And the Daylight and the City Part...

Something that I've had to make my peace with over the past year is that things may change when I'm asleep.

I don't just mean the light in the sky, the temperature, noises outside or the hands on the clock. I mean, more often than not, I wake up, walk out of my bedroom and may very well be met with something that wasn't there the night before. Might be something on the floor, something broken, something moved, or a pile of vomit.

Don't panic.

I have a cat.

Well, more accurately, I live with a demon called Vincent.

Strange name for a cat, I know, I've been informed. 

However, when I was first made aware that I was moving from my studio in the sky to a ground floor, one bedroom, flat, all I could think was, "I could get a cat!" I could have easily gotten a cat before but I didn't think it was fair to force an animal to live in - basically - one room. Also, I lived two floors up and had windows that opened outwards from the bottom. My ex-boyfriend had a cat and he always said to me, "Don't walk away from an open window, she'll jump out of it." I remember being confused as hell - that was three flights up, she'd kill herself, doesn't she know that? Apparently not. I also remember lying in his bed by the window one day, half-asleep, and he walked out of the room. Not a second after I had started the thought, "Didn't he say not to walk away from an open window?", did the sound of his jogging footsteps come running back. As I turned in the bed he caught the cat mid-air, jumping either up onto the window, or straight out of it. So, I figured that two-flights up would be a sure bet, especially with all the other cats running around just begging to be chased.

I thought I could get a ground floor flat and just let the cat out, let it do outside-cat things, and then be happy when it came back every evening so two. The same ex-boyfriend had an aunt live two floors below him and she had a cat. However, there was a short half-flight of stairs up to her landing, making her windows about 0.75 stories high, so she would let her cat out in the morning and let him in at night, and if he wasn't there to be let in then he came back the next day. I could never understand how she was so relaxed about this - I knew I would have been frantic. 

Anyway, that particular musing went to shit, even after I acquired said cat, when my landlord stated that cats weren't allowed to be outside as they ruined the wildlife, plants and generally caused complaints. This being despite the number of cats in the area allowed outside. I was disappointed and wasn't sure it was fair on the cat, despite was vets said, and yet, now, I am convinced it's the best thing for him... because he's an idiot.

My mate gifted me the little guy when I said that I was going to get a cat as she knew someone who was trying to house two kittens that had been unceremoniously dumped on her doorstep by their unwilling - far too young - mother. They were flea-bitten and covered in worms and she could not, at that moment, give them what they needed. So, with all of my very correct wisdom, declared that I would rather have a boy cat as they were known to be a lot more laid back.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

No.

Not this one.

The reason this is of interest to you is that I often walk into a room that looks like a hurricane has danced through it - a small, ginger and white, aggressive as fuck, hurricane. But sometimes, I walk into a room that looks just how I left it... almost.

Sometimes I know something has changed but I don't know what. Something is off and my mind is going through all of the continuity Polaroids it took before it went to bed. And usually it is one of the caps off of the bottom of my blinds is missing, or a coaster has disappeared, or the toy that sits on his cat tree is no on the couch, or - recently - there's great chunks of plaster out of my walls. 

Don't ask.

But I'm sure we've all had that feeling, looking at something and knowing something is off. Something is missing or has been moved. Something is wrong with this picture.

I never expected it to happen at the hospital.

Last week, I had to go through to Glasgow for a full-heart MRI; it happens every few years and is pretty standard for what is sometimes referred to as "my MOT". Every year, at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh, I get an Echo, ECG and meet with the spare Cardiologist. (I'm kidding - it's the cat thing, with the spare human? Never mind) But every few years I go through to the Golden Jubilee National Hospital in Glasgow for an exercise test and a full-heart MRI. Additionally, every so often, I have to wear an ECG monitor for 48 hours. All of this is standard check-up material. 

However, I have to admit to having a preference from the Jubilee, not because the care at Edinburgh is below the standard of the Jubilee, not because the staff treat me any different, not because it's a day away from Edinburgh. I think it's because, in many ways, the Jubilee gave me my life back. Obviously, they literally saved my life, there's that. Additionally, Dr Walker was the first doctor to look me in the eye when she spoke to me. Growing up in children's hospitals all of the staff speak to you, the patient, but it's to placate you, to distract you, to get what they want in that moment. They don't tell you what is happening and what is going to happen, not beyond, "sharp scratch," or, "I know, just one more second and it'll be over." Of course, they look at your parent or guardian and explain to them what is going to be happening, and that makes sense - they're the ones who need to be prepared for surgeries, after care and a whole host of other arrangements. They are also the ones who sign the consent forms. As much as it makes sense, I think they forget that it's happening to our tiny little, scared, bodies. No one asks us if it's okay, no one makes sure we understand, no one tells us that of course we're scared, it's a big, scary situation.

Even moving to the adult hospital, it was jarring in a different way. We were still talking at, instead of to, but it was with less reassuring smiles, no stickers, no lollies, no "well done"s, no "I know"s or "I'm sorry"s. It was just this is what we're doing so let's do it. And, I think anyone can understand why; it needs to be done and it's their job, they've probably done a few blood draws that day, maybe even a few operations. Even so, it felt a little impersonal. I always wanted to be less of the black sheep but I never realised that the people that worked in children's hospitals made you feel special. Not 'ew' special' but 'there she is' special.

Then I was sent to the Golden Jubilee. And I am not saying that I walked in there, got a sticker and was told I was a good girl, that would be weird. But what I did get was my autonomy back. They all looked at me when they were talking, my mum was there but she was a second, it was helpful if she understood what was happening but what mattered is that I did. I remember having a conversation with Dr Walker, in her office, when surgeries were still in the near future, my mum sat behind me to my right. She laid out what was going on inside, what they were going to do and explained it all in ways I could understand without talking down to me. She then said, "So, what do you think?" I shrugged, seemed fine to me. "What do you want to do?" she clarified. I gave her the same line I used at the hairdressers: "Whatever you think." She shook her head, "No, whatever you think, it's your body."

It was?

Up until that point I had assumed I didn't have a choice. I should have known really. When I was a kid I was terrified of needles. I'm not now because I just decided one day that I wasn't. I'm not kidding. I used to study psychology and during classes we learnt that there are only two fears that we are born with - loud noises and falling. You can actually test a baby's development by scaring them these ways; if you make a loud noise near a baby then they should react - they might cry or startle or even laugh - if they don't then they could have hearing issues; and if you hold a baby out in front of you, one hand under their bottom and one under their head and lower them slightly but fast they should react - they might open their eyes, puts their arms out, start crying - and if they don't then they may have inner ear issues. Of course, the biology of phobias is completely different and can't be wished away, but every other fear that we have is learnt... so it can be unlearnt.

And voila, buh-bye to fear of spiders, needles, the dark, enclosed spaces and others I wouldn't discover for years later - such as flying.

I also considered that if I were to have a child they'd probably have to come with me to the hospital or doctors at some point - assuming they didn't inherit my condition - and I didn't want to pass on any fears. Who would catch the spiders, for god's sake?

Anyway, getting my annual flu jag was a nightmare, until one year the doctor told me that I didn't have to have it. So, with the glares from my mother to the doctor, I practically ran out of there unprotected from the flu. Bad idea. That winter I was floored with the flu while my mum had pneumonia. I remember the doctor coming out to check on me and had to lift me up at the waist off of the floor in the living room and peel up my t-shirt to check my heart as it was stuck to me. Needless to say, I've had every flu jag I've been offered ever since.

But it never really occurred to me that that was anything more than a one-off because I had been so scared.

And yet, Dr Walker was sitting there looking at me and waiting. Because this was my choice. This was my heart that was struggling. It was my body that going to undergo all the stress and pain, it was my body that was going to be prodded, poked, bled, cut, altered and sewn back together. I could say no. I wasn't going to but suddenly I had the option. I had a say in this. My body didn't belong to the NHS, it was mine to allow things to happen to. 

I was the one having to sign forms and understand what I would have to do after. If there was an after.

I went into those operations knowing I was the one who decided to.

It was a nice feeling, one I hadn't really known I had needed until Dr Walker was gently pointing the pen she has been using to point to a diagram she drew on paper in front of her at me to emphasise her point. 

They literally saved my life and gave me back the control I'd never had - or known I'd needed - just before giving me the future I never thought I'd have. So I guess I can't be too surprised that they held a place in my heart, the whole place did. I suppose it is a bit weird to look forward to going back to a hospital but I genuinely did like going back to see them. I wasn't bothered about the exercise test or MRI - I just liked seeing the people involved in bringing about all the second phases in my life.

This time was no different. I go to the train station far too early and sat down in the Starbucks nearby to call the vet. Vincent was unwell. There had been a lot going on around my flat lately; he'd just come back from a two week visit with my friend (that was supposed to be five days) while there was work on the windows being done and drilling into the building from outside. I also decided to try and get some things in the flat fixed that I couldn't when he was there, such as touching up the wood paint. I also decided to finally put my fairy lights up. Big mistake. The little fucker was tearing off the hooks every night and every morning I would kick him out of the living room, sand and paint then glue a hook back on. When it was all dry, I'd let him back in, and that night he'd promptly do it again. Then the plaster started coming off with the hooks because apparently my cat and/or superglue can take literal plaster over bricks any day. Every day. Every damn day. So, at that point he had been kicked out of the living room for five days as I was attempting to outsmart him by filling around the hooks and painting them to look like the rest of the wall. During which, he'd vomited and hadn't pooped in twenty-four hours. 

When he was having his manhood taken away he ended up with a urinary-tract blockage, which caused him to refuse to move, refuse to eat, refuse to drink and be unable to pee. After which, I was told that it was potentially fatal for especially male cats. I would have preferred to have been told that before it happened, but okay.

So, on the early-to-being-early bus that morning I had mindlessly googled what it means if a cat has vomited and hasn't pooped. I wasn't that worried about it as, as well as my own DIY project, the works on the outside of the building were still going on, so I assumed the guy was a little stressed and a little pissed off at being kicked out of the living room. This was backed up by the fact that if I left said living room he would find me just to bite me. Nothing new, really, but usually he would pretend affection first - this was straight-up malice. 

Google told me he was dying.

Good ol' Google. 

So, I panicked myself into a call to the vet as I had to be on the early train in half an hour. I could have got the early-to-being-early train but, come on, I'm not crazy.

After being reassured that it wasn't that concerning until tomorrow morning, I got on my train and headed out to Dalmuir. I had my headphones on, book in my bag and was on my way - making a mental note to check his litter tray when I got back later that same day. I paid attention to all of the station signs, noting that not all of them had Gaelic translations underneath. I have been sort of learning Scottish Gaelic on Duolingo for about five years now and can barely even string a sentence together but I do recognise some understanding peeking out when I read the numerous translation throughout Scotland. Like at train stations. It was the only thing I could read as, even though I'm better on a train than in a car or on a bus, even looking at my phone threatens to call in my travel sickness like the book-block it is. I got off at my station and took the familiar five-minute walk to the hospital. Funnily enough, I still only know how to get there via the hotel side of it as that's how we always arrived, to check-in to the hotel for surgeries or procedures before heading into the hospital proper. So that's the way I walked.

It had been raining on and off all day and that was no different in Dalmuir by the looks of things. Thankfully, on my walk to the hospital, the rain had let up and it was a pleasant, literal, walk down memory lane. Up the railways station stairs, cross at the lights, down past flats, past the community centre, past the libarary, round at the canal lock, cross over near the Beardmore sculpture that commemorated Glasgow's previous prestige at ship-building, past the air cadets base... and that's where I noticed a change.

Houses were up where only barren land had been before, I remembered seeing fences up for construction but nothing had changed in years. Now, not only were there houses there but they were occupied. 

 

Crazy. But I knew how quickly new housing was going up in Edinburgh so I shrugged it off and kept going, past the turn off to the right for the park and... more houses. Had they always been there? They were a different colour on the outside than the new ones so I wasn't sure. Anyway, down a bit towards the round about and then across at the lights and onward to the opening of the grounds of the hotel. I noticed a lot of cars parked lining the roads leading in and out of the walled off hotel grounds. I didn't particularly register it until I got to where the car park actually began and had to stop for a woman driving around, very slowly, looking for a space. I looked around too. I didn't think she'd find one. In fact, she wouldn't, would she? Why was it so busy? Even as I thought that I could see people walking into the hotel entrance and people coming up behind me, chatting to each other. As I turned to let them past I noticed they had lanyards and tote bags.

Well, it's not called the Jubilee Conference Hotel from nothing, I suppose. I remembered the different rooms dotted around the ground floor of the hotel and knew there had been conferences in those rooms before as we had gone in and out. But this many cars with some people possibly on foot? I looked at the time and decided to walk across the grass to the edge of the Clyde.

Big mistake.

At first, I felt like I was breaking some sort of rule as people were looking at me but I'd done this before. After my last surgery I'd had to go back for a consultation with the SACCS team and had filmed a little silly video at the fence keeping you back from getting too close to the Clyde. But, as I approached the fence, I felt like it was different. The restaurant part of the hotel that lead out up to the fence was itself closed off. I couldn't remember it being like that before. But it made sense, to keep guests from running off without paying and to separate them from the front of the hotel where people might be parking up. However, I could have sworn it had started further up last time, and it wasn't quite so high.

By the time I got to the fence I regretted it completely; not only could you not see further up the Clyde due to the restaurants fence - that definitely wasn't like that before - you were relegated to a tiny few feet that was barely worth it. And my feet were wet. I had worn trainers, like an idiot, and walking across the grass had deposited the days rain on my shoes, which promptly soaked through and now I was standing not looking at the Clyde in wet socks and shoes.

I trudged back across the grass and into the hotel. It was packed with people all talking, going places, and stopped at various tables in the middle of the reception area. Now I saw that the tote bags were something to do with whatever was going on as the symbol on them matched those on banners and badges people were wearing.

First thing I needed to do was find the gift shop there and see if they had any socks. Hospital shops are usually pretty good at stocking items you might need while in hospital and might have forgotten or ran out of - shampoo, sanitary products - although, those are free in public spaces in Scotland - vaseline, tissues, moisturisers, and anything else that would slip through your mind. I thought that if they didn't have socks then they might be able to find something that would work, in the past the staff in that particular shop had been brilliant. So I walked away from the din and towards the doors into the actual hospital.

I must have walked right past it.

So I walked back the way I came.

I ended up back in the conference area.

What the-?

I took my walk back - garden of reflection, okay that was new; cafe; corridor for a department I had never needed to go to. I was sure it was before that. Toilet. Hm.

I decided to ask at the hospital's reception so I kept going and, after speaking to a lovely woman on the front desk, I found out that the little shop had closed and merged into the cafe, which was no ran by the hotel. The woman informed me as if there had been a death in the family, we went on to lament about it, as if just now realising we would never see it again. Well, I was.

As I walked away, I tried to remember if the shop had still been there the last time I was there but I couldn't even remember when that was. I retraced my steps into the cafe and looked at what was on offer - juice, crisps, bars, sanitary products, vaseline, shampoo, shower gel and books. There was a coffee bar and tables too. However, the whole thing felt clinical. It didn't feel like a hospital shop, it felt like a cafe in a hospital. Not the same thing. I huffed and left, walking into the conference centre and up to the reception desk as the staff have always been helpful before. 

After a quick look of disdain from the clerk, and something about going into Clydebank being my only option, I turned around and wandered back into the hospital. I took a left and went towards the cafeteria, my initial plan had been to grab a drink and settle down with my book for a short while before my appointment. I took a look around and caught the opening times. They closed at half past 10 and opened again at 11. Great. I headed to the toilet next to it and then wandered out, not sure where to go. It had briefly occurred to me to try and dry my offending socks and shoes in the bathroom, however there was no hand dryer so I gave up on that.

I checked in the disabled toilet roughly where the shop had been and found a hand dryer. So, there I was for the next few minutes, barefoot holding my socks and then shoes under the dryer, occasionally moving them away to stop the dryer over heating. It worked though. I walked out, thankfully not barefoot, and without wet feet.

I went back into the cafe, got a drink and crisps and sat on one of the benches in the hallway, deciding to put my audioboook on instead. I looked around as I did so, seeing that the Spiritual and Pastoral care room was still there with its "Menu for Wellbeing" sign outside, listing when it was having it's meditation slots. There was now a "Staff Quiet Zone" and "Staff Wellbeing Activity Zone", which, on reflection, shouldn't have surprised me as the hospital in Edinburgh had more of the same sort of thing. It had a Wellbeing Walk signposted in the past few years as well as pods installed inside for staff to sit and relax in, as a push towards mental health help.

In time, I went up to my appointment with a weird feeling of unrest - I wanted out of this hospital as soon as  possible and I didn't know why. Well, I did. It had changed. And I know, a fence, a cafe and a Staff Wellbeing Room was not a big deal. But it was the feel of it too. Everything was mostly how you'd expect; sculpture, hotel grounds, river, cafe, cafeteria, lifts, radiology reception, staff, signs, movement. But everything was just a little... off.

Like I had walked into a room that looked mostly how I expected it to but one thing was different and I couldn't pin down what it was.

I briefly wondered if there was some petulant part of me that felt like I should have been more pandered to, for want of a better word. And maybe that could have been it if I hadn't been there multiple times since my surgery. It is difficult when teams of medical staff assemble around your case, tell you it's nothing like they've ever seen, worry you won't survive and even tear up when it doesn't work. It can be a bit overwhelming but I was used to it, really. When you've been told your entire life that your condition is rare, that it's not going to plan and never does, and oh do you mind if there six interns sit in, they won't get another chance, it doesn't really seem like anything different to have doctors and nurses coming in and out every five minutes. So, I really wondered, am I so immature that I'm feeling this way because there's no red carpet?

Honestly, it was just an anxiety that I was rolling back to years before when I hadn't really had the health to discover more about myself than my condition that brought up the possibility. I quickly dismissed it, as I said, I've been there many times since my surgery for various tests, not always seeing a doctor afterwards, and it's never been something I've thought or felt. I liked being just another out-patient. I was there and gone in the same day. A flying visit. Sorry, I can't stay, I'm too healthy. 

But, I didn't even want to be here. I just wanted this to be over. So I went in for my MRI, after getting lost - had the corridors changed too? - and left. It didn't feel so safe and warm anymore.

As I was heading to the train station I considered that I don't really remember my times coming and going for tests. I may remember the odd snippet here and there but I couldn't even really detail them here as they all run into one. Years ago, I went to the Netherlands to visit my friend who lives there, one of many times I've gone and we took a trip to the famous Keukenhof Botanical Gardens that has approximately seven million bulbs, not all of them are tulips but enough that that tends to be what it's famous for worldwide. I also remember my friend's dad looking rather unimpressed while we were there, stating, "You've seen one tulip, you've seen them all!" And I think my brain does the same with tests at hospitals, once you've had one ninety-minute MRI you've had them all. The same can be said for my surgeries, to be honest, whilst there are things that set them apart in my memory, I do find that I can't tell you during which operation some things happened. 

I also thought, as I got to the right platform for my train, about how I had changed. Since my last MRI I've had three piercings and a tattoo, these being the changes that stood out in that moment because they had been important to the appointment. My hair was a slightly different colour and roots were long past showing, I had an undercut I was well into growing out, I had put all the weight I lost back on (yay), I had stopped swimming because I had nearly drowned and lost my confidence, I had moved flats, I had a cat who was at that moment (hopefully) pooping, my chronic pain had worsened, and the next day my mum would turn sixty years old.

I always thought about how I had aged ten years since my last surgery. I never thought about anyone else. My mum was forty-eight/forty-nine/fifty when she was washing my hair for me, Nicole was twenty-seven/twenty-eight/twenty-nine when she was listening to my doped-up drivel the night before my surgery, Stewart was tweny-eight/twenty-nine/thirty when he assured me that he hadn't eaten any of my pringles but that I did owe him the fish and chips they'd had to abandon. As I said, they all run together in my head. Dr Walker was twelve years older now than she was now when it all started, so was Mr MacArthur, Elaine, Jim and everyone else involved whose names I might have forgotten but who I hold in my memories as people that made what I was going through a hundred times easier. I have no idea the impact they had on my family.

And it never occurred to me that the Jubilee itself might change, even though of course it would. It's a hospital that has to move as medical science does, that being the reason we have breakthroughs and people surviving ailments they didn't before. It's full of people coming and going; reception staff, conference staff, cafe staff, pastors, nurses, doctors, porters, domestics, patients, family, cafeteria staff, admin staff, and so much more. 

It's a building sitting on a river that is a symbol of change itself.

At least, it was for me.