Jackhammered
Our dialysis story — chapter 6
I’m crying as I write this. Our townhome reverberates with the sounds of a jackhammer destroying our bathroom. More on that later.
We started the dialysis process with so little information. The more I researched, the more questions I had. It was unsettling that Ben would have an operation to insert a tube for peritoneal dialysis before we met with “our dialysis team” to get answers to our questions. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t we meet with the team first, then schedule the operation?
I was assured our assigned timeline was normal and typical — how it’s done.
I didn’t like the sequence of events at all.
Ben doesn’t like being told what to do. Nor does he like being given reminders of what he needs to do. He’s a proud man who has always been independent. He resents my forced interference in his life. It’s necessary, however. His memory is holey. He must rely on mine. Despite him asking me to remind him of tasks to complete, he gets annoyed and angry when I do. I couldn’t imagine how he’d be once I became his dialysis “nurse” — no, I could imagine, and it wasn’t a pleasant picture.
I’m on edge. Life is stressful.
I wish I were retired, but I’m often relieved to go to work.
I texted G at the nephrologist's office yesterday for recommendations about local caregiver support groups. She called me.
I was going to call you today anyway. Last week Dr. E and I were talking about your situation. He didn’t realize you still work or that storing all the PD supplies would be challenging. He’s also concerned that Ben doesn’t sleep well at night, which is the best time to do the PD. He thinks it might be best if Ben does traditional hemodialysis in the clinic instead.
As I sat in the driveway of my Tuesday afternoon client, I asked more questions.
If we switched to HD, he wouldn’t need an operation, right?
Actually, he’ll need two surgeries — one to insert a temporary port and another for a permanent port called a fistula. That one takes about six weeks to heal. We can’t wait that long to start dialysis, so he’ll need a temporary port.
I started sobbing. My client came out to check on me. I waved him away.
I asked more questions and called Ben. He said to choose whatever is best for me.
For me?? No, no, no, this cannot be about me!
Well, how does it work?
For HD, you’ll have to go to the dialysis clinic three times a week for four hours.
Is that better for you?
You cannot make this my decision. It has to be your decision. It’s about what is best for you.
But I want what’s best for you.
No. You are the patient. It’s about you.
He didn’t like the idea of me driving across town to deliver and pick him up three times a week. I told him that his insurance would provide transportation if we needed it.
Then, that’s my choice — the one in the clinic. Final decision.
So, sitting there in my client’s driveway, everything changed. Because these new operations involve veins and arteries, they require a cardiac surgeon. I called and canceled his appointment with the general surgeon. We now wait for the cardiac surgeon’s office to call.
I’m relieved and scared. There were so many unknowns about in-home dialysis, and we’d be, in essence, turning our home into a medical clinic. We’d be living in a clinic. It felt like an invasion. But, then, HD requires “cardiac” surgery involving veins and arteries, which must be more serious, and HD can be harder on the heart. Was this the right decision?
I don’t know. I don’t know.
Monday night, I heard the sound of running water in the wall between our bathroom and the unit next door. No one lives there. The owner uses it as an office and a guest house for relatives who come to visit. He was there during the day, and I assumed he may have used the restroom and the toilet was running. When I left for my afternoon client, I noticed that Roger’s car was in the parking lot. Good, I thought, he’ll stop his toilet from running.
After the phone calls and sobbing in my car, I worked two hours for my client and returned home at 3:30, needing to leave shortly to work for my evening client. When I entered the bathroom, I immediately noticed the running water sound was louder. Roger was gone. I called him. He came right over.
Turns out Roger’s small two-story unit doesn’t have a downstairs bathroom. No running toilet. No running water in the kitchen. No sound of running water anywhere in his unit.
Our water meters are buried in the ground. I couldn’t get down there to check our meter, so Roger did, despite his bad knee and being almost as old as me.
Our meter was twirling. The leak was on our side.
I’ve never called a plumber. Roger suggested one. Then, he tried to shut off my water valve, so our bill won’t be astronomical. He couldn’t get it to budge.
I called the city’s water emergency number and had to leave a message.
Then, I called the plumber Roger recommended. They asked if I could see water. I answered, No.
Sounds like a slab leak. First, a leak detection service needs to pinpoint the leak and map it. Then, we come out. Someone will call you back.
The leak detection guy called and scheduled us for first thing this morning.
I hadn’t heard from the city, so I called the emergency number again. What kind of emergency number is it that requires you to leave a message?? Can you imagine calling 911 for an ambulance or a fire truck, leaving a message, and waiting for someone to call you back?
Twenty minutes passed before the city called. Someone turned off our water 30 minutes after that. We had no water all night.
The leak detection service arrived at 7:30 am. More than an hour of going back and forth, checking both bathrooms and the laundry room. Turning the water main on and off, on and off.
Ma’am, you have a slab leak under the vanity in the primary bathroom. The plumber will have to remove your vanity and jackhammer your floor to get to the leak. Our bill is $350. Cash or check? We don’t take credit.
I paid the leak guy and called the plumber. They already had his leak report and called me back an hour later with an estimate.
So, today’s work will be $1,200. Of course, it will be more if we can’t complete the job today.
Oh, my, god!
You should call your insurance company and place a claim.
I did. Four hours later, an adjuster called.
Is there water damage? Can you see water?
No, it’s in the slab.
Well, unfortunately, your policy only covers leaks that cause damage to the unit. No visible damage, no coverage. Sorry, there’s nothing I can do to help you.
This is the same insurance coverage that more than doubled this month.
I hung up and cried.
Ben’s blood pressure is high, high, high. Meds aren’t helping much. He and Syau are walking to escape the noise and dust of the jackhammering.
The cats and I can’t escape.
The plumber just took me into the bathroom. At least a quarter of the floor in the vanity section of the room is gone. He’s dug up two wheelbarrows full of dirt and hasn’t found the leak.
Several pipes converge here — sewer, air conditioning, and plumbing. Maybe the detection company zeroed in on the wrong sound. I’ll keep jackhammering and digging for another 90 minutes. If I don't find the leak by then, those guys need to return in the morning.
Ninety minutes later, still no leak. He can hear it. I can hear it. But it’s nowhere to be found.
The earliest the leak detection company can come is tomorrow afternoon. Ben has doctors’ appointments — ones we can’t/shouldn’t reschedule. My friend Gina will house-sit, pet Sébastien and wait for the leak-detection guys.
The plumber felt sorry for us and got his boss to knock $300 off the estimate. I paid $900. From now on, it’s $200 per hour.
The plumber warned me that he might have to jackhammer the rest of the bathroom floor and, maybe, the entire shower.
Then we have to hire someone to replace everything he destroys.
All of this while Ben has surgery and starts dialysis.
Much of our bathroom floor is a hole. The bedroom is covered in dirt. We have no water.
I have to leave for work in an hour. At least, that’s a short escape from this place.
© Dennett 2023
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