If I were to dispense two pieces of advice, they would be this:
1. Drink lots of water
2. Never move house
If you have ever dabbled with kidney failure, you will understand the necessity of keeping your renal organs hydrated and urinal tract spick and spam with a voluble intake of water. If you have ever moved house, you will understand that you should never, ever move house.
Even if your current house is tiny, or damp, or burnt to the ground, do not try and move house. Even if the balliffs are pounding on your front door as your read, give them your TV, or your child, or your virginity, but do not, on any account, let them force you to seek new accommodation. I have been trying to move house for approximately nine days now...at least I think its been nine days, time stopped around day five and then the theme tune to Catchphrase started playing on a loop in my head in place of cogent thought. It probably doesn't help that the reason for my move - as I have now explained to twenty-eight agents with varying degrees of success - is so I can set up a dialysis machine in my bedroom and perform my own treatment for six hours every night. This means I am not just looking for any old flat, but one that is configured in such a way as to allow for the plumbing in of said machine and that also has enough room to house the monumental amount of equipment that comes along for the ride (to give you some idea: one mere canister of acid solution is 6 litres, and I shall be using one of those bad boys every night). The flat must have access to the mains water, and to the mains drains, and ideally would be located on the ground floor; the Landlord needs to acquiesce to the building and plumbing work it will take to install the machine, and the neighbours will have to be ok with the fortnightly deliveries of dialysis goodies. No flat can be signed off before the dialysis technicians from hospital have come round and assessed its suitability which creates a very real danger that the right flat could be snapped up by someone else before they even get there. Add to this the more general requirements of a reasonable rent, a location that isn't sandwiched between Stabby Row and Mugging Street and a move date no later than February 18th and suddenly it seems like I am going to need a perfect storm if my dream of home dialysis is ever going to become more than just that - a dream.
The problem is, the stakes are too high. It is not a wild exaggeration to claim that my capacity to live life in any meaningful way rests upon my being able to start home dialysis in the next few months. Usually I am able to manage stress fairly well, but the last two weeks has been...well, its been a bit dicey. Yet as of tonight I have chosen to deal with the anxiety in the only way still available to me: with unrelenting, baseless optimism. I have no evidence to suggest that this will all work out as I hope, but I have decided to adhere firmly to the belief that, somehow, it will. Co-ordinating a landlord with an estate agent (two of the most fickle species in the known universe) with a dialysis technician sometimes seems like an impossible feat, and it may well prove so...but I cannot let that stop me. I refuse to be defeated by the logistical mouse my kidney failure has deposited on my door step; I haven't come this far to capitulate in the face of awkward scheduling and poor communication. I shall get that flat, and I shall start home dialysis (no crisis is too great for correct grammar) even if I have to live at the arse-end of the Metropolitan line and eat nothing but baked beans for the next two years. WHICH I SHALL BE ABLE TO DO, because home dialysis means an end to dietary restrictions which bans, amongst other things, potassium-rich baked beans! So fuck you, kidney failure....just don't expect me to move house again any time soon.
1. Drink lots of water
2. Never move house
If you have ever dabbled with kidney failure, you will understand the necessity of keeping your renal organs hydrated and urinal tract spick and spam with a voluble intake of water. If you have ever moved house, you will understand that you should never, ever move house.
Even if your current house is tiny, or damp, or burnt to the ground, do not try and move house. Even if the balliffs are pounding on your front door as your read, give them your TV, or your child, or your virginity, but do not, on any account, let them force you to seek new accommodation. I have been trying to move house for approximately nine days now...at least I think its been nine days, time stopped around day five and then the theme tune to Catchphrase started playing on a loop in my head in place of cogent thought. It probably doesn't help that the reason for my move - as I have now explained to twenty-eight agents with varying degrees of success - is so I can set up a dialysis machine in my bedroom and perform my own treatment for six hours every night. This means I am not just looking for any old flat, but one that is configured in such a way as to allow for the plumbing in of said machine and that also has enough room to house the monumental amount of equipment that comes along for the ride (to give you some idea: one mere canister of acid solution is 6 litres, and I shall be using one of those bad boys every night). The flat must have access to the mains water, and to the mains drains, and ideally would be located on the ground floor; the Landlord needs to acquiesce to the building and plumbing work it will take to install the machine, and the neighbours will have to be ok with the fortnightly deliveries of dialysis goodies. No flat can be signed off before the dialysis technicians from hospital have come round and assessed its suitability which creates a very real danger that the right flat could be snapped up by someone else before they even get there. Add to this the more general requirements of a reasonable rent, a location that isn't sandwiched between Stabby Row and Mugging Street and a move date no later than February 18th and suddenly it seems like I am going to need a perfect storm if my dream of home dialysis is ever going to become more than just that - a dream.
The problem is, the stakes are too high. It is not a wild exaggeration to claim that my capacity to live life in any meaningful way rests upon my being able to start home dialysis in the next few months. Usually I am able to manage stress fairly well, but the last two weeks has been...well, its been a bit dicey. Yet as of tonight I have chosen to deal with the anxiety in the only way still available to me: with unrelenting, baseless optimism. I have no evidence to suggest that this will all work out as I hope, but I have decided to adhere firmly to the belief that, somehow, it will. Co-ordinating a landlord with an estate agent (two of the most fickle species in the known universe) with a dialysis technician sometimes seems like an impossible feat, and it may well prove so...but I cannot let that stop me. I refuse to be defeated by the logistical mouse my kidney failure has deposited on my door step; I haven't come this far to capitulate in the face of awkward scheduling and poor communication. I shall get that flat, and I shall start home dialysis (no crisis is too great for correct grammar) even if I have to live at the arse-end of the Metropolitan line and eat nothing but baked beans for the next two years. WHICH I SHALL BE ABLE TO DO, because home dialysis means an end to dietary restrictions which bans, amongst other things, potassium-rich baked beans! So fuck you, kidney failure....just don't expect me to move house again any time soon.
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