I did it: I turned twenty-four. Actually, all I did was wake up and assume the role of a twenty-four year old, but I have now been living at this age for almost five days. The fact was cemented by twenty-eight five year olds signing Happy Birthday to me as I stood at the edge of the circle-time carpet grinning like the village idiot. Regular readers might have noted that previously I have mentioned the thirty children that comprise my class, and hence might be perplexed as to why only twenty-eight joined in the chorus: in explanation, Samira is away with chicken pox and Arif wasn't singing because he doesn't like me.
My birthday itself was delightful and even Friday dialysis was exponentially brightened by surprise cameo appearances from both my Mum and Maisy. By the time my father and his partner joined the fray it was practically standing room only. Sitting in my garden on a warm summer's evening, eating food from Marks and Spencer's and drinking Kopperberg with my family and my wonderful housemate was pretty much as close to complete happiness as one might hope to come.
Saturday was a little more stressful: marred by on-off rainfall, last minute preparations and the totally unexpected and inexplicable disappearance of My Housemate(he didn't return until Monday night). I hope everyone had a good time...I fretted too much as usual and wondered why I ever think having a party is a good idea. Sunday was a hungover day characterised by anti-climactic post-birthday blues and topped off with a bout of sobbing down the phone to my Mum. What began as a rant about how mean My Housemate was being quickly progressed into: "I'm (sob) just (sob) so (gasp) stressed..." and crescendoed with the familiar wail of: "I don't want to be ill anymore..." which gave me all the credence of one of my five year old students having a tantrum.
If nothing else, I wasn't exaggerating: I don't want to be ill anymore, but really that's not saying anything more insightful than suggesting things have been a bit ropey in the City of late. Besides, I guess it just sucks to be me because I am still in kidney failure at the moment and crying about it isn't going to to do a huge amount of good or produce any measurable change. Actually, the latter is not exactly true: crying helped me get moved to the quiet side of the unit at hospital and sometimes it gets me an extra digestive when its time for biscuits and ice.
Perhaps turning twenty-four has changed me after all because I have been feeling very zen recently. Being stuck in this frozen existence of dialysis has made me determined to make my life post-transplant count. I do still want to write, but I want writing to be encompassed by a wider initiative to help people. God knows who or by doing what, but I want to go to sleep every night and feel that I am making a difference, simply because I can...and because I can't do precisely what I'd like at the moment. Over the last few weeks, I feel like I have been consumed by the trivial worries and stresses in my life that really should be given no more than fleeting consideration; I feel like I am a captive of the minutiae. This has left all but no time for being in touch with my friends or my family and simply letting them know that I am thinking of them or listening to their own everyday anxieties. The time I spend thinking about the transplant, or how much I don't want to go to the hospital tomorrow, could be much better spent texting someone to tell them I love them. Or summoning forgiveness for My Housemate...even though he is seeing someone else. In short, I am trying to cast off the shackles of the illness, stop being so bloody self-involved and see what I can do about becoming a better person.
Wow - pretentious much? Probably should end on something lighter. Let's see...an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into the bar and the barman says, "What is this - some sort of joke?"
My birthday itself was delightful and even Friday dialysis was exponentially brightened by surprise cameo appearances from both my Mum and Maisy. By the time my father and his partner joined the fray it was practically standing room only. Sitting in my garden on a warm summer's evening, eating food from Marks and Spencer's and drinking Kopperberg with my family and my wonderful housemate was pretty much as close to complete happiness as one might hope to come.
Saturday was a little more stressful: marred by on-off rainfall, last minute preparations and the totally unexpected and inexplicable disappearance of My Housemate(he didn't return until Monday night). I hope everyone had a good time...I fretted too much as usual and wondered why I ever think having a party is a good idea. Sunday was a hungover day characterised by anti-climactic post-birthday blues and topped off with a bout of sobbing down the phone to my Mum. What began as a rant about how mean My Housemate was being quickly progressed into: "I'm (sob) just (sob) so (gasp) stressed..." and crescendoed with the familiar wail of: "I don't want to be ill anymore..." which gave me all the credence of one of my five year old students having a tantrum.
If nothing else, I wasn't exaggerating: I don't want to be ill anymore, but really that's not saying anything more insightful than suggesting things have been a bit ropey in the City of late. Besides, I guess it just sucks to be me because I am still in kidney failure at the moment and crying about it isn't going to to do a huge amount of good or produce any measurable change. Actually, the latter is not exactly true: crying helped me get moved to the quiet side of the unit at hospital and sometimes it gets me an extra digestive when its time for biscuits and ice.
Perhaps turning twenty-four has changed me after all because I have been feeling very zen recently. Being stuck in this frozen existence of dialysis has made me determined to make my life post-transplant count. I do still want to write, but I want writing to be encompassed by a wider initiative to help people. God knows who or by doing what, but I want to go to sleep every night and feel that I am making a difference, simply because I can...and because I can't do precisely what I'd like at the moment. Over the last few weeks, I feel like I have been consumed by the trivial worries and stresses in my life that really should be given no more than fleeting consideration; I feel like I am a captive of the minutiae. This has left all but no time for being in touch with my friends or my family and simply letting them know that I am thinking of them or listening to their own everyday anxieties. The time I spend thinking about the transplant, or how much I don't want to go to the hospital tomorrow, could be much better spent texting someone to tell them I love them. Or summoning forgiveness for My Housemate...even though he is seeing someone else. In short, I am trying to cast off the shackles of the illness, stop being so bloody self-involved and see what I can do about becoming a better person.
Wow - pretentious much? Probably should end on something lighter. Let's see...an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into the bar and the barman says, "What is this - some sort of joke?"
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