Skip to main content

Out and proud


Every persecuted minority needs an advocate, a figure head prepared to step out of the oppressed mass and fight the cause, challenge the status quo. Ours is Damien Lewis, and he champions the plight of the redhead. As my friend Daisy put it, he is the holy grail: a Fit Ginger, an anomaly so rare that he is made all the more special for it. We also have Prince Harry, and the beautiful Eddie Redmayne, not to mention Lily Cole, but none of these FGs portray a sturdy, burly, mysterious Marine in the brilliant Homeland, thereby exponentially increasing their fitness by a factor of 30.

The life of a redhead is a harsh and brutal one. I mean...I suppose it could be. I, personally, have never really been targeted. Once, during a French class at prep school, my classmates sniggered when I insisted my hair colour was "strawberry blonde" and not "rouge", but now my friends correct me whenever I attempt humorous self-deprecation and cynically refer to my orange hair (you probably have to be there) and that has been the extent of my teasing. Given the choice, I would have flowing blonde locks but I have never found the colour of my hair to be a particular hinderance. And whilst I'm shape-shifitng, I might also opt for some larger breasts and olive skin so I should probably just make the most of what I've got. I'm aware that I am one of the lucky ones: many Gingers have faced years of torment and discrimination, and this is why we need Damien. Have I also mentioned I fancy the hell out of Damien Lewis?

I feel much more self conscious for being a renal patient than for being ginger, but as a sub-sect, renal patients don't have an icon. The girl out of The Office had a kidney transplant, but she's not really famous or Lewis-y enough. I have to admit, whilst having a good-looking celebrity promoting kidney failure (acceptable alternatives would include Ryan Gosling, Daniel Craig, Emma Stone, Rachel McAdams - oh, and David Tennant) would help me come to terms with having it myself, I doubt that most other sufferers care. I'm weird about my condition. I would find it helpful to be able to follow the admission, "I have kidney failure" with the words, "but so does David Beckham!". Clearly, I'm not wishing kidney failure upon pulchritudinous film stars, but Damien Lewis would be welcome at the dialysis unit any time.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The nights are closing in

The final step of my home dialysis journey (bleugh, journey...sounds like I'm on The X Factor) begins on the 22nd July when Nurse Carla will arrive with a sleeping bag and, presumably, some strong coffee, and sit on my sofa all night whilst I perform my first nocturnal session. It is the dialysis equivalent of hiring a wet nurse. During a regular daytime session, nothing should go wrong unless I have lined the machine carelessly with one eye on Only Connect and consequently forgotten to connect/un-clamp/tighten something pivotal. Dermot should behave, stay quiet and not do any of his ghastly alarm-yelping. At night, however, the chances of rolling over onto the tubes and occluding the blood flow, or the needles falling out and slowly bleeding to death, are much higher, what with all the concurrent sleeping I'll be doing; when this happens Dermot senses DANGER and screams at me. Undoubtedly, my first session with Carla will be seamless; I know from experience that it is only

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 III: The Final Chapter

Two weeks ago today, I was in surgery receiving my new kidney. The hospital kicked me out in less than a week and over the last seven days I have divided my time between the transplant clinic and my sofa, with the occasional shuffle up to Sainsbury's to ensure the muscles in my legs don't atrophy. I've had the pleasure of a steady stream of visitors, all of whom have bought me yet more wonderful and totally unnecessary gifts – I have been royally spoilt and I am stupidly grateful to all of you. The kidney itself appears to be going great guns. I was initially attending clinic on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and was committed to doing so, but the hospital are so pleased with me they are happy to start seeing me just twice a week. The pivotal result they test for is my level of creatinine, a substance that occurs naturally in the body as a result of muscle break down. The kidney filters out creatinine through the urine, therefore if there is lots present in the blood it is