Hello, beautiful readers!
I fractured my tibia last week. You’d think, with a history in the army and a year of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu under my belt, I’d have collected a few battle scars. Instead, a simple hyperextension turned my tibia into a cracked riverbed. When it snapped, I collapsed to the floor in utter silence. My goth tendencies naturally channelled my pain into a zen-like state of inner brooding. It’s not a skill I learned, more like a grim instinct to will the agony out of my body. Despite my meditation, the pain had me grinding my teeth like an anxious vampire at noon.
### The Immediate Aftermath: Immobilisation and Desperation
Fast forward an hour, and I’m sprawled on my bed, immobilised. My boyfriend, bless him, called an ambulance because my knee looked like it had swallowed a bowling ball. The paramedics arrived and offered me gas and air. For those of you who haven’t tried it, it feels like being delightfully tipsy at a Victorian séance. Being almost three years sober, I was reluctant to inhale it fully. But as they tried lifting me onto the stretcher, I inhaled so deeply I half-expected to summon a bartender.
### The Ambulance Ride: Floating Conversations and Surreal Moments
In the ambulance, the gas and air had me floating like a ghost. I became quite chatty, discovering that the ambulance driver was also ex-army, and we had served abroad in the same country. Small world, right? By the time we reached the hospital, I was on another plane of existence entirely from the gas and air. Apparently, I was using my fingers to flash "W" signs, yelling "WESTSIDE, MUTHERFUCKERS!" to a bewildered crowd at the entrance. To this day, I’ve no idea where that came from.
### The Long Wait: Pain, Patience, and the NHS Crisis
After a painfully long 16-hour wait, a doctor finally saw me and confirmed my tibia was fractured. They graciously administered morphine — the holy grail of pain relief. Up until then, I’d only had two codeine pills for comfort, and watching people in dire conditions around me made me hesitant to complain. One poor soul arrived with blue lips and chest pains and wasn’t seen any quicker. The NHS is hanging by a thread, my friends.
### Revealing My Identity: Trans Realities in Medical Spaces
When discussing surgery, I informed the doctor I am trans, in case it mattered to the anaesthetist. This brought back memories of a Zurich escapade where I woke up in a hospital after being spiked or overdosed, and the confused staff tried to make sense of my blood test results. Fun times for another blog entry!
### The Ward: Morphine, Misunderstandings, and Marginalisation
Later, while in my ward, a nurse approached to check if I had undergone full surgery since it was a women’s ward. Picture this: I’m high on morphine, exhausted from pain, and now being asked about my surgical history in the downstairs department. I confirmed, and she said that was fine, explaining the doctor had requested her to ask. This left me feeling like shit, to put it mildly. I couldn't help but think about other trans individuals in similar situations. What happens to those who haven’t or can’t have full surgery? Do they get whisked away to a male ward? Or perhaps shuffled to a private room away from the so-called normal humans?
### Systemic Challenges: Reflecting on Trans Healthcare
When I got home a few days later. My post-hospital research led me to headlines like 'Trans Women to Be Banned from Female NHS Wards, as Steve Barclay Insists ‘Tories Know What a Woman Is.’' This grim reality has me longing for simpler times with loved ones and friends. You can't underestimate how important it is to have other people from the community in your friendship group.
### A Call to Community: Seeking Kinship and Understanding
I’d love to hear your thoughts on this tale. Reach out to me on social media, kindred spirits. I’m weary of battling merely to exist and yearning just to live authentically, with a hint of dark elegance.
With love and gratitude,
Aeris Houlihan
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