It’s a quiet decision, made without fuss.
Before dialysis, I don’t take my blood pressure medication.

Not because I’ve forgotten. Not because I’m careless.
But because I’ve learned—through experience, through listening, through trial and error—that my body needs a different rhythm on treatment days.

If I take the meds, my blood pressure drops too low during dialysis.
The machine struggles. The fluid can’t be removed safely.
I feel lightheaded, the nurses worry, and the session becomes a balancing act instead of a healing one.

So I skip the pill.
Not out of defiance, but out of care.
It’s a small act of trust in my own lived wisdom.
A quiet adjustment that doesn’t show up in the official protocol, but makes all the difference.

There’s something sacred in that choice.
It reminds me that care isn’t always about following instructions to the letter.
Sometimes it’s about knowing your body well enough to say, “Not today.”
Sometimes it’s about collaborating with the machine, the nurse, the moment.

And when the session flows smoothly—when the fluid is removed gently, when I leave feeling stable and safe—I give thanks.
For the grace of skipping.
For the wisdom of listening.
For the quiet partnership between body and treatment.

Addendum:
Of course, this isn’t a rogue decision. It’s prescribed—now.
But that clarity came through trial and error.
Through noticing patterns, flagging concerns, and working with the team.
The prescription was shaped by experience, not just textbooks.
And that, too, is a kind of healing: when lived reality informs clinical care.