I always fear a progression of my illness. I await it, in fact. You may call me a pessimist, but it’s just been that class of a life thus far.
I am conscious of the fact that I have escaped fairly lightly in dialysis terms. I have had no real, or at least no prolonged loss of appetite, so I don’t bear the...defined bone structure...that marks some of my fellow D patients. I have not had to spend any time in hospital, have managed to keep myself infection-free, and have had no difficulties with the tube inside my tummy.
It’s all going swimmingly, so I am prepared for the inevitable tragic twist that will no doubt hurtle in my direction one fine day soon.
I thought that day had arrived this week, when some odd looking blisters appeared on my left hand. To my increasingly forgetful mind, it seemed these blisters came from nowhere. They began as an itchy patch on the index finger, and painfully bubbled their way above the skin.
Aside from enjoying showing them off, in the same way I spent most of my childhood flaunting cuts and scrapes and scabs, I did genuinely worry that my condition had moved up a gear.
I visualised a gradual spread of Wicked Witch of the West type boils across my body, and wondered whether I should go straight to see the consultant.
Then I remembered an ‘ouch’ moment from last weekend. Getting ready to head to the Races for the day, I was in too much of a rush to give due note to the sensation of pain.
Had I paused, I would have allowed my brain to register the contact between my finger and my hair straighteners.
Panic over, but still. Ouch.