A return to old haunts this time I’m afraid. It’s Thursday May 4^th and I have two do two things: Vote, and got to hospital for yet another lumbar puncture. I have to be at the hospital for 9.30, and I’m going to be laid out all day, so I decide to get up early and vote before embarking upon the twenty minute bus ride to Greenwich District Hospital. Things go wrong quickly. First of all, the location of the polling station on my ballot card is completely incorrect. None of the campus officials are aware that there is even an election today, let alone that there is a polling station on-site. After half an hour of searching I finally find it, inside the student’s union building, not the dining hall as quoted on council correspondence. I later learn that of the one thousand plus registered voters on campus, a mere ‘thirty or forty, almost entirely female’ actually exercised their democratic rights today. Obviously watching Hollyoaks is the far more pressing concern, as it is most days on campus. Anyway, I’m now waiting for the bus, and I know that there should be one at 9.11am and then every ten minutes thereafter. I reckon I’ll be five or ten minutes late at most. Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. Forty minutes pass until a bus turns up, and before I even get chance to board the driver yells that ‘iss’only gowin a’ blackeath!’ Why, why today are you only going to Blackheath? I look despairingly, but he has no explanation, nor can suggest when the next bus might follow. It arrives at 10.10am, one hour after I first stood at the bus stop.

Once on board, my phone rings. Predictably it’s the hospital calling. I blurt out an explanation for my tardiness, only be cut short by a nurse telling me that due to staff shortages they’d prefer it if I came tomorrow. I plead with them, arguing that I really can’t afford to miss my Friday lecture. Actually I just want to leave the evening free so I can go see Hot Water Music, and I’ve been through so much shit already today… Anyway they capitulate, and I return to the bus world. The conversation took about five minutes, and the bus has moved all of twenty feet. What the hell? I soon realise that we are stuck in roadworks. Behind a funeral cortege.

Tempers are running high on the bus as we crawl through Eltham. Have you ever been to Eltham? Don’t. Tell anyone you live near Eltham and they’ll think one thing: Stephen Lawrence. His ghost is omnipresent here; I see it in the bulldog tattoos of the guys at the swimming pool, the plaque by the 161 bus stop, the hostility of the local pubs. I’m white and I would never go out here at night; I have no idea what it would be like if I was black. Back on the bus the kids are fighting and smoking and doing whatever the hell it is they do on the back seats. Sat in front of me is an elderly lady who seems peculiarly agitated. She’s not too happy with the proximity of a young black gentleman stood in the aisle next to her seat. The bus is packed and some contact is inevitable. Before long she’s screaming ‘touch me again and you’ll be back to Africa blackie!’. He laughs and she launches into a racist diatribe, which she has cultivated no doubt from a lifetime of Daily Mail reading. He sniggers some more and flicks his bus ticket in his face. It shuts her up for a little while. He gets off and an Asian guy gets on. Eva Braun doesn’t like his bag and she keeps swinging it away from her as it hangs on his shoulder. He just ignores her, which I decide is probably the best option. Did I mention that the BNP polled more votes in Greenwich and Lewisham than any of the Socialist parties? On second thoughts perhaps ignorance is not bliss.

But I digress, I’m just here to tell you about my bus journey and my reason for taking it. The thing about enduring a tortuous journey is that it’s usually an attempt to reach an exciting destination: Flight delays are forgotten when landing in sunnier climes, traffic jams forgiven if we make it to the gig just in time. For me however, my journey’s reward is not so enticing; I am on the bus from hell so that I can have sharp things stuck into my back. The sharp things are already waiting for me when I finally make it to the hospital, one and a half hours late and two and a half hours after setting off. Dr Bagi doesn’t seem to mind that I’m fucking up his schedule, and he proceeds in earnest. I like Dr Bagi, because he answers all my questions, unlike some of the less forthcoming doctors who’ve treated me over the last 18 months. On this occasion though he’s telling me a little too much as he fiddles around with syringe and vertebrae. I don’t really need to be told that the needle is bouncing off the bone thank you Doctor; I’d prefer to let the anaesthetic do its job now. After 6 hours on my back recovering, I am fortunate to have my friend Jamie give me a lift home. Needless to say, taking the bus home is not an option.

Serious stuff now: As most of you are no doubt aware, I have just recovered from Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia (ALL). Survival rates are continually improving, but it’s far from cured; approximately 30% of those diagnosed don’t make it. The best treatment is for the patient to receive a bone marrow transplant, which is particularly successful for young children, in whom ALL is most prevalent. The first step taken when it is decided that a patient requires a bone marrow transplant is to test their siblings, in which the chances of a match are about 1 in 4. I have 3 brothers, but none of them were a suitable match. If no sibling match is available then a decision is made as to whether to use intensive chemotherapy and radiotherapy, or search for an unrelated donor. In my case the chemotherapy was progressing well, and the nearest matched donor would still have been incompatible enough for me to risk a 15% chance of not surviving the operation. We proceeded with chemotherapy and I’m in decent enough health today. I am one of the lucky ones. Many patients, particularly young children, do not respond too well to chemo, and for them a transplant is the only option.

When a transplant from a non-relative is required, the doctor will consult the Anthony Nolan Trust register of donors. Its not just ALL patients like me who might need transplants, but sufferers of all leukaemias; congenital metabolic disorders and immuno-deficiency illnesses. The register is the last hope of many patients. The chances of an unrelated person being a suitable match for you is around 1 in 30,000 so it’s essential that as many names get on the list as possible. Get yourself registered! The problem is further complicated by the fact that generally people make better donors if their gender and ethnic origin matches that of the patient. At present the list is 60% female to 40% male. Furthermore the register of donors is overwhelmingly white European; donors are desperately needed for Jewish, Afro-Caribbean, Asian, African, Mediterranean, Eastern European and Oriental patients. This is compounded for mixed race patients, for whom donors are particularly scarce.

Registering as a donor isn’t hard work. I’d like to make it absolutely clear that to join the register, you do not have to have a marrow sample taken. A blood test will provide all the information that the Anthony Nolan Trust require, and can be taken at your local hospital. It is extremely unlikely that you’ll be required immediately; years may elapse, indeed many potential donors are never required at all. Do register though! The more that do, the more will survive. Let me also make clear that if you’re a match for someone, donating bone marrow is a lot less traumatic than receiving it! For donors it’s one night in hospital and a short procedure with local anaesthetic. At most it’s a day or two with a sore hip, small price for saving a life. To register you must be 18 or over, weigh over 8 stones, and be in general good health. It costs nothing to register. You can arrange to register by contacting the Anthony Nolan Trust:

The Anthony Nolan Bone Marrow Trust
The Royal Free Hospital
Pond Street, Hampstead
London NW3 2QG

www.anthonynolan.com

email: kayc@anthonynolan.com

Telephone: 0990 111533

I’d also like to take this opportunity to remind everyone of the importance of donating blood. I used tons of the stuff during my treatment, and I feel guilty that I never donated. I can never do so now, because of my recent medical history, so I’ll do my bit by encouraging everyone else to do so. To find out when and where to give blood call 0345 711 711 or visit www.blooddonor.org.uk/

Thanks for reading this far. Please register, and encourage everyone you know to do likewise.

shoes@clara.co.uk