I have two settings when it comes to clothes: ultra-smart secretary sex kitten and ASBO casual. The latter is what could be described as "hospital wear", which is to say, anything that facilitates sitting still for four hours and provides easy access to my left arm. A fashion show on Bostock ward would include a startling array of hospital gowns and old men without much clothing at all, so even in my battered jeans-and-t-shirt-combo, sartorially speaking, I fare quite well. The former, however, is the look I adopted for work in order to feel authoritative and efficient and I chose my outfits according to the classes I was teaching that day. For my sweet Year 7s, leggings and a long cardigan sufficed; my Year 9s needed sleek black and power shoulders.
Yesterday, I took the first step in going back to work. I had an interview with the lovely Ellie at a recruitment agency that specialises in, amongst other things, placing teaching assistants in London schools. To look the part, I donned a black pencil skirt, black top, tights and heels: an ensemble I wore many times to teach in. As I added a black fitted jacket, Rosy the Kidney patient melted away and I eased into the camouflaged uniform of the working masses, my renal failure invisible behind the layers of fitted noir and the hospital a long tube ride away. I was just another professional commuter; maybe going for a meeting; perhaps returning to the office from a working lunch. Possibly a call girl.
I arrived at Victoria excessively early so desperate was my desire not to be late, and decided to buy some reading material and wile away 45 minutes. I don't drink tea or coffee but nerves had negated me from having eaten anything and I needed sugar to avoid falling over, so I ordered a small hot chocolate from a Cafe Nero Express (after 4 minutes of waiting I could have had them under the Trade Descriptions Act). I really wanted a cigarette, but pitching up at an interview reeking of fags - for a job working with kids - was not going to push me very far up the career ladder. Instead, I ventured out into the beautiful spring sunshine.
Initially,in my smart black attire, with my hot beverage in hand and chic bag dangling from my arm, I felt the epitome of the slick urban hotshot. Except that I was drinking hot chocolate, reading Heat magazine and wearing mostly H&M and my Mum's shoes...suddenly, I felt like a fifteen year-old on work experience. Rosy the Kidney patient was edging her way back in, chuckling softly at my own ineptitude.
It was a wonderful feeling to be back in my work clothes, going back to work. The lesson I have learnt over the last year, however, is that you can take the girl out of the dialysis ward but you can't take the dialysis ward...you know how it ends. I could be dressed head-to-toe in Chanel couture, yet I'd still be a short, ginger, podgy kidney-less girl with the fistula the size of a garden snake. Conversely, however long I spend on dialysis, it can't take away from the fact that I am ALSO a competent, educated and well-meaning 23 year-old who has the capacity to be professional and earn my own living - and be just like everybody else. In short, I am both; the trick is learning how to get them to play nicely.
Yesterday, I took the first step in going back to work. I had an interview with the lovely Ellie at a recruitment agency that specialises in, amongst other things, placing teaching assistants in London schools. To look the part, I donned a black pencil skirt, black top, tights and heels: an ensemble I wore many times to teach in. As I added a black fitted jacket, Rosy the Kidney patient melted away and I eased into the camouflaged uniform of the working masses, my renal failure invisible behind the layers of fitted noir and the hospital a long tube ride away. I was just another professional commuter; maybe going for a meeting; perhaps returning to the office from a working lunch. Possibly a call girl.
I arrived at Victoria excessively early so desperate was my desire not to be late, and decided to buy some reading material and wile away 45 minutes. I don't drink tea or coffee but nerves had negated me from having eaten anything and I needed sugar to avoid falling over, so I ordered a small hot chocolate from a Cafe Nero Express (after 4 minutes of waiting I could have had them under the Trade Descriptions Act). I really wanted a cigarette, but pitching up at an interview reeking of fags - for a job working with kids - was not going to push me very far up the career ladder. Instead, I ventured out into the beautiful spring sunshine.
Initially,in my smart black attire, with my hot beverage in hand and chic bag dangling from my arm, I felt the epitome of the slick urban hotshot. Except that I was drinking hot chocolate, reading Heat magazine and wearing mostly H&M and my Mum's shoes...suddenly, I felt like a fifteen year-old on work experience. Rosy the Kidney patient was edging her way back in, chuckling softly at my own ineptitude.
It was a wonderful feeling to be back in my work clothes, going back to work. The lesson I have learnt over the last year, however, is that you can take the girl out of the dialysis ward but you can't take the dialysis ward...you know how it ends. I could be dressed head-to-toe in Chanel couture, yet I'd still be a short, ginger, podgy kidney-less girl with the fistula the size of a garden snake. Conversely, however long I spend on dialysis, it can't take away from the fact that I am ALSO a competent, educated and well-meaning 23 year-old who has the capacity to be professional and earn my own living - and be just like everybody else. In short, I am both; the trick is learning how to get them to play nicely.
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