The blog is back up and running! Good news I'm sure for the 11 of you who are regular readers. Why, you might ask (though probably not)? Well, I feel creatively stifled, I need an artistic outlet; some funny shit has happened that might prove be mildly amusing and I am trying to write an essay and am therefore desperately seeking to procrastinate.
In the four or so months since I last wrote, I have become involved in a minor capacity with the new Young Adult clinic at hospital that has been specifically engineered for transplant patients between the ages of 16 and 20 (ish). I was tasked with creating a Facebook page, which I duly did, and then attending one of the clinics to meet said young patients and tell them all about it.
Apathetic does not begin to describe their reaction. As a dialysis patient, I was far inferior to them and their smug working kidneys; in terms of renal hierarchy, transplant patients are at the top, lead by those who have had their graft for over a decade; then comes the newly transplanted patients, followed by those who are looking a bit peaky, then patients who are losing their transplant but soldiering on, then finally, right at the bottom of the heap, are the renal losers - such as myself - who could not ensure the efficiency of their own vital organs. They didn't want to hear about dialysis - it was like I had walked into an old peoples' home and started proselytising about death or steamed into an AA veterans meeting absolutely trolleyed and proceeded to remove my clothes for comedic effect. My questions to this merry band of transplantees were met with silence, disdain and the sound of my own desperate laughter. Behind me was a table laden with snacks, none of which I could eat, which in hindsight I suspect this mob had placed there just to taunt me.
As yet, only one person has sought to join the Facebook group.
In other news, I am going to have my fistula operated on - again - as it has been growing at a keen and steady pace over the last year and now is so large I have to manoeuvre my arm to one side of the bed and the rest of me to the other to stop the noise of the 4 litres of blood gushing through it keeping me awake. I was hoping the surgery might be scheduled for some time in the next few weeks so I could have a good chunk of time off from work and then fritter away the rest of the term be being excited for work. When - oh when - will I learn that the hospital has no interest in being accommodating? The op is set for the 16th Dec: practically the next day of term and less than 10 days before Christmas, so if I intend to host my family again on the 25th like I did last year I better start getting organised now and learn how to pickle cabbage with one hand. Despite its unfortunate timing, the upshot of the operation should be that the fistula is smaller, performs better and even Mr Bumpy, the unsightly bulge in the crook of my elbow, might disappear. Like every good girl, I have already started compiling my list for Santa (I started in September) but waking from the operation to unwrap the bandages and find a flat arm? That would definitely be a gift.
In the four or so months since I last wrote, I have become involved in a minor capacity with the new Young Adult clinic at hospital that has been specifically engineered for transplant patients between the ages of 16 and 20 (ish). I was tasked with creating a Facebook page, which I duly did, and then attending one of the clinics to meet said young patients and tell them all about it.
Apathetic does not begin to describe their reaction. As a dialysis patient, I was far inferior to them and their smug working kidneys; in terms of renal hierarchy, transplant patients are at the top, lead by those who have had their graft for over a decade; then comes the newly transplanted patients, followed by those who are looking a bit peaky, then patients who are losing their transplant but soldiering on, then finally, right at the bottom of the heap, are the renal losers - such as myself - who could not ensure the efficiency of their own vital organs. They didn't want to hear about dialysis - it was like I had walked into an old peoples' home and started proselytising about death or steamed into an AA veterans meeting absolutely trolleyed and proceeded to remove my clothes for comedic effect. My questions to this merry band of transplantees were met with silence, disdain and the sound of my own desperate laughter. Behind me was a table laden with snacks, none of which I could eat, which in hindsight I suspect this mob had placed there just to taunt me.
As yet, only one person has sought to join the Facebook group.
In other news, I am going to have my fistula operated on - again - as it has been growing at a keen and steady pace over the last year and now is so large I have to manoeuvre my arm to one side of the bed and the rest of me to the other to stop the noise of the 4 litres of blood gushing through it keeping me awake. I was hoping the surgery might be scheduled for some time in the next few weeks so I could have a good chunk of time off from work and then fritter away the rest of the term be being excited for work. When - oh when - will I learn that the hospital has no interest in being accommodating? The op is set for the 16th Dec: practically the next day of term and less than 10 days before Christmas, so if I intend to host my family again on the 25th like I did last year I better start getting organised now and learn how to pickle cabbage with one hand. Despite its unfortunate timing, the upshot of the operation should be that the fistula is smaller, performs better and even Mr Bumpy, the unsightly bulge in the crook of my elbow, might disappear. Like every good girl, I have already started compiling my list for Santa (I started in September) but waking from the operation to unwrap the bandages and find a flat arm? That would definitely be a gift.
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