Life Beyond the Line

There it was, the heavy wooden door, worn smooth slightly above the handle, created by the added push that people used to get it to open just a little wider. One small square window, only big enough to peer through, but not big enough to get through if an escape was tried, was proudly displayed near the top of the door. It was nothing less than the eye of a Cyclops looking down on its helpless victims. Victims who initially entered the door with an ounce of hope, but when released, left with all imaginings of hope sucked out of them. Such a grim reality of what awaited each person who made their journey through the door.

One unsteady hand turned the door knob while the other falling in place at the smooth worn section - as if it was only natural, almost magnetic, for all to put their other hand in that same spot - slowly and hesitantly opened the door. The rush of cool, almost cold, sterile air filled my lungs as I looked around the room. The lifeless eyes barely looked up to acknowledge that another person was to take their place on the line.

I walked over to the receptionist’s desk. The youthful yet guarded exuberance of the person behind the desk was muted by the oppressive atmosphere of the current inhabitants and their purpose for being there.

“Sign in and have a seat. You’ll be called.”

This command was stated without the benefit of a glance in my direction. Was eye contact with the inmates prohibited? I walked over to an empty chair; a chair that was recently evacuated by a middle-aged looking man who was given the announcement that they were ready for him.

There he was sitting along the wall, among a line of chairs; ‘The Line’ as it was called. He was connected to tubes that ran from a machine into his body. Strange brown colored fluid moving through the tubes; whether from the machine or from the man, it was hard to tell just by looking. But by the nature of the place that I now found myself, I knew that the fluid was moving from the man and into the machine.

The machine was an awkward looking metal box with lights and knobs and monitors and tubes and fluid bags. The box only emitted a periodic whirl; like clockwork, the whirl would start and a stream of fluid would begin another trek from the body and into the a bag. I didn’t want to be here. I had no business being here. But, here I am, just the same.

Then the announcement; it was my turn. My place on the line was ready. I looked up and there it was – an empty seat with the machine standing next to it. Tubes dangled freely, like tentacles waiting to grab onto something or someone. It was ready to feed. And this time, it was ready for me. I was the next one to nourish this uncaring, unfeeling machine.

As I made my way to the chair, a human appeared; a young woman dressed in the white medical uniform of one who wanted to display the accepted color of purity and cleanliness. She wore the white with the air of someone who wanted to show what it was to be whole and without the need of the machine. There was a time I didn’t need the machine; a time when I was whole.

Sitting down, she began inserting the tubes. And with each insertion I felt more of my dignity being prepared to be sucked away.

“Why me? What did I do to deserve this humiliation?” The thoughts flooded my mind as the tears welled up in the corners of my eyes.

Then there was the sound of a click and then the sound of the whirl. It began. The machine began its feeding. Taking from me what I could no longer give on my own.

Closing my eyes, I heard a voice, “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our tribulation that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble by the comfort that we ourselves are comforted with from God. For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds by Christ.”

And I prayed, “God of all comfort, comfort me in this tribulation, that while I live, you can be glorified in this body of weakness…”

Hours later I heard what I had come to recognize as the final click of the machine and the whirling stopped. The young woman reappeared and began removing the tubes. The machine had gotten its fill and I was now empty and feeling weak and sick. Thinking back to the voice and the prayer, I thanked God that the poison was now out of my body; given to a machine whose unfeeling, uncaring purpose was to feed on poison. And I realized in that moment, just for a moment that my purpose was to glorify God – even in this weak, frail and decaying body.

I rose and approached the receptionist desk, where still, without a glance to acknowledge my presence, I was given a card showing my next appointment. I was sick, yes, but I was still human. I read the name on the receptionist’s badge. And in the most upbeat voice that I could muster, given what had just happen, I addressed the receptionist by name and said, “Thank you. I’ll see you next time.”

The smile struggled to form, but it came and looking up, there they were, warm brown eyes. These were the eyes of one who had seen and felt too much suffering. “Thank you. Take care of yourself and let me know if there is anything that I can do for you.”

I nodded and in that moment, when our eyes met, the barriers were let down and a bond was formed; not a medical professional and a patient. Two people connected.

Looking back at that moment, who would have thought that dialysis would connect two souls in friendship.