I generally avoid confrontation. Hell, I don’t want to speak at all, and do so only when there is a terrible need.
My fistula area had a lesion, a simple wound which would have healed, given a week’s time for the same. But after every dialysis, the gauge-piece stuck to the healing skin. When I took the bandage off the next day, it tore away the thin film which covered the wound, exposing the damaged skin again.
I was worried one Sunday, as the next day would be another dialysis day, and even a slight coat had not formed over the tear. I told my parents about the problem. They too were worried and asked me to inform the hospital staff about the problem. They looked after CKD patients with a diverse range of issues every single day, and would come up with something. I was not sure how they could help me.
When I am under particular distress, it becomes very difficult for me to be hopeful. Everything seems bleak. That day, with an upset stomach and disrupted sleep, I was very anxious about the precariousness facing me the next day.
The following day, I decided I had to do something about it. I would let them know my plight, and not take no for an answer.
I went straight to the Doctor and notified him. He made arrangements for changing the area to be punctured.
It was this easy.
Speaking out, discussing or requesting get us through most of the problems in the world. I realized I should have done this earlier and saved my skin from the abuse (and my heart from the anguish). Keeping mum was no good.
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