Sitting on the hospital bed in the dialysis room, with blood flowing through the tubes, I feel that time itself is Saturn, slowly yet steadily devouring the body and the future.
In Goya's painting, that giant figure stares with wide eyes, hands embedded in flesh, swallowing its own child in self-preservation—its fear profound and frenzied.
In this rhythm of devouring, I see my own situation: energy gradually draining, actions restricted, the future requiring remeasurement.
This merciless process forces me to confront the essence... how to respond to this reality of being consumed.
Frida Kahlo offers a way of gazing here.
She endured the tearing of a car accident and illness throughout her life, yet transformed the fractures into self-portraits, gazing directly at the viewer without embellishment.
What she painted was reality, not dreams: the broken body, recurring pain. She refused to be simply categorized, presenting her own existence solely through art.
From this I understand that pain needs no beautification; it is itself the material, becoming evidence of facing and existing.
I hope I too have the ability to transform pain into different energy, to view my own reality in the same way, but clearly taking up the brush to paint the inner sense of tearing is not something I am skilled at; I can only describe it with words, which seems too abstract. Just as before my illness began, I did not know what dialysis was, even though my profession had abundant academic knowledge, it was not as real as being a patient myself.
Of course, no one wishes to be a patient, nor would anyone "expect" themselves to become one. Two years after the onset, I no longer resist the restrictions, but accept them as the current reality.
Yet acceptance is not the end.
After reading so many literary works, attempting to find the answers I seek, only after experiencing life and death can one understand the layers of Proust's In Search of Lost Time.
He reveals that Saturn's devouring is not absolute.
The years seemingly consumed by time are actually hidden in the folds of the senses and consciousness. A subtle trigger can summon the layered past, allowing them to reappear in the present.
This is not nostalgia, but reconstruction.
The days of dialysis thus gain density: I am no longer a singular, restricted existence, but the intersection of multiple lives, where memories continuously revive and extend.
The three naturally blend here.
Pain is merciless like Saturn; I choose, like Frida, to transform it through gazing into a presentation of reality;
At the same time, like Proust, to recover the devoured parts in memory, allowing time to flow anew within consciousness.
This forms a mature self-dialogue: not asking why it is so, but asking how this reshapes my existence.
Dialysis narrows external possibilities, yet deepens the inner vision, allowing me to see the freedom within the boundaries... the clarity of consciousness, the richness of memory, the layers of understanding.
Gratitude in many forms thus emerges.
It is not an abstract emotion, but a shift in perspective.
Viewing the same life from different angles: seeing patience within limits, recognizing value in loss, distilling meaning from being devoured.
The body's boundaries become a frame, within which existence gains more precise weight.
Time continues to devour, but I am no longer purely passive.
Frida's gaze and Proust's summoning together allow me to distill a coherent self in the process.
The dialysis tubes flow, and thoughts flow with them; every pain, every memory, every present moment is woven into this ongoing dialogue.
This allows me, writing this article now, to experience an unprecedented reality: honest, coherent, with a quiet density.
Life continues to pass, yet it is also constantly reorganizing within consciousness.
I continue to observe, remember, and give thanks, using this as a foundation to extend forward.