I calculate it has been roughly six weeks since I wrote last, which I realise translates as an eternity in the blogosphere. The gap correlates with my having gone back to work after the summer holidays and consequently being too tired and short of time to contemplate the goings on in my life, then attempt to articulate them in amusing vignettes. In addition, all my spare time (when I have not been asleep or hungover) has been dedicated to The Book. It has paid off in part because I now have an opus of approximately 55,000 words, most of them trite, but there on the virtual page of my pre-historic lap-top never the less. Perhaps if I had a brand new lap-top I would get more written: I had to give up writing in Starbucks, what with the shame of my old clunking Mac and all; I would ask for a Christmas cash injection towards an update if only I wasn't so desperate for Laura Mericer products. Still, if the worst dilemma in my life is currently that my expensive computer embarrasses me in the chi-chi coffee shops of North London, I suspect I shall pull through.
Time constraints and alcohol poisoning are only smoke screens, of course, for the fact that 1) I have felt creatively barren of late and therefore not capable of writing anything remotely engaging, and 2) jack shit interesting has happened. Inevitably, writing a blog concerned with waiting for something that may or may not transpire was always going to problematic: nothing happens, so there is no drama to relieve the monotony of...nothing happening.
I get up, I shower, I choose an outfit that might perhaps attract admiring glances from rich city types on the tube but that is also safe to wear around six year olds who lack basic motor skills. I eat Bran Flakes with soya milk (I should note that finding that soya milk was palatable has allowed me to indulge in eating cereal again - this has been monumental) and after teeth/make-up/bag packing I am out the door. If the tube is not fucked - never a certainty - I arrive at work and prepare for the day. Then the bell rings, the children flood in and I can tell from the first five minutes what sort of behaviour I can expect and how the morning will play out.
Fortunately, I love my job and if kidney failure has taught me anything, it is that my life will be utterly pointless if I end up doing a job I dislike. When T is good, which is a considerable percentage of the time (thank God), I adore being around her and take pleasure in seeing her progress. I find the enthusiasm of the children infectious and the work is challenging and enables me to develop. That said, I get to walk out of the door at 1 am, which is also fucking awesome.
My day would be perfect if I didn't then have to go to the hospital, though after almost three years you'd think I'd have stopped complaining about it by now. The beginning bit of dialysis is ok, once the needles are taped in, and the first hour often passes quite briskly. But the subsequent time drags on, and the treatment wears me down until, four hours later and at least two kilos lighter, I am crawling home on the crowded tube: a wimpering, torpid version of my former self.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, being as they are hospital deficient, are almost perfect: work in the morning, home for lunch, a few hours writing before pilates class and an early night. No, you did not mis-read: this is what constitutes near "perfection" in my pathetic little life. I specify the "almost" here because a perfect day would also involve my friends, pear cider, a working kidney and Dermot O'Leary, a set of jump leads and a jar of Nutella.
At the very least, dealing with this condition has made me appreciate the mundane experiences in life that otherwise I would have permanently taken for granted. A good meal at the end of a long day. A good night's sleep. Getting into comfy bed with a book, or getting dressed up with my friends for a night out. Hearing a piece of music I adore or reading Stylist on the warm, Wednesday morning tube have become as important and pleasurable to me as the traditional emotional zeniths: the first kisses, the pay rises, the time your right shoulder appeared in the audience on Top Gear. In fact, pretty much everything seems incredible when it isn't dialysis. Just walking through my front door at the end of the day feels euphoric simply because I am not at the hospital any more.
So, in summary, in the last six weeks, nothing remarkable has happened - and this is just how I would have it. I rely on stability and familiarity to pull me through the mire of kidney failure; with so much of my energy and time diverted towards the illness, I find it very difficult to cope with the unexpected and alarming. This healthy dose of calm has done wonders for my mental well being...it just doesn't make for very good copy.
Time constraints and alcohol poisoning are only smoke screens, of course, for the fact that 1) I have felt creatively barren of late and therefore not capable of writing anything remotely engaging, and 2) jack shit interesting has happened. Inevitably, writing a blog concerned with waiting for something that may or may not transpire was always going to problematic: nothing happens, so there is no drama to relieve the monotony of...nothing happening.
I get up, I shower, I choose an outfit that might perhaps attract admiring glances from rich city types on the tube but that is also safe to wear around six year olds who lack basic motor skills. I eat Bran Flakes with soya milk (I should note that finding that soya milk was palatable has allowed me to indulge in eating cereal again - this has been monumental) and after teeth/make-up/bag packing I am out the door. If the tube is not fucked - never a certainty - I arrive at work and prepare for the day. Then the bell rings, the children flood in and I can tell from the first five minutes what sort of behaviour I can expect and how the morning will play out.
Fortunately, I love my job and if kidney failure has taught me anything, it is that my life will be utterly pointless if I end up doing a job I dislike. When T is good, which is a considerable percentage of the time (thank God), I adore being around her and take pleasure in seeing her progress. I find the enthusiasm of the children infectious and the work is challenging and enables me to develop. That said, I get to walk out of the door at 1 am, which is also fucking awesome.
My day would be perfect if I didn't then have to go to the hospital, though after almost three years you'd think I'd have stopped complaining about it by now. The beginning bit of dialysis is ok, once the needles are taped in, and the first hour often passes quite briskly. But the subsequent time drags on, and the treatment wears me down until, four hours later and at least two kilos lighter, I am crawling home on the crowded tube: a wimpering, torpid version of my former self.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, being as they are hospital deficient, are almost perfect: work in the morning, home for lunch, a few hours writing before pilates class and an early night. No, you did not mis-read: this is what constitutes near "perfection" in my pathetic little life. I specify the "almost" here because a perfect day would also involve my friends, pear cider, a working kidney and Dermot O'Leary, a set of jump leads and a jar of Nutella.
At the very least, dealing with this condition has made me appreciate the mundane experiences in life that otherwise I would have permanently taken for granted. A good meal at the end of a long day. A good night's sleep. Getting into comfy bed with a book, or getting dressed up with my friends for a night out. Hearing a piece of music I adore or reading Stylist on the warm, Wednesday morning tube have become as important and pleasurable to me as the traditional emotional zeniths: the first kisses, the pay rises, the time your right shoulder appeared in the audience on Top Gear. In fact, pretty much everything seems incredible when it isn't dialysis. Just walking through my front door at the end of the day feels euphoric simply because I am not at the hospital any more.
So, in summary, in the last six weeks, nothing remarkable has happened - and this is just how I would have it. I rely on stability and familiarity to pull me through the mire of kidney failure; with so much of my energy and time diverted towards the illness, I find it very difficult to cope with the unexpected and alarming. This healthy dose of calm has done wonders for my mental well being...it just doesn't make for very good copy.
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