NeuroDivine

Reflections from the dialysis chair—on presence, partnership, and the stories still unfolding.

Dialysis takes it out of you. The hours are long, the movement minimal, and the body feels like it’s been borrowed by a machine. For me—an autistic gay Irishman living in Kildare and receiving treatment in Port Laoise—it’s not just about the treatment. It’s about navigating the stillness, the sensory overload, and the emotional terrain that comes with it.

Three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday—I show up. My coat always comes with me. It’s never left behind. It’s part of my rhythm, my armour, my continuity. I bring my support bear too. Not just for comfort, but for presence. He listens without needing words, and that’s a gift when the world feels too loud or too clinical.

I chat with my husband when I can. A message, a meme, a moment of connection. It helps. It reminds me that love isn’t paused by medical routines. That joy can be found even in fluorescent-lit corners of the day.

Music plays softly. Sometimes it’s liturgical, sometimes it’s Eurovision (don’t judge). Prayer flows—sometimes structured, sometimes whispered. Reading helps. Writing helps more. Fiction lets me shape worlds where dialysis isn’t the defining chapter. Where neurodivergence is a strength, not a struggle. Where being gay in rural Ireland is met with celebration, not caution.

I don’t ask for pity. I ask for presence. For stories that honour the mosaic of experience. For spaces where imperfection is grace, and quiet courage is enough.

So here’s to the bear who listens. To the coat that’s never left behind. To the husband who texts. To the stories still being written—between treatments, beyond diagnosis, and always with dignity.