First blog

Living on Peritoneal Dialysis: The Parts People Don’t See

Peritoneal dialysis isn’t something I “do.” It’s something I live with.

Every single day, 12 to 13 hours hooked up to a machine. Tubes. Supplies. Strict routines. Planning life around treatments instead of the other way around. There’s no skipping it. No calling in sick from it. No taking a break because you’re tired. It keeps me alive — and at the same time, it reminds me every day that my body isn’t working the way it should.

People see me and might think I look okay. What they don’t see is the mental weight. The constant responsibility. The exhaustion that doesn’t just go away with sleep. The discipline it takes to stay consistent because one mistake can mean infection, hospitalization, or worse.

I used to be a butcher. I loved that work. I loved using my hands, being on my feet, providing. There’s something powerful about doing a job you’re proud of and bringing home money you earned with sweat and skill. Not being able to do that the way I used to — that hurts. Not contributing financially the way I want to — that’s a different kind of pain. It hits your pride. It hits your identity.

But the hardest part? My kids.

My children have only ever known me as a dad on dialysis. They’ve seen machines. They’ve seen fatigue. They’ve seen doctor appointments. They’ve seen limits.

What they haven’t seen is the version of me that could work all day, come home strong, and still have energy to run around without thinking about fluid levels or treatment schedules.

That weighs on me more than anything.

As a father, you want your kids to see strength. You want them to feel security. You want to be the example of resilience, not illness. And yet here I am — doing my best from a hospital bed some days, from a machine every night.

But here’s the truth: dialysis has taken a lot from me — time, energy, income, freedom — but it hasn’t taken my will.

I still fight every day. I still show up. I still choose to be present for my kids. I left work to focus on raising them and protecting my health because they matter more than any paycheck ever could. That choice wasn’t weakness. It was sacrifice.

If you’re reading this and wondering what life on peritoneal dialysis is really like — it’s hard. It’s humbling. It’s relentless.

But I’m still here.

And I’m fighting for a transplant. I’m fighting for a future where my kids get to see me healthy, strong, and free from tubes and machines. I’m fighting for the chance to work again, to provide again, to live without this constant weight.

This isn’t the end of my story.

It’s just a chapter — and I plan on turning the page.