Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at precisely 1:00 p.m., I submit myself to the same grim routine. Like my companions in misfortune, I enter a vast hall lined with about thirty reclining chairs, each waiting for its occupant to begin treatment. Each session, governed by humming machines, lasts three and a half hours but feels like an eternity. And that doesn’t even include the preparation (before and after), which adds another 30 to 40 unwanted minutes to the routine.
Altogether, we spend more than four hours lying motionless, tethered to machines that hum indifferently —or sometimes buzz—beside us. For those who endure dialysis, time acquires a new gravity: it is no longer counted in hours, but in minutes, each one carrying the weight of captivity and the hope of early release.
Even the trip to the dialysis center has become a ritual. At first, I relied on others for transportation, but after that initial visit, I chose to drive myself. Anything to cut down the feeling of dependence—and the misery of extra wasted time in this virtual jail cell.
Once strapped into the chair and connected by tubes to the machine, the slow torture of clock-watching begins. The first two hours are tolerable; the last stretch, however, is exhausting. You try not to look at the clock, but like any prisoner, your eyes will betray you.
It begins with that first stolen glance at the wall clock. The eyes, almost involuntarily, flick toward it—as if mere willpower could make the hands move faster. Over time, one becomes a reluctant master of such tricks, a conjurer of minutes.
Everyone develops their own methods to survive the wait. Some bring books, breaking the hours into chapters. Others listen to podcasts, letting the voices pull them into another world. A few meditate, counting breaths or ceiling tiles.
My own method so far is music. I divide the long session into batches of songs, each lasting about three to four minutes. I force myself to listen to at least three songs before I allow myself another glance at the clock. Ten whole minutes gone—an achievement in this peculiar arithmetic of survival.
For the final stretch, I turn to music with a driving beat. I’ve learned that an old rock classic lifts me far more than a ballad or a symphony. One of my favorites is Patrick Hernandez’s Born to Be Alive—a song that doesn’t just please but pushes you strongly forward like a favorable wind.
Still, the wall clock rules the room—both tyrant and companion. The secret isn’t to defeat it, but to fill each minute with something just engaging enough to loosen time’s grip. In the end, the game isn’t about winning, but about enduring—shortening the ordeal, one minute at a time.
Alain