Skip to main content

Inspiration Strikes




It is all too easy to wallow in my own self-pity, just as it is to lie in a bathtub full of tepid water and one's own filth sipping vodka and orange and crying. Not that I've ever done that.

There are two ways of looking at my life as it stands:
1. It is a balls-out failure, that comprises a crummy job, a precarious social life, little money and even less kidney function...and ginger hair
or
2. It is not what I had envisaged, but I am generally quite happy and I am incredibly fortunate in numerous ways

When the former overwhelms me and I end up in the bath, I loathe myself just that little bit more; how dare I entrench myself in a quagmire of melancholy when there are so many out there, dealing with so much worse in a far more admirable manner? This point was rammed home to me, thoroughly, by a recent article I read, but before I proceed I must unburden my soul: in a direct betrayal of my beloved Guardian Weekend, it derived from the Saturday Telegraph magazine. I am so, so sorry, Left-Leaning Rosy.

The article concerned a man called Mark Pollock. He lost the sight in his right eye as a child through a rare genetic condition, took up sailing and rowing as a adolescent because he couldn't play rugby and football, and then at 22, lost the vision in his other eye. Undeterred, Pollock focused his energy on completing a series of challenges, from running a marathon up the gentile terrain of Mt Everest to skiing - to the South Pole. Four weeks after proposing to his long-term girlfriend - yet another exercise in grit and determination by the standards of most men - Pollock fell out of a window and broke his back. He is now paralysed. In comparison, my kidney failure looks like a bad hair day.

Nobody could blame Mr Pollock for wallowing in his own bath; except, he wouldn't be able to climb out of it again, so instead he has targeted his energies towards trying to walk again. And if he can do it, by fuck, I should be able to write a couple hundred words of my ailing book every few days, go jogging sometimes and continue to pitch up at dialysis for as long as needs be. His story has brought my own into sharp focus: he is one of the many, contending with the much worse and he is an inspiration to boot. That sobriquet is bandied around so casually nowadays it has almost become redundant, but I think Pollock truly deserves it; he does not pursue his goals for the benefit of money or fame or kudos, but so that he can perform the minor miracle of merely standing up, and he does it for himself and those that he loves. In the days before his tragic accident, when he was just, yknow, blind, it would seem the mountain climbing, and marathon running, and long-distance sailing were also done for similarly innocuous purposes: just to prove to himself that they could be done.

I doubt I myself shall be doing anything more strenuous than the odd Pilates class, but I have been suitably inspired. I am determined to earn the respect from the only person that should really matter to me: myself. I have set myself a year to achieve something that I feel is really worthwhile, for no reason other than to soothe my disquieted soul that seems hell bent on convincing me I am a failure. The meagre adversity I face day-to-day has nothing on that which Mark Pollock contends with, so its time to grab a towel.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Postscript

You wouldn't believe where I am. You could guess, if you've seen the gratuitous images of my self-satisfied gurning face in front of an infinity pool on Facebook...otherwise you might find it hard to imagine the paradise in which I currently find myself. I am in Dubai. Bar Abby Clancey and the cast of TOWIE, is is not everyone's idea of paradise - it actually wasn't mine. It is exciting, exotic and fucking hot, but the skyscrapers and traffic, the desert and cultural  deficiency (not to mention the chavs that clutter up the Ritz Carlton these days, I mean honestly...) suggest you'd be hard-pushed to call it paradise. It is vaulted to utopian heights simply because, four-months after the transplant, I am here. My nearest and dearest suffered for seven years as I dreamily aired my wanderlust. Yet the reward of a post-transplant holiday seemed too extravagant a prize for which to yearn - wasn't a life free from dialysis enough? Wasn't having a drink when t...

The phone rings: Part II

Anaesthetic can do weird things to you. It makes you sleepy (clearly) but in the past I have arrived back from surgery giddy as a chipmunk in spring. When I was wheeled back onto the ward after the transplant, I was not so much giddy as...suffering from delusions of psychosis. This was how I announced myself to Mum and Sam anyway, scaring the shit out of them in the process. I spent a wide-eyed half-hour protesting against the poison in my body before declaring, "I don't feel a shred of hope and I shall never be happy again".  I remember only:  1) being told the kidney was not producing urine, and consequently thinking the transplant had failed  2) that I had to stop myself asking the doctors to take the kidney out and  3) despising myself for my ingratitude. It was the first in a range of unexpected emotions I would feel over the coming week.  After half an hour of drug-induced ranting I finally - mercifully - passed out. Tuesday When I w...

The phone rings: Part I

When I open my eyes, I'm not sure where I am and I can't move. The last thing I remember is having an oxygen mask clamped over my mouth and being told to inhale; it was quick and traumatic and now I feel as if I have awoken in that very scene. I am freaking out. "Where am I? What's happened? What have you done to me?" "You've had a kidney a transplant," says a genial Irish voice, as though this sort of thing happens every day. Sunday, 6:10pm It is 6pm and I am on my sofa, writing on my laptop with one eye on  Dinner Date . I feel peckish, so I decide to make myself some bulgar wheat and peas (don't ask) and watch the Strictly results - it's about time Dave goes, the joke has worn thin. The phone rings. A man with heavily accented English asks to speak to "Rosa....Rosymend....Edwards?" and I am about to tell him I am not interested in whatever he is hawking, the words are about to roll off my tongue, when he introduces himself...