of the easiest cases.
The skids on my fashion sense had been greased long before I started the Big D.
A long, long time ago, the wife and I were heading out to dinner.
We didn't go out that often, and we were going someplace casual, so I felt that I had dressed accordingly.
So, I was be-bopping toward the front door when I heard, "What do you think you're doing?"
I stopped in my tracks, befuddled.
"What do you mean? Aren't we going out?"
"We're going out to dinner, not to compete in a mud-wrestling tournament."
Still clueless, I said, "Ah, cool. They have mud-wrestling at this place??"
"No dimwit. We're going to a decent restaurant. You know. Where civilized people go to eat?"
"Yeah, so what's the issue?"
She took a deep breath. "The issue is, do you have to go looking like a hobo?"
I just looked down at myself, as if realizing what I had on for the first time.
"Well, I mean, what's wrong with this?" I asked.
"What's wrong is we're going out to dinner, not looking to freeload a ride on a train."
"Hey, I don't think I look like a hobo."
"You're right. That's an insult to the rest of the hoboes. You know. The ones with some fashion sense?"
I realized I was fighting a losing battle. "Okay, fine. I'll go change."
So I went back to our room and put something else on.
"How's this?" I asked, heading back to the door.
She just stood staring.
"Ah hah hah. I probably wasn't clear. See, I wanted you to put something on that looked better."
"This doesn't look good?? I'm running out of options here."
She said, "Come with me." She didn't finish the sentence with "numbnuts" but I felt that was what she meant. Then she all but dragged me by the ear back to our closet.
She picked something out of the very back. "What would you say if I asked you to wear this?"
I just looked at the shirt she was holding out. "Hmmm. I'd probably say the disco era called and wanted their wardrobe back."
She let out an exasperated sigh and, after a few more iterations, we finally arrived at something we could both live with.
As we were going back to the door she muttered something like, "Well, the night can only get better from here."
Hearing that, I couldn't resist a final jab. "Oh, I'm gonna bring my radio along so I can listen to the game. You don't mind, do you?"
She just snorted and said, "I was wrong again."
At any rate, you know the apparel issue is getting pretty bad when even the dialysis center staff starts getting on you.
In one of my first centers, I had a regular attendant.
I got along great with her, at least partially because we would routinely give each other a hard time over just about anything that we could think of.
For instance, she was an excellent needle sticker and all dialysis patients know there's a wide range of abilities among different staff members. She took pride in being as painless as possible.
nowing this, of course, I sat down one day and said, "So, what's it going to be today? Miss Lancelot or two-twist torture?"
"What?"
"I just want to know what technique you're going to use to see if I need to upgrade my living will."
She just guffawed a little and went about her business.
The next time I came in, she walked over with what looked like a pair of huge knitting needles.
She was completely straight-faced and calm. "Ready?" she asked holding the needles up.
Then she was cracking up. "You should have seen the look on your face!"
Ah, I miss those good times.
Anyway, I was dialyzing after work and one day I must have been looking especially beaten and bedraggled. I was wearing my hemo-special jeans with a kaleidoscope of stains and one of my favorite shirts that looked like it had been dropped off a cliff.
When my attendant saw me she said, "Oh hey Bob. You didn't have to dress up just for me."
It took a minute for her jibe to register since I was feeling a little out of it. I just looked down at myself and when I looked back up, she was trying hard not to laugh out loud.
Finally I said, "Pretty chic, huh? It's just a little something I threw on."
Then we were both laughing, and I hammed it up a little more.
She was putting my blood pressure cuff on. "Hey be careful," I said, all serious.
"What? What's wrong?"
"No, nothing. I just didn't want you to wrinkle my shirt."
She just about busted a gut on that one.
After we started treatment, I said, "All kidding aside, I do have new underwear on."
She gave me a "TMI" look and said, "Really?"
I said, "Well they're new to me, anyway."
She snorted and moved on to the next patient.
Needless to say, the fashion issues have continued in my transition to home hemo!
Thanks for reading. Take care.
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