He hated being connected to the dialysis machine
hated being poked and prodded by cheerful strangers
who regarded him as nobody more than the old man in room 18.
When he had needed a building built,
he dug the trenches for the foundation
poured the concrete
laid the block
framed the rafters
nailed down the shingles
and built the big wooden door by hand.
When a cold metal giant had needed coaxing to life,
he assembled his wrenches
strode to its side
and climbed up on the muddy tracks
found the magical broken part inside
and with tugs and grunts and Polish curses
had restored the hulk to its hot roaring fury.
But he could not do even one of those things anymore.
Not one.
No one had a magical part they could slip inside him to restore his strength.
Instead they pierced him and bound him to the squat machine that was supposed to keep him alive
but which instead did just the opposite.
He knew it was he who was being gradually sucked into the whirring machine,
bit by bit,
sinew by sinew,
and muscle by muscle,
until he would be but an empty husk.
But nobody else understood that.
He didn’t do sick well, was what they said.