Dialysis days begin with Blood Pressure numbers. Today’s was 134/89. Manageable, maybe. Monday? 190/134. Last Friday? 130/87. Last Wednesday? 221/204.

All over the place. All on the higher end. Kidney failure will do that.

These are the initial readings—taken before the machine starts. Not just numbers, but indicators. They forecast how the session might unfold. Will the fluid come off? Will the pressure hold? Will the body cooperate?

And here’s the paradox: high blood pressure has its benefits on dialysis. It gives the machine room to work, allowing it to remove the excess fluid I’m carrying. If the pressure drops too low, the BBraun Biologic setting steps in, halting fluid removal to protect the heart. It’s a delicate balance between safety and necessity. Between what the body can bear and what the machine can do.

These readings aren’t just clinical—they’re emotional. They shape the rhythm of the session, the tone of the day. One day the pressure’s sky-high, the next it’s deceptively calm. But even the “good” numbers carry the weight of chronic tension.

And still, I show up. With support bears, with humour, with presence. I say yes to the chair, the machine, the rhythm. I say yes before the map is drawn.

Otto comes too. Hoodie worn, trousers straight, gaze steady. He doesn’t flinch at the monitor. He doesn’t blink when the Biologic setting kicks in. He just sits. Present. Anchored.

Otto is more than a bear. He’s a companion in the chair. A sensory anchor when the body feels like a battleground. A symbol of dignity when the readings say otherwise. He doesn’t fix the numbers. He doesn’t argue with the machine. He simply reminds me: I am not alone.

He listens without needing to understand systolic or diastolic. He stays when the pressure spikes or drops. He bears witness to the jagged edges of chronic care—not with words, but with presence.

This is the mosaic I live: unpredictable, exhausting, and quietly brave. It’s not just about surviving the numbers—it’s about honouring the story they tell. The story of resilience. Of choosing presence. Of letting the body speak, even when it stammers.

And Otto? He’s there for all of it. Bearing witness. Bearing me.