"I love reading your blog," Ellie said to me as we strolled through Canary Wharf during her lunch break, "it's just like Sex and The City. You're Carrie Bradshaw." Thanks for the compliment Ellie, but Carrie and I are polar opposites. She - rich, me - poor. She - dressed in Prada, me - a mess in Primark; her body is tanned, and toned from years of ballet; my body is pale and podgy from years of "dancing" on podiums after too many vodka red bulls. In order to earn my moniker, I need to focus on those things we do have in common. Firstly, she's a writer and...hey! I want to be a writer! She writes about sex! I write about...kidney failure. So...if I could just find some way of combining sex and kidney failure...
Fortunately, I have found that sex and kidney failure are fairly easy bed fellows. During my first bout of the illness, I had dialysis over night, every night - not very conducive to a successful sex life (is that a catheter in your stomach or are you just pleased to see me?) but fortunately, I was 10, so sex was not really a pressing issue. I had my first transplant at 11, just as I careened into the lustful hell that is puberty and hormones and boys - but at least no dialysis. Now, however, there was a new issue to contend with: scars. Like most eleven year old girls (except the really pretty, popular ones - a group to which I did not belong), I wasn't exactly wild about the way I looked and this was compounded by the charming scar left over from the transplant. Measuring in at an impressive 30 cm, it started just below my ribcage and snaked its way down my stomach to my pubic bone. My brothers christened it "Wormy" because it looked like an obese earthworm had given up, collapsing and dying on my tummy. It was red, bumpy and raised and, in my mind, certified me as totally un-fanciable. I remember confessing to my mother about my anxiety one day. "Don't worry, sweetheart," she soothed, "any boy worth his salt will really love you and not care about your scars." Well yes, that's all very well and good, Mum, but actually it's not the "nice-guys-who-love-me" that I'm worried about. It's the NOT nice guys, the ones who DON'T love you, the ones who you go home with at the end of the night after too much to drink or cosy up to on the sofa at a house party. In short, I was worried about the one night stands.
The nice guys are the ones you can explain everything to. You can take things slowly, build up, let them ask questions, allay their fears. You have already gotten to know each other before you get anywhere near the bedroom so he already has feelings for you that a couple of scars here and there won't diminish. Scar on your stomach? Fine. Missing an eye? No problem. No legs? Stop worrying and get in the hot-tub. Unfortunately, with casual sex, there is no such opportunity to prepare your potential lover for the horror that will be revealed when you take off your top. Any previous conversation - if, indeed, you have even bothered with small talk before the touching begins - is not likely to have revolved around sharing medical histories. I had visions of ending up in a bed/car/bouncy castle with a guy only to have him run off, screaming and clawing at his eyes.
I had, of course, underestimated the libido of the average teenage male. Upon turning twelve or so, most gentlemen are so eager to get a girl into bed that her finer features are lost in the lust-fueled haze. Who cares if you have two heads or scales covering your body - he's going to have sex! Huzuh! By the time I ended up naked with a boy, I found he was not focusing on my stomach.
This is not to say the illness has never interfered: initially, there were the incessant urinary infections that were in fact very damaging to the kidney. This is actually a serious problem for renal patients and one of the ways in which kidney failure and sex do NOT mix well. Then, once I lost the kidney, there was the guy who did a runner in McDonalds after I showed him my neck line. Oh, and the time it got bitten during sex and I panicked for a week that it would get infected. On the whole, though, I have been very lucky. I have had - mostly - wonderful boyfriends who have been incredibly supportive, caring and strong. Two of them in particular accepted the illness just as much as they accepted me and took it on their own shoulders, spending days by my side in hospital; holding my hair as I vomited green bile for hours on end and talking to me openly, and bravely, because they wanted to share the burden with me. And then...well, some people find it harder to deal with than others. But it certainly doesn't help your self-esteem in the bedroom when you are made to feel ashamed of the illness.
On guys, scars are sexy: they make you think of motorbike accidents - they are cool, rebellious and dangerous On girls...they are just a bit creepy. Nothing sexy about cesareans and boob lifts. But hell, there's not a lot I can do. Obviously, my model-esque good looks and endearing charm win over most men....but usually, I just turn the light off.
Fortunately, I have found that sex and kidney failure are fairly easy bed fellows. During my first bout of the illness, I had dialysis over night, every night - not very conducive to a successful sex life (is that a catheter in your stomach or are you just pleased to see me?) but fortunately, I was 10, so sex was not really a pressing issue. I had my first transplant at 11, just as I careened into the lustful hell that is puberty and hormones and boys - but at least no dialysis. Now, however, there was a new issue to contend with: scars. Like most eleven year old girls (except the really pretty, popular ones - a group to which I did not belong), I wasn't exactly wild about the way I looked and this was compounded by the charming scar left over from the transplant. Measuring in at an impressive 30 cm, it started just below my ribcage and snaked its way down my stomach to my pubic bone. My brothers christened it "Wormy" because it looked like an obese earthworm had given up, collapsing and dying on my tummy. It was red, bumpy and raised and, in my mind, certified me as totally un-fanciable. I remember confessing to my mother about my anxiety one day. "Don't worry, sweetheart," she soothed, "any boy worth his salt will really love you and not care about your scars." Well yes, that's all very well and good, Mum, but actually it's not the "nice-guys-who-love-me" that I'm worried about. It's the NOT nice guys, the ones who DON'T love you, the ones who you go home with at the end of the night after too much to drink or cosy up to on the sofa at a house party. In short, I was worried about the one night stands.
The nice guys are the ones you can explain everything to. You can take things slowly, build up, let them ask questions, allay their fears. You have already gotten to know each other before you get anywhere near the bedroom so he already has feelings for you that a couple of scars here and there won't diminish. Scar on your stomach? Fine. Missing an eye? No problem. No legs? Stop worrying and get in the hot-tub. Unfortunately, with casual sex, there is no such opportunity to prepare your potential lover for the horror that will be revealed when you take off your top. Any previous conversation - if, indeed, you have even bothered with small talk before the touching begins - is not likely to have revolved around sharing medical histories. I had visions of ending up in a bed/car/bouncy castle with a guy only to have him run off, screaming and clawing at his eyes.
I had, of course, underestimated the libido of the average teenage male. Upon turning twelve or so, most gentlemen are so eager to get a girl into bed that her finer features are lost in the lust-fueled haze. Who cares if you have two heads or scales covering your body - he's going to have sex! Huzuh! By the time I ended up naked with a boy, I found he was not focusing on my stomach.
This is not to say the illness has never interfered: initially, there were the incessant urinary infections that were in fact very damaging to the kidney. This is actually a serious problem for renal patients and one of the ways in which kidney failure and sex do NOT mix well. Then, once I lost the kidney, there was the guy who did a runner in McDonalds after I showed him my neck line. Oh, and the time it got bitten during sex and I panicked for a week that it would get infected. On the whole, though, I have been very lucky. I have had - mostly - wonderful boyfriends who have been incredibly supportive, caring and strong. Two of them in particular accepted the illness just as much as they accepted me and took it on their own shoulders, spending days by my side in hospital; holding my hair as I vomited green bile for hours on end and talking to me openly, and bravely, because they wanted to share the burden with me. And then...well, some people find it harder to deal with than others. But it certainly doesn't help your self-esteem in the bedroom when you are made to feel ashamed of the illness.
On guys, scars are sexy: they make you think of motorbike accidents - they are cool, rebellious and dangerous On girls...they are just a bit creepy. Nothing sexy about cesareans and boob lifts. But hell, there's not a lot I can do. Obviously, my model-esque good looks and endearing charm win over most men....but usually, I just turn the light off.
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