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The failure of kidney failure

Kidney "failure": there is a clue in there somewhere. From time to time, it feels like the failure of my renal organs has seeped into my bloodstream and slowly morphed me into a big, fat loser; after all, I couldn't even manage to keep my own body parts functioning. What an idiot. Whilst the majority of my friends are a good year into their careers - or at least fully qualified to pursue one - this dumb-ass disease means I haven't been able to keep a job for longer than a year and apparently my sixth-form "Socialite of the Year" award does not rank highly amongst the qualifications most employers look for - ditto Captain of the Cheerleading Squad.

My inability to maintain my own health means I am constantly trying to compensate in other ways. At the naissance of my teaching career, I decided I was not going to just be any old, run-of-the-mill teacher, no Sir; I was going to be Teacher of the Year! That was going to be me in an ill-fitting evening gown, receiving a perspex statuette from Myleene Klass on a smaltzy ITV special! I was not going to win because my talent in the classroom outstripped the abilities of my peers (indeed, my measly term's worth of experience turned out to be something of a baptism of fire) but because my determination to finally excel in something - anything - is so all-consuming and a punishing driving force.

I have spent a lot of time searching...ok, some time...fuck, alright, about half an hour searching for some meaning behind my illness. I am not a great believer in fate or in the nauseating everything-happens-for-a-reason philosophy that you can be persuaded of just by reading your mug in Starbucks. But I am an advocate of trying to take the positives out of negative situations, even if only to make the whole scenario a little less dire as you struggle to get through it. In my case, if I had not gotten ill again, I would never have had the rocket-up-the-backside I needed to get me to try and write properly, to write professionally. I am in an incredibly fortunate position in that my extremely generous father can support me financially through these few months before I go back to work. Whatever rubbish part-time labour I end up doing, with luck I shall be able to cover my rent and bills, but any money I spend on vodka and coke or copies of Heat magazine will be straight out of Papa's pocket until I have a transplant and go back to work full time, or my novel (obviously) tops the bestseller list.

Although my darling Dad is the facilitator, my kidney failure is the catalyst. It is not because life is too short or I have suddenly realised what is truly important; any dolt with half a brain cell and a social conscience can understand that the health and happiness of those you love outweighs most other concerns. It is because having lived my life in limbo for the last two years (and counting) has ignited in me a desire to really live. When Nelson Mandela walked out of prison, fist aloft, after nearly 26 years grueling years in captivity, I don't imagine he turned to Winnie and said, "You know what, Win? What I really fancy is a McDonalds". If a blind man gets his sight back, does he stand in the park with his eyes closed? Of course not; he takes in the glowing faces of his children, then goes to a strip club.

Similarly, this experience has made me want make something of myself. It has made me want to prove to my friends and family - especially my family - that I am not just good at having kidney failure. Ironically enough, I am not even especially adept at that. Whether I am talented enough to become a successful author remains to be seen. Success, as I deem it, however, is not being overly wealthy or writing best-selling novels. Success is being able to introduce myself as Rosy, as a writer and have no need to say anything else.

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