At the first crack of thunder, she leaps out of her princess carriage bed, skitters out of her room and around the corner and pounces on to our bed. She slips her feet beneath the sheet quickly pulling it up over her head, hoping to be established as a permanent fixture before I came out of the bathroom. I scan the room as I enter whispering to myself, “I thought I heard a commotion out here?” I scratch my head and quizzically squish my face and say, “I guess it was my imagination.” This elicits a giggle. “What was that?” I ask myself as I reach for the closet door, swinging it open with an “Ah hah!” to find nobody there while hearing more bursts of giggles from across the room. After checking another closet, a couple of drawers and under the bed I quietly step to the side of the bed where a lump has appeared. I imagined my daughter holding her breath, trying to silently sink deeper into the mattress, struggling not to laugh as her eyes follow my silhouette through the light blue sheet. Her anticipation heightens with each step closer I take knowing that her father’s hand will soon reach down, grab the sheet and unveil her with a cheerful, “Gotcha.”
Tonight I take my time with the day’s last dance. I step closer to the bed, my silhouette looming largely through the sheet but then quietly retreat to my rocking chair. I spread out my protective pads on the tray table and start to unwrap my supplies. The only sound in the room is the swoosh of the saline circulating through the machine and the hum of its pump. I sense the sheet being carefully pulled down across my daughter’s forehead, exposing her espresso eyes. I quickly turn from my task to look her way only to see a fold of sheet melt into the pillow. As I turn back to continue my set up, a loud “beep, beep, beep,” sounds, startling my daughter out of her ruse. “It is o.k. Sweetie, it is just the machine.” She knows but it still surprises her. Now sitting up she watches as I come toward the bed where the machine is inches away. As I sit down on the bed I simultaneously reach for her with my left hand as I press a button to mute the alarm with my right. I pull her close with a hug and say, “How did you get her? I thought you were sound asleep in your bed.” “Dad you knew,” she says with her all knowing smile. “I did not,” I respond unconvincingly. “You can lay here until it is time for me to hook up. Close your eyes and try to fall asleep, Sweetie,” I urge while bending over to give her a kiss. Playfully she jerks her head and shakes it slowly with a tight lipped smile, “No kissey, Daddy.” “O.k.” I say and get up and return to the tray table.
I open the 30 cc syringe and the two 10 cc syringes and put the needles on. Then I unsheathe the large fifteen gauge needles which have long tubes attached. I place the band aides on the table and start unrolling lengths of silk tape, securing them to the table. As I do this, from behind my gaze my daughter watches. Having completed my set up, I get up from the rocker and head back to the machine. My daughter’s beautiful brown face is bathed in red light from numbers illuminated on the machine. I sit down next to her and say, “Please close you eyes my dear. You need to go to sleep.” I grab the tubes attached to my machine and start snapping them to remove the air bubbles.
“Daddy when will you stop doing dialysis?” Antonia asks a matter-of-fact. I let go of the tubes, turn to her and put my freckled hand on her soft cheek and say, “I’m going to do dialysis for a long time. Long enough for you to get much older, go to college, have a career and get married and have children so that I can be a Grandaddy.” After a moment, with sleep getting closer, she asks “Then will you stop dialyisis?” Trying to seem unfazed by the depth of the questioning of my seven year old daughter, I respond, “I will be on dialysis until I go with God.” Her lids now heavy across her eyes, she silently mouths, “o.k.” I lean over, kiss her on the forehead and return to the rocking chair.
I switch on the radio and with Handel’s Water Music, Suite No 2 playing softly in the background I swipe the line on my left bicep with alcohol. After it dries I swipe it again, this time with beta-dine. I trace the burnt red line with my right finger tips feeling the outline of the graft just below my skin. The narrow graft connects a vein and artery enabling the blood to easily leave my body and return after a quick trip through the tubing and artificial kidney supported by the machine. As my daughter sleeps soundly I pick up one of the fifteen gauge needles, take aim, wince and push it cautiously into my arm. The blood immediately rushes into the tube, relieving my anxiety. It is disconcerting when I miss. After placing the other needle I walk over to the door and turn off the overhead lights. I walk back to the bed and push Antonia to the middle with my right hand. I connect the tubes in my arm to the tubes on the machine and press “go.” The blood comes out of my arm and pushes the saline through the machine and into my arm through the return needle. I make some adjustments to the machine and turn on the heparin pump. I grab my Kindle, turn off the bedside lamp, turn on my reading lamp, lay my head down and take a last look at the machine. The tubes run garnet, everything is secure and I am ready for eight hours of cleansing and sleeping. Antonia lies peacefully at my side, her mom will move her to her room when she comes upstairs. I listen to the rain falling and my daughter breathing. The lightening and thunder are now miles past to the East. I flick on the Kindle and settle into Hiaasen and Montabalno’s A Death in China.
