Life on the list

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...

Before I arrived for dinner at his new flat on Tuesday evening, Adam sent me a perfunctory text asking,politely, if there was anything in particular I fancied eating, by which of course he meant: you'll eat what you're given and you'll like it. I'm really not fussy, I replied... as long as it doesn't include spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes, potatoes, dairy, nuts or shellfish. By which point, Adam was wishing he hadn't asked. For those of you especially au fait with the molecular make-up of food (most of you, yes?), it will be obvious that those foods I listed are all either high in potassium or phosphate. For renal patients, these seemingly innocuous substances have the potential to be lethal because no kidneys equals no toxin excretion, which consequently causes a build up and ultimately leads to bad things, like heart attacks and crumbling bones, though hopefully not at the same time. It is no secret that in the past I have struggled with the limitations on m...

My sessions with My Lovely Pyschotherapist prove to be an ongoing source of helpful advice and insight. I spent an hour with her earlier this week and talked at her solidly for the duration. We breezed over my feelings about my illness and apprehension about my upcoming birthday (3rd on dialysis, 18 months on the waiting list, concentrated feelings of loss uh huh, yeah, whatever) and moved on to the prevailing and far more interesting of my love life. Or should that be, lack of love life. Anyone unlucky or stupid enough to have answered the phone when I rung any time over the last couple of months will be aware that I have managed to get myself tangled in a tricky situation with My Housemate: we were seeing each other until quite simply we were not, and within that space of time I developed feelings for him which I am now trying to shake off like a dog with flees. It would all be fine if I never had to see him again, but he resides in the bedroom next to me and I tried walking aroun...