The second week of January is going to be hell on wheels. No way around it. So I am considering indulging a notion of mine that has been bumping agianst my forehead for a couple of months, namely, the taking of a break, a sustained break from the digital texture of the contemporary life. Kind of climbing out of the warm water of the tub and de-pruning for a while. Part of the blame for this is the thoughtful writing of Craig Johnson when he has Walt Longmire stop and listen and take in the feeling and sound, smell, the whole of the Wyoming scene and its often perverse weather. Maintaining detailed connection to the land and the air above it.
This evening we had a brief period of freezing rain, that evolved into some wet snow. The ground now a little treacherous. This afternoon it was green and bone dry.
This is the time of year when I am glad I was able to change from the mornings to the afternoons for my dialysis treatments. I never enjoyed convoying with slow snow ploughs on Highway 12 heading over to Midland and then to 93 and Penetanguishene and its hospital where the dialysis clinic lives. I was glad to get the afternoon, although everytime I glow in that change it quickly slips away when I remember that the reason why I got the opportunity to change to my liking is because the full afternoon dialysis shift had an opening because a patient died.
I try not to let my dialysis, my kidney failure, be the overwhelming defining fact of my life, but truly the three treatments per week, some 18 hours when you add in driving times and the times to get on the machine and then off the machine after the four and a half hour dialysis run, they seem to me be three enormous boulders in the river of my week. I have to steer by them in my leaky canoe. Sometimes I dance in the water on my way, most weeks are more like impact crash tests and sometimes it is my head not the canoe prow that strikes the three boulders in a row. It has been four years of dialysis and I am still getting the hang of it.