Life on the list

I have a problem: I'm becoming cold. I don't mean emotionally frigid (though my ex-boyfriend might disagree) I literally mean physically chilled. In bed. I should probably explain. Ah, summer. Remember that? It happened (I think) over eighteen days some time this year and snuck in between the chilly spring and bleak autumn that is now upon us. It was warm once I believe, but now it is freezing and it seems twas ever thus; it is freezing in my flat, it is even freezing in my cosy little bedroom-cum-medical depot, and dialysis is like roses and old people: it doesn't do well in the cold. I'm a snuggler, you see - not with men, let's not be ridiculous - but I like to burrow down under my duvet like a hedgehog when the winter months encroach. At least I did, until Dermot arrived. When I started nocturnal dialysis, the weather was warm and lying prone on one's bed was a prerequisite for a good night's kip; now you have to get yo' wriggle on to avoid waki...

In honour of the 50th anniversary of Dr. King's seminal speech, I'd like to tell you about a dream I had last night, although mine was fuelled less by the injustice of racial discrimination than the vodka and Diet Coke which constitutes one of my major food groups these days. I was in my old family house in Kent. Standing in the kitchen, I realised I had two appointments to get to, half an hour apart. The first was to visit a child, a psychic amalgamation of last years' clients and some kids I used to teach; the second was some sort of personal therapy session that was going to be very insightful, and something I urgently wanted to attend. If I was swift, I could make both. Unfortunately my plan was scuppered by the fleeting nature of subconscious time: when I looked at the clock I realised I was now apparently ten minutes into the child's appointment. I could still make the latter half, but it would mean missing my personal thearpy; to sack it off entirely would mea...

Never have I had so much to write, and so little time to write it. I penned this entry last week on the bus to work (by hand! The humanity!) and still it has taken me a solid ten days to commit anything to blog. This is due in no small part to Tinder (that will get an entry all to itself) but my internship is keeping me in the office until at least 6:30 most days and my brand new nocturnal dialysis regime - you know, the one that is supposed to free up all my time - is consuming any remaining free moment. About a month ago I typed out a post that had the working title of "My Life Has Been Ruined and I Demand Your Pity". I never posted it. I spared no detail enumerating the various teething problems I'd been having, none of which felt like teething problems at the time but hulking, insurmountable obstacles that suggested dialysis wasn't my bag and I should just rent a cottage by the sea and wait for death. It turned out most of the problems were caused by human erro...

Here's a head scratcher for you all. I don't want to dialyse anymore, but I don't want to die. So what to do? Answers on a post card please.

A week ago I wrote an extensive piece about my turbulent start to nocturnal dialysis: the alarms, the lack of sleep, the fact that my life was over...the usual stuff. Then I decided not to post it, because in retrospect the majority of the problems were caused by my own incompetence and it seemed incredibly indulgent to whinge about it. The sessions became easier and more efficient, and the article was all but redundant. This post will be brief; I shall look to write a longer post later, one that details my hilarious nocturnal dialysis antics in full. For now, I shall just say this: I am pretty tired. My internship is hugely enjoyable and rewarding but the days are long and I have only an hour or two when I get home to chew on whatever happens to be in my fridge (ageing salad, questionable tinned tuna) before I have to turn my attention to Dermot. I know it will take time to get used to doing nights, and I am grateful for the additional freedom this regime will give me...but I so mi...

It turns out it was nothing to do with my cack-handed needling after all. My fistula, my trusty bulging buddy for the last five years and counting, is on his last legs. Not his fault, the poor little guy; he is exhausted, and adding an extra two dialysis sessions to his weekly schedule didn't help. Yet he has chosen to collapse at the worst possible time: I am a week into my internship, and working on the most important opportunity of my career to date. Here comes the technical stuff... After Friday's abortive session, my fistula didn't work on Saturday either, so after an hour of good, solid crying on Ellie, I pottered off to the hospital unit, certain that the nurses could do what I hadn't managed and get a needle into the upper of my two insertion sites. The senior matron rammed one in, but no blood came out; when she started frowning and shaking her head I knew something was wrong. I managed to start a one-needle dialysis session, but it offers a very mediocr...

It is Friday night and I am not dialysing. This is not because I am drinking Kopperberg with friends on Clapham Common as I would liked, but because, having rushed home from an incredibly tiring week, I managed to misplace one of my needles. I don't know whether my fistula is "blown" or whether the needle was just in the wrong place; a different solution is needed for either eventuality. Being late on a Friday night, I couldn't get hold of any of the nurses, and never having misjudged my needling before, I didn't know what to do. I So I cried for a bit, then decided to sack off the session and sit on my sofa eating ham and hating myself because I wasn't even hungry. I haven't dialysed and I need to; I will miss three hours worth of treatment this week and now tomorrow's session is pivotal. I am terrified it is going to happen again, or that there is something wrong with my fistula, and everything is going to turn to shit; as it will be Saturday, I don...