Kidney dialysis—the need for humanity

From my perspective as a patient, dialysis can appear to lack imagination and kindness. My kidney failure was diagnosed in 2005. At that time, I was on another journey, one of indescribable and agonising sadness. My husband was dying. For many months I cancelled appointments. Eventually I went, not because of any symptoms but because I thought it best to find out what I should do. I was 74 and was referred to the low clearance clinic.

This was a kind and decent set-up with excellent nurses monitoring the gradual deterioration of people’s kidneys. Dialysis was never mentioned. Some time later came the first appointment with the consultant. Now a transplant was proposed: I was put on the transplant list. I started attending the low clearance clinic in 2007, and at the end of 2009 the superb consultant said that dialysis must now begin.

So dialysis began in January 2010. It was particularly unfortunate that the first thing I passed on my way to the new dialysis unit was the mortuary: a sad low brick building with lots of little windows—maybe for the corpses to breathe better. Then followed a tiring uphill climb to the unit. And when at last I got there, a closed door greeted me. “Any chance of you kindly opening it when you arrive at 6.30 am?” I asked one of the nurses.

“We change into our uniforms, we’ve got all the machines to get ready, we’ve . . .” “But wait a moment,” I pleaded politely. “It’s freezing out here in the dark in the winter. We would only go into the warm waiting room—obviously not into the machine rooms until we’re allowed. We’d just sit there warmly …