The Confession of a Hospital Bed in the Dialysis Ward

Hey Co May, let me tell you a story today – about me, a hospital bed lying quietly in the corner of the dialysis room.

I don’t know where I came from, who built me, or who was the first to rest upon this mattress. I don’t know how many tears I’ve witnessed falling, how many helpless sighs I’ve heard, or how many eyes have gazed silently into the distance through the small window at the end of the hallway.

All I know is… I’ve been here for a very long time.

Every morning is the same. I welcome weary bodies sinking down, eyes half-closed, arms pierced with needles, veins connected to a machine devoid of feeling yet entrusted with the burden of sustaining life. They rarely speak – only the steady rhythm of the dialysis machine, the soft whirr of a fan, and now and then, murmured conversations drifting like smoke through the slow passage of time.

"No idea how I’ll pay this month’s rent..." "My eldest has another cough. I dare not take her to the doctor—too expensive..." "I wish I could see the ocean one day, watch the sun rise..."

I can’t hold them close. All I can do is lift them gently with my iron shoulders.

Some return every week. Some, who were just here yesterday, laughing and telling stories, are suddenly gone today, like a dream that faded before it could be remembered.

I don’t know why I’m still here, or why I wasn’t chosen for a happier place, like those beds in the maternity ward, where people arrive to celebrate new life.

But I’m here. Quietly.

Co May, there was once a young patient who smiled at me as he lay down and said:

"This bed feels cold… but strangely comforting."

Then he fell silent. And sighed once more.

If you ever pass by a dialysis ward, pause for a moment.

You don’t have to say much—just a kind glance, a gentle smile.

That alone is enough to warm the hearts of those navigating this fragile stretch of days.