Life on the list

A good friend of mine, let's call her Bertha, has recently signed up to a dating website. Bertha is one of the prettiest, funniest, smartest, kindest, most interesting people I know, so it is no surprise that she is generating a lot of interest from equally smart, funny and interesting men. Since The Chef and I broke up, I have merely kissed a grand total of one other man, and that was so long ago that I fear were the situation to arise again I'll have forgotten what to do and stick my tongue in his ear. With all that has been going on recently, my love life has been the absolute last thing on my mind; I have had neither the energy nor inclination to pursue it. But now that things are a bit more settled and I am feeling happier, I have been thinking about Bertha and all the exciting dates she is going on and wondered whether I might not get in on some of that action too. But, no, hang on...its that pesky kidney failure again; it is my experience that when you go on a blind ...

Sometimes the biggest changes are bought about by the smallest endeavours. Last Friday I was given the opportunity to have a go at doing my needles. In the past, I would have responded with a hollow laugh and a sense of overwhelming anxiety that was only placated by my belief that a transplant would come soon and I could forget about dialysis completely, needles and all. But now, with the hope of getting a kidney all but extinguished, my only recourse is to learn how to put my needles in as a first step on the road doing my own dialysis at home. Admittedly, it is scary how quickly I have had to radically change my expectations of life, but home dialysis now seems like the most promising route to happiness…so when my nurse, let’s call her Doris, asked if I would like to learn to do my needles…Reader, I said yes. And I only fucking went and did it! Well, almost…for the first, lower needle I rested my hand upon Doris’s as she pushed it through the skin, but for someone who has spent...

I am ill. I have been overcome. Yeah, kidney failure, whatever...I'm not talking about that. I have Olympic fever and I fear it might be terminal. I cried when we won the bid seven years ago and I have been looking forward to London 2012 ever since. An evening spent at the O2 - sorry, North Greenwich Arena - last Saturday has enabled me to say I Was There, watching men do un-natural things on gymnastic equipment, and this week I have been mostly watching rowing, swimming and triathalon-ing on my sofa instead of re-writing my book. I have been inspired by the story of Helen Glover, the gold-medal winning rower who only stepped into a boat 4 years ago. By my calculations, if I were to start training now, I would be on course for topping the podium in Rio 2016. I just need to decide which discipline to take up. My height - or rather, lack of it - rules me out of rowing (plus don't fancy the early mornings) and swimming, but I don't want broad shoulders either. Shooting an...

The last week fortnight has been replete with questions: will I ever get a transplant? Will it work? Does being “top of the list” actually mean anything? How am I going to survive the coming months? How am I going to survive the coming days? The coming hours? Will I feel hopeful or happy again? Will any man ever want to be with me? Where did I put my keys? Is Tom Daley gay? Answers have not been forthcoming, but that is not unusual in the course of a disease that is characterised by its uncertainty and vagaries. No time frames are given, no solutions, just a gaping chasm of time and the gentle shrugging of shoulders. This whole illness is one big question. Over the last five years, the goal posts have shifted constantly and each time I have dealt with that by clinging onto to the notion that one day, someday, I shall have a transplant. There is no guarantee it will be successful but I find it is best not to dwell; instead, you focus on the hope the transplant offers. It is the hope,...