Often, it’s the toughest encounters that gift us the greatest life lessons – ones whose experiences help guide us through the next venture. But, we will never experience those great life lessons, if we never show up to stuff. Even in the worst of life’s times.

I can still recall that disconcerting feeling from simply being out on my first solo walk of the year.  I had dawdled, in somewhat a deep, drifting thought, up to the muddy cornfields behind the house, crops not yet budded, streaks of morning grey and damp brown for miles up ahead.  I had set myself the challenge of walking 870 miles; the total length of Wales’ coastal path, all to raise money for the NHS.  I had shared this idea, so crazy at the time, with the world; turning away or backing out was not an option, now that I had started.

It will seem insignificant to most, but for me, this was big.  It was my first outing unaided since the Spring of 2020, far away from the bubble of the hospital ward corridor or rehabilitation room besides the physiotherapist’s gym, or the netting of using crutches or the wheelchair; both of which I had purposely tucked away in the garage.  I had gone from being that confident, high-heeled woman charging the streets of London pre-pandemic, to nervously treading scarcely beyond the homeland, like a field-mouse in those same said cornfields.  But I had to start from somewhere. 

It was weird to be walking in the ‘outside world’, ‘Bambi legs’ buckling from the weight of the dirt that I tried to tread, both the literal and metaphorical kind.  The COVID-19 pandemic had brought about a symptom of severe social anxiety, and, in my case, so had 17 months of being enclosed away by four white walls of a hospital room.  I knew I wasn’t the only one trying to navigate this strange new freedom.

But I had genuinely believed, whilst bringing in the New Year of 2022 with such hope, and in hindsight, naivety, that this would be the best year yet; after all, it couldn’t exactly had gotten any worse.  I genuinely believed that this would be the easiest part of the whole journey – the recovery, now that I was free, and back where I belonged (well, almost).  But I couldn’t have been more wrong.  In brutal honesty, 2022 turned out to be the hardest year yet.  It was a year in which my mental health, far more than my physical health it seems, had to pay the price.  And I have no shame in admitting that I am so relieved it is over.  But, it did still teach me one fundamental lesson…

Of course, it is no secret to any of us that the hardest part of any daunting task is always getting started.  And yet, whilst I had fully expected (and hoped) 2022 would embody a straight, upwards line, my progress, happiness, and return to normality nothing but linear, it was in fact nothing but one horrendously messy squiggle.  I had even resorted to drawing this absolutely chaotic lack of direction, in some hope that it might help me justify things.  But no.  Somehow, I am still trying to detangle the numerous events, decisions, and thought processes, that nevertheless has lead me to here – the final day of this difficultly tedious and confusing year.  

After 17 months of being bedridden, riddled by pain and sickness, surgeries and at the testing edges of life, a new yet rare diagnosis, and many of those months many miles away from those I loved most, I was simply left to fend for myself back out in the community, as though it was the simplest and easiest thing done; in other words, the NHS had discarded of me, the equivalent to letting out a lost, faffing fly through the small gap of a bathroom window.  I had no support, no follow-up, and no team overseeing any form or continuity of care.  And nor did my family, who, all of a sudden, became my full-time carers, already bearing the weight of an emotionally testing two years.  In fact, I had been lost from the system entirely, slipped through the gaping cracks of our broken healthcare system, another patient dithering between the shrugging shoulders of neither NHS Wales or NHS England’s responsibility.  Again, I knew I wasn’t the only one.

As for a loss in literal direction, not only had the last remaining remnants of my own health gone astray, but my ability to remember how to make a morning coffee, a previously mundane and daily task, had now also gone, along with the bathroom fly, out of the window.  I was slow to use a computer, I stared helplessly and blankly at all words and numbers, unable to digest anything, and I could go weeks, sometimes months, without seeing or speaking to anyone.  Simply put, I had become even more of a nobody.  This wasn’t what I had planned for the new chapter.

Looking back, the medical student within me now recognises that this was most likely the very tip to the downward spiral that led me to a depression – a response, rather than a symptom, to the catalogue of bad luck and neglect I had encountered.  But I also can’t help but wonder why my efforts to stop sliding down this spiral in the first place were so blatantly ignored and blind-sighted.  Deep down, I knew I had to show up, sometime, someplace, but in this new, remerging world, there was no place for me to be able to do this, or belong.  

In the first five months of this year, my days consisted of very little purpose, direction, or interaction.  Some days, my mind would race ahead of my struggling body, and on other days, my body would try its best to drag along my struggling mind.  I tried my very hardest to dissociate from my ‘old life’.  Since my new diagnoses, I now refer to myself and my life chapters as either the ‘old me’ or ‘new me’ – the once prospering, ambitious and active go-getter now just substance merely trying to survive.  I craved new beginnings and fresh company, whilst still trying to remain realistic with my new body’s abilities, accepting of the fact that I would not get any better, not unless the NHS pulled me back aboard the deck again, reining myself back in when I became too adventurous or optimistic.  But whilst the world outside carried on busying about, and my own little world remained small and still, it was difficult, even on the best of days, to know where else to go. 

It must’ve got to the point where I hadn’t seen daylight in weeks.  I refused to believe there was any hope left, let alone any point looking out the window for light.  I had become confused with myself, being otherwise the optimist and advocate for others in their struggling times.  Why then, could I not help myself?  My world and my dreams, dreams of a great career, close friendships, exciting projects, had all crashed in, no thanks to the breakdown in my care – and I felt let down, really let down.  And angry.  What’s more, my anger and resentment was directed at the very institution and service that, at the same time, I was desperate to return to as part of my career path; a future doctor.  As I have said before, Medicine is a drug – it becomes addictive, even when it makes you so miserable that it can kill.  

I spent nights down on the living room sofa, when the insomnia meant I could no longer bear the bed mattress, sobbing silently, after watching episodes of Adam Kay’s ‘This Is Going To Hurt’.  How could this all be so real?  And true?  Why am I torturing myself like this, still fighting to return to a profession that is mentally destroying us in numbers?  On a few occasions late at night, these desperately searching thoughts and questions became so bad that I reached out to some mental health charities, group chats – anything to talk to somebody.  But my tears were too late past the hour, out of office.  By the time the automated ‘Your call is important to us.  Please hold the line’ responses came back, I had already decided I was the one not being proactive enough.  I would deal with this myself.  And so the cycle continued.  

I can’t remember the exact morning or the exact day that I had a sudden shift in my mindset.  But at some point, I did wake up and consider the fact that, perhaps nothing will change until I act upon it.  Myself.  Only I could roll the blinds up if I wanted to see the sunlight.  Only I could put my shoes on and leave the house, if I wanted to walk those miles.  Only I could start enquiring and contacting people if I truly wanted to return to medical school.  Only I could do all these things again if I wanted to heal, and be happy.  So, I did.  

It was far from easy, and it was far from quick.  If anything, the waiting game – the days that turned into weeks, that turned into months, waiting to hear on other people’s decisions and answers, whilst your future was in their hands, was the most excruciating part.  It was that same familiar feeling from being that patient, waiting for the care and treatment so desperately needed.  Except, that bit never came.  In fact, I tried reapplying to other medical schools closer to home, thinking this would be more realistic, more fruitful of my time and resource, yet still a good enough compromise in me working towards my old dream.  It was something I told very few people about, as I navigated this whole emotional wreckage, alone and overwhelmed.  Over those two months, I received rejection, after rejection, after rejection.  I felt rejected.

And, two years on, my original cohort from medical school had all moved on and become doctors, living and working the dream I had dreamt for so long (though, I’d barely call it a dream anymore, given the miserable state our poor NHS workforce is now in.  The very small handful of friends I did have at medical school now all want to leave the NHS for good, and that is only after three years of being a doctor).  It meant that I knew nobody.  Two years on, and two whole years of barely speaking to anybody, let alone staying in touch, too ill to concentrate on maintaining my own awareness of whereabouts, let alone maintaining friendships.  Nobody really spoke back, anyway.  Add in the fear and pressure of reaching out on social media, scared I would be reprimanded or sanctioned by my own institutions for sharing my feelings with the online world (a reason I rarely talk on Twitter nowadays) – I simply had nobody else to reach out to.  And it was then that I realised, well and truly, I was alone in this.  If I was to find a friend, and a sole motivation, it would be within me.  

Now that I had ventured back outside, the walks became longer, which contributed well to me keeping on track of my NHS walking fundraiser.  It meant I could worry less about being alone, not needing to have to ponder hours on who to talk to and what about.  My loyal little dog, Winnie, a fluffy Cavapoo and bundle of constant joy, became my all-time company – she must’ve enjoyed the walks too.  And it gave me more time and space to occupy my frantic thoughts – the ‘what if’, ‘what now’, ‘where to’, ‘who next’, thoughts, with desperate solutions and perhaps that last little ounce of optimism, and hope, that something might just work out.  

I did, in the end, return to medical school, in June 2022.  It was, without doubt, the best day of this entire year; an achievement I thought I’d never achieve, a dream I never thought would come true.  Strangely though, my biggest fear then wasn’t about starting placements again, nor about finding my way around or if I would manage a full day on my feet physically.  My biggest fear was bumping into somebody I knew from my days as a patient, returning to learn and work in the same hospital I previously lay in as a patient.  I was still very traumatised by the many months of gaslighting, fear, and huge gaps in my care, unresolved.  I suspect this trauma will linger for many a lifetime longer.  So, when I did inevitably bump into somebody I recognised, on my way to the hospital chapel’s piano, where I used to come and play in the silence of sombre days, I simply sat there, upon the piano stool, sobbing tears in front of the piano keys, shiny and untouched.  I was angry at myself once more, yet I didn’t know why.  

I loved every moment of my hospital placements.  I threw myself into every opportunity that arose, like a starving child who hadn’t eaten in months – the clinical skills, examinations, history-taking.  Early shifts turned into late-night ones, and I was content even just volunteering to do the repetitive tasks of venepuncture and cannulation in an overflowing A&E triage.  I was there, and that was all that mattered. My scrubs gave me back my long-lost identity, and I felt empowered by the fact I wasn’t afraid to ask even the silly questions anymore – I figured that my long absence from medical school would justify my somewhat embarrassing gaps in knowledge.  But people were friendly, and welcoming, and, for the most part, I felt part of something again.  All whilst helping others. 

But, with my return also came the returning influx of questions, curiosities, doubts, and from the ruder few in society, the insults too, to how I could possibly be a doctor if I was deafblind.  I decided to approach these with as much grace as I could stand, my responses soon turning into educational misconception and myth-busting videos across social media, my earlier videos turning viral overnight, and once again, falling into the flash of a brief media storm of television interviews and news articles. 

I wouldn’t detach from my new focus though.  I had showed up, now I needed to stay.  Medical school, and study, became my sole priority.  

I never regained that trust for the very service I was working within, though.  Another drawn-out hospital admission, this time three months, over the summer, ended in an abrupt end to my acute treatment, midway through, when the fifth and final hospital (who now had the burden of treating me for sepsis, no thanks to the delay in the four previous hospitals not taking on responsibility), declared one morning on the ward-round that, despite being a specialist tertiary hospital, they could not in fact care for me because I lived outside of their catchment area.  The NHS had officially become nothing but a postcode lottery, completely disabled by financial and resource cuts, and broken staff…their patients broken even more.

Thus I met with the familiar face of doubt, uncertainty, and crippling depression, once again, perhaps now my only, (but unwanted) ‘friend’ around.  That same old fear came flooding back: ‘what if’, ‘what now’, ‘how’, ‘when’, ‘who next’…’Had I already blown my precious third chances of returning to medical school, for good?’

My ability to focus on even a small number of goals and priorities became less and less, as my return to medical school for a third time desperately became the only thing that mattered now.  Yet again, I had missed out on a brand new term, of a brand new year group – my small window of opportunity to make new friends and meet new people in this unfamiliar cohort, now also shutting on the lone faffing fly that I once again was.  I spent the next few months struggling to catch up on placements, of which I ultimately ended up finishing far sooner than anyone had expected, including myself.  My smile became my coping mechanism.  But it also became my curse.  It was one that only my patients and colleagues saw, and readers on social media.  The walls, ceilings, and closed doors may argue something different – this time from the house, rather than the hospital side-room.  

And when I did inevitably slip so far down that really, I did need a bit of input – you know, when you repeatedly ignore the car’s warning light until all is completely unavoidable, and stupid, without refilling the tank with petrol, I became angry and disappointed with myself, and my body, for being such an inconvenience, when in fact my entire situation and lack of care was the ‘inconvenience’.  By this, I had turned up to placement to triage patients, whilst a chunky Ryles tube had dislodged from my stomach and was now coiled up in my oesophagus, pressing against nerves that I did not know even existed, ‘til I could no longer physically speak or hold my head up, because the facial neuralgia was so mind-blowingly painful.  But of course, without any team caring for my case, nor having a ‘safe-place’ or ability to be treated at my local hospital, it required an 8-hour round trip to England, just to go to a suitable A&E.  I was seen quickly, tube replaced, and my complaints treated.  I was incredibly grateful, despite the ridiculousness of how far I had to go just to get basic care, before immediately making the return trip, in time for another early morning of placement the following day.  Sustainable?  I think not.  

But I learnt, just from the snippet of these past many months, that showing up was the most important thing.  What happens after that didn’t matter.  I trusted that once I had overcome my initial reluctance, or fear, whether that be fatigue or worry, or unpreparedness, I would still feel far more accomplished once I got there and got started.  That following morning turned out to be the most enjoyable of all my placements.  I’m glad I turned up.  

On a side note, for any other healthcare students who may be reading this – this was, and has been, by far the most valuable learning point, and study hack, I’ve identified to date. Showing up, asking as many questions (no matter how silly they may seem to you), and being present with every opportunity – your work and your future will become more interesting, more valuable, more enjoyable, and you will want to be there, the world and its people all becoming a little less scary with each progressing day.  Once you’ve conquered that, other people around you will notice, and the welcoming environment becomes an educational haven.  

I recognised the satisfaction in me meeting patients again, and, where appropriate, sharing my own pain through empathy and experience.  Helping others became not only my coping mechanism, but also the distraction I needed to remain distant (as neglectful as it may seem) from my own abyss of personal health struggles.  What’s more, it all gave me even more of a reason to show up; to commit to my NHS fundraiser, to study for exams, to volunteer as a Community First Responder for the Ambulance Service, to apply, and be successfully selected, to become a scholar in the global Healthcare Leadership Academy Programme, to become involved in both my capacities as a medical student and patient advocate in a cause that’s expanding the work of those in Rare Diseases – all things I ultimately may never have done, if I hadn’t decided that one miserable morning in March to open the blinds, get my shoes on, and walk the cornfield alone, for the first time.  

I am dressing up for the first time this year – on the eve of 2023.  I’m not going anywhere, nor am I leaving the house.  To be quite frank, I prefer loungewear and loose hair buns to high heels and tight dresses.  But, like they often say, it’s about showing up to the party that matters most – and when it’s all about showing up, 2022 has certainly been some kind of…party.  I’ll be doing the same going into the New Year – getting out and seeing what our third chances entail.  So tonight?  Black for the bad days, gold for the good days, and sparkly, because I have a feeling the future is looking bright.

I’m glad I showed up again.

Happy New Year all x