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,...

After Monday's slightly alarming post I am pleased to report I no longer feel like jacking it all in and expiring quietly. The sun is shining and the Olympics are coming, don't you know; plus Fiona is back for a visit from her tax haven and I have bought new cushions for our sofa. Life goes on, even if it is extraordinarily banal (I didn't want to boast, but I also purchased a small coffee table). In recent weeks, the thought of an imminent transplant has sustained me; now it is just a question of finding something else that will do the job. It might just have to be the little things from now on.

I found out something today. My Dad had asked me whether I could seek out some more information about the transplantation process - the hospital has told us next to nothing, which is not unusual, but certainly frustrating. My Consultant duly arrived this afternoon before I was attached to the machine, and told me this: for a couple of reasons, the antibodies present in my blood mean that I am an incompatible match for 90% of the kidneys that become available through the national donor list. "So that means I only have a 10% chance of getting a kidney?" I asked, waiting for him to reply that of course that was NOT what he meant, I had misheard, my C in GCSE maths was a lucky get. But he said, "Yes, 10%." "That's a pretty small chance," I said. He had come to me with no other information whatsoever, and he left after I told him there was not really much more to say. My first thought was that I was done. I have had enough. I have tried with every fib...

I don’t know if you know, but it is actually summertime. Yesterday, one of the children at school questioned me for a solid three minutes about the validity of this claim, and grew confused when I confirmed that it is, in fact, summer. “It isn’t sunny,” he said, “so how can it be?” I assured him, but he was having none of it. Children have literally stopped believing in summer; it is now a seasonal fairytale. So what with the rain, and the double dip recession, and the imminent arrival in London of 70,000 tourists wearing bum bags and befuddled expressions, there doesn’t seem a whole lot about which to be cheerful. The French are trying their best to alleviate our gloom by offering free trips – albeit to France – for every gold medal the British Olympic team win, but something about this feels very smug, very….well, French. I firmly believe that relief can be found closer to home: now is the time to let our guilty pleasures run amok. The joy I take in my own G.Ps is immense, all th...