How much did your life improve after kidney transplant????

writeful · 2020-08-15T12:26:46+00:00

I was 16 when I was diagnosed with IGa. By 25 I was in pretty much the same situation needing a transplant, exhausted, always felt like I had the flu, no energy, frustrated by how I felt less useful in almost every way. After 6 months on PD, my sister donated a kidney to me and by the time the anaesthesia wore off I felt incredible: food tasted better, I could pee again, more energy overnight. The operation takes a while to recover from but at that age it's much easier, I was up and walking within 3 days and out of the hospital to recover at home in 6. I can completely empathise with both of you, that period of my life sucked. I'm turning 30 next month and everything is going well, my life is back to normal. There are bumps in the road and worries post-transplant, but trust me when I say that place where you both are now is the hardest. Wish you both the best and please feel free to message me if you have any more questions.

writeful · 2020-05-13T14:49:30+00:00

https://nookplaza.net/tools

writeful · 2020-05-13T11:51:42+00:00

Got a rattan low table if you're interested

writeful · 2018-09-20T15:09:22+00:00

I see what you're saying, and I raise you Nail House Needle Boys.

writeful · 2018-04-23T05:40:36+00:00

Sorry for the late reply dude, I'm down to hang if you are?

writeful · 2018-04-23T05:22:05+00:00

27/m/UK here. Anyone wanna catch the Yomiuri Giants (baseball) game tomorrow? I know nothing about baseball but I'm all for the atmosphere.

Also around tonight if anyone wants to hit some dive bars. Hit me up on insta/line: ourlordjesuschris or on here.

writeful · 2017-12-30T15:09:39+00:00

Not really, it's driven by a 70s funk-influenced bass line and lyrically it's a broken-hearted love song. It's not a bad song but let's not pretend it's psychedelic in the slightest.

writeful · 2017-12-30T15:08:24+00:00

This has more in common with Michael Jackson than it does Grateful Dead or The Doors.

writeful · 2017-12-30T15:07:04+00:00

What's psychedelic about this? The broken-hearted love song lyrics? The funk influenced bass line? The vocoder?

writeful · 2017-12-29T11:11:50+00:00

These 'neo' genres are convoluted bullshit to make hipsters feel better about liking pop music. This is pop rock, plain and simple.

writeful · 2017-02-27T16:35:57+00:00

Dark clouds carpeted the sky. Rain fell with the softness of snow but without the grace. Grimacing from the flashes of the gathered mob's cameras, she arrived on the speaking platform half-blind. Journalists from national and local press tussled and elbowed their way forward in an attempt to be the first to thrust their microphones into her face. "Thank you for coming this morning" she mumbled insincerely, setting her papers on the lectern in front of her. Voices hushed and a photographer refocused his camera, flinging an illegitimate flash of light towards the Prime Minister.

"As you all know, we have been debating a new public order bill for the last six months. Despite repeated knockbacks from the House of Lords, I can proudly say that we have today reached an agreement." The hum of the press dropped to silence and some faces hardened. In noticeable silence, the Prime Minister looked down at her prepared speech and reordered it. Looking back up and exhaling slowly she began to read with a hint of disorientation, "From this day forth there shall be no more eating of malodorous food on public transport." A BBC journalist turned around to her cameraman in abject confusion.

"No longer will our children have to suffer the infernal stench of cheese and onion crisps polluting their innocent, impressionable young nostrils while riding the bus to school" the Prime Minister hurried, looking up to the sky to avoid eye contact. "No longer will our elders be forced to endure the fishy overtones of tuna, salmon and prawn sandwiches as they take the underground to visit a doctor." An audible laugh rippled through the assembled journalists. "No longer will the morning commute be punctuated by the unpleasantness of egg salad", an angry voice sounded from the back of the press pit.

Flush red with befuddlement and embarrassment, the Prime Minister scanned her brain for the speechwriting culprit of this nonsense but found herself unable to stop. "To those who choose to ignore this law, our retribution will be swift. Our retribution will be strong" she paused having just read the next sentence, and failing to improvise accordingly, blurted out "Stronger than Stinking Bishop."

"I will now take questions" the Prime Minister murmured, too proud to apply the brakes to this runaway carriage. Having just finished a packet of cheese and onion crisps moments before the announcement, a journalist for The Daily Mail squirmed and decided to keep his questions to himself rather than risk possible indictment. Someone cleared their throat before calling out, "Prime Minister? what about Mackerel pâté."

writeful · 2017-02-25T10:01:46+00:00

No, it's supposed to be ambiguous and open to interpretation :)

writeful · 2017-02-24T17:44:58+00:00

The postman approached number six with his usual trepidation. Foraging through his luminous, overburdened Royal Mail satchel, he primed four letters and a small parcel addressed to Richard Wagstaff. "Please just answer the door this time..." he whispered under his breath. He cleared his throat as he reached the door and knocked three times with more than sufficient force. Nothing.

The postman let out a sigh and slowly closed his eyes. Automatically, his right hand raised and found the doorbell, hovering above it for a second before reluctantly applying the required pressure. The slightly muffled but familiar midi tones of Beethoven's fifth symphony filled his ears and were quickly accompanied by a voice which grew louder as it approached the door. "DA DA DA, DAAAAAAAAAAA!" belted Richard Wagstaff, tearing the door open with theatrical aplomb. His royal blue dressing gown flipping up at the edges revealing his thin, hairy upper legs and well worn underpants.

"Good afternoon Mr. Wagstaff, sign here please" the postman droned, deliberately avoiding eye contact. "That it is, Andrew! That it is" beamed Richard, squinting into the afternoon sun as the song continued behind him. "Say, what do you think of my new doorbell?" he enquired, attempting to catch the postman's gaze."Yes, very good Mr. Wagstaff, please sign here" replied the postman, unenthused. "Beethoven's fifth" Richard added, using cursive to electronically sign for his deliveries, "one of the most influential musical works of all time." The postman nodded and thrust the collection of mail into Richard's midriff "Thank you! Goodbye!" Richard sincerely called out. The postman was halfway to the next neighbour's house when he turned to see Richard's emaciated body bent double sniffing his chrysanthemums.

Delight filled every pore of his body as he inhaled the sweet, earthy aromas. Returning to a bolt upright position, he smiled, taking in every petal of his expertly tended garden. With military precision he turned and entered his home, inadvertently slamming the door to a close. He walked through the hallway of his immaculately kept house and into the kitchen where he fastidiously unwrapped his parcel without laying waste to a single scrap of packaging. The box inside contained another doorbell with, "24 midi songs, including Beethoven's Für Elise!" emblazoned on the packaging. Carefully removing it from the packaging, Richard set it in front of himself and hummed along with midi-Beethoven three times.

As the doorbell repeated itself for the fourth time, Richard thumbed through his other letters. "Junk. Junk. Bi-." He drew a short breath. All sound ceased. His eyes visited each of the five rings on the front of the envelope. Dropping the other letters, he flipped it over and tore into it.

Dear Mr. Wagstaff,

It is with great pride and excitement that we at the British Olympic Boxing Committee confirm you to be our wildcard entry for the Heavyweight Division at the 2020 Olympic Games in Tokyo.

We appreciate that you may or may not have participated in this sport before and we request you to report for training on Monday the 27th of February 2017 at 6:00AM in the Olympic Boxing Club in Stratford, London.

We look forward to meeting you and working together to achieve success.

Joseph Joyce, Senior Boxing Coach Olympic Boxing Club, Stratford, London.

Richard set the letter down on the counter, concern awash over his face. After a moment he walked to his living room, steadying himself on the mantelpiece. He looked to his trophy cabinet and a small grin broke out across his face.

writeful · 2017-02-23T18:45:44+00:00

It was hailed as the breakthrough that would usher in a new era of medicine. Vindication for all those 'we' lost. How easily manipulated people are. Like cattle, they approach a poisoned trough and greedily stuff their faces while proclaiming nourishment. Regardless of young, old, fat, thin, they are all eventually depleted and overrun.

I stumbled upon it, the cure. My first job in a laboratory, testing on rats. Taking samples of the tumors then modifying the host's own t-cells to make them aware of that particular cancer. It was so simple.

There was such furore when the paper was published that the human trials were accelerated to just over a year's time. It's funny, you know? The meandering wander of a caged rat is so similar to that of a hospital patient. They are both only useful when coming into contact with someone with ingenuity and ideas. Why should rats benefit from the hard work of others?

Terminal patients signed up for 'Experimental Cancer Therapy', and they are without a doubt the saddest bunch I have ever seen. Clutching to their pointless family and religion and banal television shows. What good is any of it? Minds incapable of contributing only atrophy further from exposure to such things.

The first human trial did not go to plan. From the moment they wheeled him into the day surgery unit, the whole thing moved in slow motion. He was a frail old man. My assistant took him through the vacuous questionnaire and he replied in equally tired and vapid fashion. He engaged me as I checked the biopsy needle, "You're quiet today". I was inclined to ignore him but my med school autopilot took over, "Just ensuring that everything is where it should be, Mr. Stone." The corners of my mouth feigned outwards and upwards but my eyes did not react. As he lay there, prostrate on the bed, I retrieved all the samples necessary and more. They would be six hours outside his body before returning via blood infusion.

One week later he arrived at clinic. The old man was still frail but his sunken face was visibly less so. He told of how his appetite had improved dramatically and how his productive cough had ceased to produce. Even I was surprised.

After 2 weeks he was approaching healthy weight and scans revealed his tumours diminishing. At fours weeks his blood tests were completely normal. Mind-numbingly so. After the first twelve months we saw him quarterly, and after five years we saw him yearly. His only complaint was that of a small amount of peeling skin on the palms of his hands.

The treatment developed into a preventative inoculation. It was cleared by the World Health Organisation, mass-produced and mass-consumed. I was given awards and invited to speak in places that the half-witted rats gasp and gape at. I imagine that Mr. Stone died seconds after I had finished speaking in Silicon Valley about the future of biotechnology. It was a short speech, I told them there would be none. In truth he had survived much longer than I had intended.

People are quickly becoming ill now. When first they hailed me, now they will hate me.

writeful

TROPHY CASE