Funny thing about a dialysis catheter: Once you get used to it, grow accustomed to the sight of a plastic tube sticking out of your belly like a garden snake and the ritual of taping it against your body every day, having one becomes second nature.
It's like having a sidekick. Or better yet, a secret weapon. Once a day I unleash it from its hidden location, attach it to a source of power and rejuvenation (in this case, the peritoneal dialysis solution), open the valve and let the healing waters surge through my body. I suppose I should shout something dramatic when the connection takes place, like Billy Batson yelling "Shazam!" when he transformed into Captain Marvel. I can hear it now: "Time... to...DIALYZE!"
So one night at the dinner table, the girls, Emma and Madison, suggest we give it a name. (How do these mealtime conversations start, anyway?) We do some preliminary brainstorming. "Cathy the Catheter" was quickly rejected: too easy, and I didn't think my wife, Karen, would appreciate the name of another woman literally attached to me.
We tried variations of "Man Cub," Karen's pet name for me. (Long story.) Nothing clicked. Maybe some species of snake? I was partial to "Black Mamba" myself, but was fearful of being mistaken for Kobe Bryant.
Several other proposals failed to produce that "Aha!" moment, so I took the request to the people. That is, the 500 or so people who are brave enough to admit to being my friends on my Facebook page.
I received more than a dozen excellent name suggestions – many of which I cannot repeat here in polite company – but one stood out from the rest. Because of my many years as a television critic (a function I still perform for The Metro Times in Detroit; you can read a column here), and because a catheter is such a personal, individual device, it was voted that its name should be:
YouTube.
So YouTube it will be, now and henceforth. I'm expecting a call from the attorneys any day now. I guess you could call it "cath-arsis."
Or not.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Cancel the Tour Guide
I called the Baxter 800 number this week to place my monthly order for dialysis solution and supplies. One of the many new hats one wears as a kidney dialysis patient is shipping and receiving clerk.
Baxter provides you with a handy-dandy order pad, and every month you're supposed to do an inventory count of the cases of "Low Calcium Peritoneal Dialysis Solution With 1.5% Dextrose" and related equipment (like tubes, bags, masks, catheter caps) you have on hand, estimate how many more you'll need over the next 30 days, then phone in your order to Baxter.
I have determined that I am horrible at this. It's really hard to look at 30 cases of anything stacked up against a wall in your home, then call somebody and exclaim, "What the heck – send me 30 more!" But because it takes about two weeks for Baxter to process the order and get that mile-long delivery truck of theirs to your door, you have to think in abstract terms of what won't be there in two weeks, not what you see with your lyin' eyes.
Fortunately, the Baxter operators who take your order have gone through this process a few times before – in the previous 15 minutes, most likely – and are unfailingly helpful, cheerful and experienced. (I know that sounds like a commercial for Baxter, but it's true; believe me, if I ever have to deal with some stereotypical order-processing doodyhead, I will tell you about it.)
At any rate, as I'm going over the supplies in house to confirm this month's order, I glance at the words printed in the corner of one of the boxes: "Baxter Healthcare Corporation, Deerfield, IL."
Deerfield! I'm living currently in Decatur, Ill. Geobytes.com says the two cities are only 170 miles apart! (Out here on the prairie, people drive 100-plus miles between towns like they were going to the corner store for a cherry slush.) Maybe I can wangle a tour of Baxter headquarters! Suddenly I have visions of giant vats of "Low Calcium Peritoneal Dialysis Solution" being squeezed into the plastic bags I use when it's time for my kidneys' daily rinse cycle, and sterile tubes carefully being connected to the bags by happy, mask-wearing employees. Look! They're whistling while they work!
The next sound you hear is my thought balloon being popped. "Oh, we don't produce any of the materials here," the cheerful operator informs me. "We just take our customers' orders in this location."
Drat. They probably don't even wear masks while they do it. I'd still like to take a Baxter tour someday, but rows of operators chatting on headsets is not quite the impressive vision I had imagined. As long as I don't find out someday that the solution that rumbles around in my body isn't being manufactured in China or Uzbekistan, I'll still be pretty geeked for a day trip to Deerfield. Did you know the Irish settlers originally wanted to name the village "Erin," but lost out to the "Deerfield" faction by four votes?
No, I didn't think you did.
Baxter provides you with a handy-dandy order pad, and every month you're supposed to do an inventory count of the cases of "Low Calcium Peritoneal Dialysis Solution With 1.5% Dextrose" and related equipment (like tubes, bags, masks, catheter caps) you have on hand, estimate how many more you'll need over the next 30 days, then phone in your order to Baxter.
I have determined that I am horrible at this. It's really hard to look at 30 cases of anything stacked up against a wall in your home, then call somebody and exclaim, "What the heck – send me 30 more!" But because it takes about two weeks for Baxter to process the order and get that mile-long delivery truck of theirs to your door, you have to think in abstract terms of what won't be there in two weeks, not what you see with your lyin' eyes.
Fortunately, the Baxter operators who take your order have gone through this process a few times before – in the previous 15 minutes, most likely – and are unfailingly helpful, cheerful and experienced. (I know that sounds like a commercial for Baxter, but it's true; believe me, if I ever have to deal with some stereotypical order-processing doodyhead, I will tell you about it.)
At any rate, as I'm going over the supplies in house to confirm this month's order, I glance at the words printed in the corner of one of the boxes: "Baxter Healthcare Corporation, Deerfield, IL."
Deerfield! I'm living currently in Decatur, Ill. Geobytes.com says the two cities are only 170 miles apart! (Out here on the prairie, people drive 100-plus miles between towns like they were going to the corner store for a cherry slush.) Maybe I can wangle a tour of Baxter headquarters! Suddenly I have visions of giant vats of "Low Calcium Peritoneal Dialysis Solution" being squeezed into the plastic bags I use when it's time for my kidneys' daily rinse cycle, and sterile tubes carefully being connected to the bags by happy, mask-wearing employees. Look! They're whistling while they work!
The next sound you hear is my thought balloon being popped. "Oh, we don't produce any of the materials here," the cheerful operator informs me. "We just take our customers' orders in this location."
Drat. They probably don't even wear masks while they do it. I'd still like to take a Baxter tour someday, but rows of operators chatting on headsets is not quite the impressive vision I had imagined. As long as I don't find out someday that the solution that rumbles around in my body isn't being manufactured in China or Uzbekistan, I'll still be pretty geeked for a day trip to Deerfield. Did you know the Irish settlers originally wanted to name the village "Erin," but lost out to the "Deerfield" faction by four votes?
No, I didn't think you did.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Washing My Hands of Everything
From the very beginning of this dialysis dance, one is taught that cleanliness is next to healthiness. You quickly learn the difference between "clean" and "sterile." (You can achieve the first; try never to mess up the second.)
The one teaching that stays with you throughout the entire process, however, is what is known as "The DaVita Hand Wash." I assume this means that DaVita invented this particular style of hand sanitizing. Otherwise, why would they put their name on it? DaVita is way too respectable an organization to claim something they didn't originate. (Can you see some emergency room doctor in Newark seeing this and shouting, "Hey, this is the way I wash my hands! Where's my lawyer's number?")
The DVHW is a multi-stage process which I will now proceed to demonstrate electronically through photographs. (Although this might be considered a rather antiseptic way to present it! Get it?)
As it was taught to me by my incomparable nurse, Diane King, first one must wet the hands thoroughly with warm water.
Me, wetting my hands.
Apply antibacterial soap to the palms and rub vigorously.
Pretend you're rubbing your hands together in wicked glee.
Don't forget the bacteria-filthy backs of your hands.
When was the last time you ever washed the backs of your hands?
Or that virgin semicircle between the thumbs and forefingers.
This part is actually kinda fun.
Between your fingers, too.
But this part feels kinda silly.
Now, concentrate on scrubbing each of your 10 cuticles individually.
The doctrine of separate but equal, applied to fingers.
Then once around the wrists, the palms and backs of your hands again, and rinse thoroughly.
Rub-a-dub-dub.
Use a paper towel – not cloth, too many germs – to remove the excess moisture from your paws.
The tricky part, after all that energetic scrubbing and sanitizing with the DVHW, is not to touch anything on your way from the sink back to the dialysis equipment. If possible, use a faucet you can turn off with your forearm rather than your fingers (see photo above), and hit the light switch with your elbow. It's a skill you can develop. Really.
I am firmly convinced that if every restaurant worker in America adopted the DVHW, we could eat at any fast-food joint in the country – maybe even White Castle – without fear.
The one teaching that stays with you throughout the entire process, however, is what is known as "The DaVita Hand Wash." I assume this means that DaVita invented this particular style of hand sanitizing. Otherwise, why would they put their name on it? DaVita is way too respectable an organization to claim something they didn't originate. (Can you see some emergency room doctor in Newark seeing this and shouting, "Hey, this is the way I wash my hands! Where's my lawyer's number?")
The DVHW is a multi-stage process which I will now proceed to demonstrate electronically through photographs. (Although this might be considered a rather antiseptic way to present it! Get it?)
As it was taught to me by my incomparable nurse, Diane King, first one must wet the hands thoroughly with warm water.
Apply antibacterial soap to the palms and rub vigorously.
Don't forget the bacteria-filthy backs of your hands.
Or that virgin semicircle between the thumbs and forefingers.
Between your fingers, too.
Now, concentrate on scrubbing each of your 10 cuticles individually.
Then once around the wrists, the palms and backs of your hands again, and rinse thoroughly.
Use a paper towel – not cloth, too many germs – to remove the excess moisture from your paws.
The tricky part, after all that energetic scrubbing and sanitizing with the DVHW, is not to touch anything on your way from the sink back to the dialysis equipment. If possible, use a faucet you can turn off with your forearm rather than your fingers (see photo above), and hit the light switch with your elbow. It's a skill you can develop. Really.
I am firmly convinced that if every restaurant worker in America adopted the DVHW, we could eat at any fast-food joint in the country – maybe even White Castle – without fear.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
You Like Me! You Really Like Me!
I think it's fair to suggest that very few people in the history of crappy kidneys have experienced a more enjoyable monthly checkup than I had last week at the DaVita clinic in Urbana-Champaign. Not only are all of my most important biological markers (phosphorus, calcium, protein and the like) at or above their recommended levels – "You are doing great," smiled my nephrologist, Dr. Attia – but my ego also received a major booster shot.
No fewer than five employees at the DaVita location, including the regional director herself, Ellie Suhl, took time out of their busy Friday to stop by my examination room to meet "the man who writes the blog" and compliment me on the quality of the work and for bringing attention to kidney disease and the outstanding work DaVita does in patient care. One woman said she especially giggled at my description of Diane King, my angelic dialysis nurse, as "Pollyanna," which meant that she not only really read the blog, she also had reader retention!
Now, this means two things:
(a) Many more people than you and me are reading these blatherings, to my great surprise, and
(b) I'm going to have to stop cussing in this blog and take it much more seriously every time out. After all, ladies are watching!
One nice added attraction of my appointment was being able to tell Ms. Suhl and several other people what I'm telling you now: DaVita's corporate marketing department in southern California somehow got wind of "Just Kidneying," and a delightful young woman interviewed me last week for a potential feature story in DaVita's national magazine!
Amazing. Life is a funny ol' dog, ain't it? Thirty-five years spent writing about other people in magazines national and local, and the first national article ever done on me comes as a result of renal failure.
Why, I could become the King of Kidneys! The Dean of Dialysis!
No fewer than five employees at the DaVita location, including the regional director herself, Ellie Suhl, took time out of their busy Friday to stop by my examination room to meet "the man who writes the blog" and compliment me on the quality of the work and for bringing attention to kidney disease and the outstanding work DaVita does in patient care. One woman said she especially giggled at my description of Diane King, my angelic dialysis nurse, as "Pollyanna," which meant that she not only really read the blog, she also had reader retention!
Now, this means two things:
(a) Many more people than you and me are reading these blatherings, to my great surprise, and
(b) I'm going to have to stop cussing in this blog and take it much more seriously every time out. After all, ladies are watching!
One nice added attraction of my appointment was being able to tell Ms. Suhl and several other people what I'm telling you now: DaVita's corporate marketing department in southern California somehow got wind of "Just Kidneying," and a delightful young woman interviewed me last week for a potential feature story in DaVita's national magazine!
Amazing. Life is a funny ol' dog, ain't it? Thirty-five years spent writing about other people in magazines national and local, and the first national article ever done on me comes as a result of renal failure.
Why, I could become the King of Kidneys! The Dean of Dialysis!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A Moment In Time on a Winter's Night
A few weeks ago Karen and I had occasion to drive down the street and past the modern brick building where my DaVita dialysis clinic is housed. I didn't think my grumble was audible, but wives hear everything.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know," I said, the softness of my voice surprising even me. "I'm just thinking about DaVita." More likely, I was thinking about the specter of yet another training session in my immediate future, this one to learn how to move from manual at-home Peritoneal Dialysis to a "cycler," an intricate, elaborate machine that will do much of the kidney assist work for me over an eight-hour period.
"What does DaVita mean to you?"
Long silence. "Weakness. Sickness. Total change of life. Mortality." Without even realizing it, I had lapsed into a ripple of depression.
"I choose not to think of it that way," Karen replied. "I prefer to think of information. And hope.
"And life."
She looked at me, the way your spouse looks at you when she or he realizes they've just created a memory. She reached over and touched my hand.
We drove on into the dark night, but the streetlights seemed to glow a little brighter.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know," I said, the softness of my voice surprising even me. "I'm just thinking about DaVita." More likely, I was thinking about the specter of yet another training session in my immediate future, this one to learn how to move from manual at-home Peritoneal Dialysis to a "cycler," an intricate, elaborate machine that will do much of the kidney assist work for me over an eight-hour period.
"What does DaVita mean to you?"
Long silence. "Weakness. Sickness. Total change of life. Mortality." Without even realizing it, I had lapsed into a ripple of depression.
"I choose not to think of it that way," Karen replied. "I prefer to think of information. And hope.
"And life."
She looked at me, the way your spouse looks at you when she or he realizes they've just created a memory. She reached over and touched my hand.
We drove on into the dark night, but the streetlights seemed to glow a little brighter.
Moving Around the Block
I have been away from this page, my beloved little kidney khronicle, for nearly a month now. There is no way I ever anticipated being gone so long. It wasn't because I grew lazy, or lost interest in the subject matter. I've just been battling through a severe case of writer's block.
Writers understand the effects of this horrible malady, and know that they are rarely pretty. No one can say exactly what brings on the dreadful condition, but in this case I have my suspicions.
A full week away from my trusty MacBook Pro last month for dialysis "boot camp" training at the DaVita clinic in Decatur, IL, was followed almost immediately by the holiday season. My sister-in-law, Julie, her husband Greg and their three kids (two children and a newborn – 2.5 kids?) came here for Christmas and, well, who wants to write when there are 10 other people frolicking merrily and celebrating family ties in your house?
Who could write, for that matter?
On top of that, the feature story I was writing on that incredibly nice Detroit philanthropist Doreen Hermelin, the lady who made me the tuna fish sandwich (see "Doreen," Nov. 6, and "Rootlessness," Nov. 9), wasn't going well. It turns out she didn't want a story written about her in the first place, so she called repeatedly to check on the status of the article and remind me to keep the focus on her charitable organizations, not on her personally. This is the reason you try to maintain a professional distance from the people you write about and try not to write about friends, so they aren't constantly looking over your shoulder chirping, "How's it going? How's it going?" This usually is not conducive to creative productivity.
Typically when an interview subject is reluctant to open up, my strategy is to talk to people who know the individual and have them say glowing things about him or her. But I also have a personal policy that if I talk to a person for a story, I must find a way to include a quote from them in the article; otherwise they may feel their time was wasted. In Mrs. Hermelin's case, there were so many people who had such interesting insights to share that trying to squeeze them all into the feature, along with background on Mrs. Hermelin as well as details about her charitable causes – oh, it all just became a hot mess.
Sweating over that story delayed my work on other deadline assignments, and in order to call yourself a professional writer you must actually finish an article every now and then and get paid for doing so. An old friend of mine, a writer of mystery novels, once told me the easiest way to overcome writer's block is "by applying ass to chair." In other words, just sit down and start writing something. Anything. But that's easier said than penned. Writing may be just like riding a bicycle, especially when you do it for a living, but even Lance Armstrong occasionally loses his brakes or blows a tire.
I remember a second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers named Steve Sax who eventually left baseball because he lost the ability to throw the ball 50 feet from his position to first base. It happens. Who knows why blocks form or why they disappear, but mine appears to have vanished as suddenly as it arrived. Good thing, too, because so much has happened since last we communicated and I've got a lot to share with you. Can't wait to start.
Nice to be back.
Writers understand the effects of this horrible malady, and know that they are rarely pretty. No one can say exactly what brings on the dreadful condition, but in this case I have my suspicions.
A full week away from my trusty MacBook Pro last month for dialysis "boot camp" training at the DaVita clinic in Decatur, IL, was followed almost immediately by the holiday season. My sister-in-law, Julie, her husband Greg and their three kids (two children and a newborn – 2.5 kids?) came here for Christmas and, well, who wants to write when there are 10 other people frolicking merrily and celebrating family ties in your house?
Who could write, for that matter?
On top of that, the feature story I was writing on that incredibly nice Detroit philanthropist Doreen Hermelin, the lady who made me the tuna fish sandwich (see "Doreen," Nov. 6, and "Rootlessness," Nov. 9), wasn't going well. It turns out she didn't want a story written about her in the first place, so she called repeatedly to check on the status of the article and remind me to keep the focus on her charitable organizations, not on her personally. This is the reason you try to maintain a professional distance from the people you write about and try not to write about friends, so they aren't constantly looking over your shoulder chirping, "How's it going? How's it going?" This usually is not conducive to creative productivity.
Typically when an interview subject is reluctant to open up, my strategy is to talk to people who know the individual and have them say glowing things about him or her. But I also have a personal policy that if I talk to a person for a story, I must find a way to include a quote from them in the article; otherwise they may feel their time was wasted. In Mrs. Hermelin's case, there were so many people who had such interesting insights to share that trying to squeeze them all into the feature, along with background on Mrs. Hermelin as well as details about her charitable causes – oh, it all just became a hot mess.
Sweating over that story delayed my work on other deadline assignments, and in order to call yourself a professional writer you must actually finish an article every now and then and get paid for doing so. An old friend of mine, a writer of mystery novels, once told me the easiest way to overcome writer's block is "by applying ass to chair." In other words, just sit down and start writing something. Anything. But that's easier said than penned. Writing may be just like riding a bicycle, especially when you do it for a living, but even Lance Armstrong occasionally loses his brakes or blows a tire.
I remember a second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers named Steve Sax who eventually left baseball because he lost the ability to throw the ball 50 feet from his position to first base. It happens. Who knows why blocks form or why they disappear, but mine appears to have vanished as suddenly as it arrived. Good thing, too, because so much has happened since last we communicated and I've got a lot to share with you. Can't wait to start.
Nice to be back.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Dialysis Boot Camp
I've driven past DaVita dialysis centers ever since I can remember, but began eyeing them more warily once the diagnosis of my crappy kidneys was confirmed. I think I may even have started slowing down to take a closer look as I passed them. I liken it to driving by the cemetery where your plot is located: you know you're going to end up there eventually, but you're in no particular hurry to visit.
Nothing I imagined about what goes on inside those places, however, could have prepared me for the experience of what I lovingly term "Dialysis Boot Camp."
Because I chose the option of Peritoneal Dialysis (PD), which is self-administered at home instead of at a clinic, my DaVita nurse Diane King wanted to make absolutely certain I could perform the procedure on my own before giving her consent. So for the better part of an entire work week in December – from 9 a.m. to mid-afternoon Monday through Wednesday, a day off Thursday to stop my head from spinning from the overload of information and training, then a four-hour "final exam" Friday at our home – this sweet little woman who had guided me gently through the stages of my renal disease suddenly turned into a drill instructor. She became Sgt. Carter to my Gomer Pyle.
"I've been told I can be a little demanding in these sessions," Diane said softly on the first day. No kidding! It was like going to a job again! No, worse: It was like cramming for a master's degree in Dialysis in one week. She even gave quizzes!
Over and over again she drilled me on the steps involved in dispensing PD: Sanitizing the worktable; the seven essential items required to begin (bag of solution, thermometer, plastic clamps, mask, hand sanitizer, new end caps for my catheter, paper towels); inspecting the solution; preparing the bag; hand washing and sanitizing; connecting and disconnecting the bag of solution to my catheter.
We learned the difference between "sterile" and "clean." Every time I thought I was getting the hang of things, there were new details to absorb. My wife, Karen, and my mother-in-law, Linda, patiently sat through the entire ordeal with me. Whenever I felt as if my eyes were about to glaze over, I looked at Karen, who reassured me with her warm smile and compassionate eyes.
We created a "cheat sheet" so we can review the steps in case we forget something. And on "final exam" Friday, Diane visited our little house on the prairie, inspected the lighting, layout and area where the PD would be performed, and deemed us worthy to fly solo. I've been proud and happy to pass a lot of tests in my lifetime, but few that were actually a matter of life itself.
I can dialyze myself now, thank you. Let the cleansing process begin!
Nothing I imagined about what goes on inside those places, however, could have prepared me for the experience of what I lovingly term "Dialysis Boot Camp."
Because I chose the option of Peritoneal Dialysis (PD), which is self-administered at home instead of at a clinic, my DaVita nurse Diane King wanted to make absolutely certain I could perform the procedure on my own before giving her consent. So for the better part of an entire work week in December – from 9 a.m. to mid-afternoon Monday through Wednesday, a day off Thursday to stop my head from spinning from the overload of information and training, then a four-hour "final exam" Friday at our home – this sweet little woman who had guided me gently through the stages of my renal disease suddenly turned into a drill instructor. She became Sgt. Carter to my Gomer Pyle.
"I've been told I can be a little demanding in these sessions," Diane said softly on the first day. No kidding! It was like going to a job again! No, worse: It was like cramming for a master's degree in Dialysis in one week. She even gave quizzes!
Over and over again she drilled me on the steps involved in dispensing PD: Sanitizing the worktable; the seven essential items required to begin (bag of solution, thermometer, plastic clamps, mask, hand sanitizer, new end caps for my catheter, paper towels); inspecting the solution; preparing the bag; hand washing and sanitizing; connecting and disconnecting the bag of solution to my catheter.
We learned the difference between "sterile" and "clean." Every time I thought I was getting the hang of things, there were new details to absorb. My wife, Karen, and my mother-in-law, Linda, patiently sat through the entire ordeal with me. Whenever I felt as if my eyes were about to glaze over, I looked at Karen, who reassured me with her warm smile and compassionate eyes.
We created a "cheat sheet" so we can review the steps in case we forget something. And on "final exam" Friday, Diane visited our little house on the prairie, inspected the lighting, layout and area where the PD would be performed, and deemed us worthy to fly solo. I've been proud and happy to pass a lot of tests in my lifetime, but few that were actually a matter of life itself.
I can dialyze myself now, thank you. Let the cleansing process begin!
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