Wouldn’t you know that as soon as my catheter is removed, I’d start having problems with my fistula? A few weeks ago, nurses and technicians were unable to get successful needle sticks after a full hour of trying and I was unable to dialyze. In fact, for the past few weeks I’ve only been able to dialyze about once a week. The good news is that my blood chemistry lab results remain roughly the same regardless of whether I have three dialysis sessions a week or one. The only explanation is that I’m at least maintaining the remaining kidney function I have.
It’s amazing—and frightening—to see the disparate levels of competency within the health care profession of my community. Most of the technicians and nurses I deal with are exceptionally competent and caring, as are my current doctors. I once had to tell a technician how to flush my catheter (when I had it) but he’s no longer around. The non-medical staffs I encounter in the hospitals, on the other hand, are another story.
A couple weeks ago I had to go to United Hospital for a fistulagram. I waited four hours for a forty-minute procedure. The administrators were losing patients—I saw one doctor arguing with an administrator over whether or not the patient in the waiting area was, in fact, there or not. I know many medical professionals discount anything that they can’t quantify, but when the person in question is right there in front of you, quantification isn’t exactly necessary.
About a week or so later I had to return to the same hospital to get an ultrasound of the same fistula. I had an appointment but the receptionist told me the doctor I needed to see wasn’t there. They tracked him down and told me to have a seat. “You haven’t had any procedures today, have you?” asked another receptionist after about another hour of waiting. “No,” I replied. “Oh, well, you have to go get admitted.” I didn’t even wave as I walked past the admissions desk on my way out the door.
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