Life on the list

"Your bump," said one of my pupils last week, "is really, really (deep breath) really, really, really big." She is not wrong. In fistula terms, mine is certainly huge: a bulging, pulsating, tortuous monstrosity that snakes right the way from the crook of my left arm up to my shoulder. Unfortunately, I am now so accustomed to the sight of it that I have concluded a cardigan sleeve is enough to render it invisible; I am like a child covering my eyes in the belief that when I can't see the world, the world can't see me. Consequently, I am always taken aback when people point and stare (or make insouciant comments, as the kiddies are wont to do). However, with the onset of summer and the temperature rising, disguising it under layers of clothing is becoming untenable and I can't pretend it isn't an issue anymore. I have two options: expose it and draw an array of looks that range from the mildly curious to the outright appalled, or keep my unseasonable ...

Before I begin, I should point out that I do know I have nobody to blame other than myself. Perhaps the French...no, mainly me. It was the pear cider that did it. On Saturday afternoon, Coops and I sat in Soho Square amongst a plethora of very good looking young men drinking pear cider and soaking up the sunshine. As soon as they remove your buggered kidney, the doctors teach you two things:  1) alcohol is de-hydrating and will make you thirsty  2) the sun is de-hydrating and will make you thirsty. Having imbibed a couple of ciders, I subsequently sweated it out in the staggering afternoon heat and proceeded to make-up for the shortfall by gulping down too much water (plus, over the course of the weekend, a glass of wine, a three course meal and McDonalds' cheeseburger). As a consequence of all this gluttony, I squelched into dialysis this afternoon three kilos over my dry weight. Tipping the scales at 51.8kg came as no surprise: I could feel the fluid and I saw it in...

I'm ill, but if that seems like a self-evident statement on a blog about living with renal failure, note that I am not alluding to the fact I have no kidneys; kidney failure doesn't count as ill until I want to park in a disabled parking space. What I mean is, I have a cold. I have not had a cold for ages. Ironically enough, before I started dialysis - when I still had a functioning transplanted kidney and was ostensibly healthy - I used to get colds all the damn time. In order to stop my immune system identifying my new kidney as a foreign body and attacking it, I was taking a handful of immunosuppressant drugs, and whilst they provided a certain level of protection to the kidney, they also meant that I was at the mercy of whatever germs happened to be filtering through the nearest AC vent at any given time. Colds really went to town on me back then: the worst ones were closer to flu, put me out of action for days and took weeks to work their way out of my system. However, s...

I did it: I turned twenty-four. Actually, all I did was wake up and assume the role of a twenty-four year old, but I have now been living at this age for almost five days. The fact was cemented by twenty-eight five year olds signing Happy Birthday to me as I stood at the edge of the circle-time carpet grinning like the village idiot. Regular readers might have noted that previously I have mentioned the thirty children that comprise my class, and hence might be perplexed as to why only twenty-eight joined in the chorus: in explanation, Samira is away with chicken pox and Arif wasn't singing because he doesn't like me. My birthday itself was delightful and even Friday dialysis was exponentially brightened by surprise cameo appearances from both my Mum and Maisy. By the time my father and his partner joined the fray it was practically standing room only. Sitting in my garden on a warm summer's evening, eating food from Marks and Spencer's and drinking Kopperberg with my...

As landmarks go, I'm fairly certain that a 24th birthday does not rank very highly. When I reach that grand old age tomorrow, I won't be able to do anything legally that I couldn't today and neither will I begin to fret that I haven't had a wedding/baby/botox consultation. In truth, I doubt I'll feel much different at all. However, as beige as the Big Two-Four is, to me, it still carries a certain heft, because it will be my third birthday on dialysis. Fuck - downer, huh? Just when you thought this blog entry was going to be about the exciting things I'm going to do for my birthday (steel yourselves, they're coming). Like most people, I anticipate my birthday with an almost orgasmic fervor and feel it very much to be the most important day of the year. The only other event I get (nearly) as excited about is Christmas. Now, for those of you graduates out there, you may have noticed that my birthday falls in June, the sixth month of - and precisely half way...

It occurred to me the other day: you know who I'm like? I'm like Batman. Since going back to work, I have been living a double life. I haven't told anyone at work about any of the kidney stuff and bar the kiddies' incessant questioning about my scars and the "bump" in my arm, there is no reason for anyone to know. My working day ends at 1, so I finish school and go on to the hospital with no-one any the wiser - and that's how I like it. Firstly, my illness in no way impinges on my ability to do my job and secondly, when people find out...they kind of look at me funny. So at school, I'm Bruce Wayne: benevolent, charming, discreet (admittedly, he was a lot richer than I am). Come 1:30, however, when I arrive at the hospital, I'm Batman, ready to begin my secret life of dialysis. The similarities between us are multiple. We both drive a car: Batman has the Batmobile, and I have a four year-old silver Ford KA. We both have to conceal our secret lives...

I am being punished for being right wing and Middle Class. It was bound to happen at some point, and today it finally did. Not only have the Tory's been forced to dilute their sensible tax cut provisions and "schools revolution" with wooly, half-baked Lib Dem policy, now The Times has turned against me too. Sunday is often my favourite day of the week. If I am not hungover from the previous night's drinking, or swollen to the size of a mud hut - from the previous night's drinking - I like nothing better than to go out for breakfast with Maisy, maybe go for a run and then settle down on the sofa and work my way through the papers. On Saturday, it is always The Guardian. I tell people I read The Guardian in spite of my aforementioned right-ish tendencies because I like to get a balanced overview of the news. The real reason is that I really like The Guardian magazine. As The Guardian is not published on Sunday (bloody Socialists, no work ethic) it is always The Ti...