Full Circle in a Broken Britain: Kittens, Cold Snaps & NHS Chaos

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Winter in the Waiting Room: Kittens, Cold Snaps, and Full Circles

So, finally, I’m doing the whole hospital and doctor loop thing again. After much faffing about, I’ve managed to change hospitals let’s see if these new faces actually listen, or if it’s just the same NHS pantomime with slightly different costumes. The cold weather’s rolling in and, trust me, my spasticity is giving me absolute hell. Straightening up bits of my body now takes longer than the average GP appointment so, this winter, it’s bed-bound most of the time, because who can afford to run central heating in the new, improved Broken Britain? Makes you wonder if we’re all just meant to relive the “good old days” of struggling with sod all, forty-odd years ago. Funny how life goes more full circles than a washing machine.

And speaking of full circle, it’s 41 years this year since I got down on one knee in Otley by the monument and proposed to Albertine. Loud as a foghorn and just as subtle. Best bloody thing I’ve ever done, hands down. Now, on the anniversary, I’m gearing up for another round of medical circus tricks: off to get a heart monitor fitted for seven days joy of joys. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll actually read my notes this time. God knows, I’ve written enough of them. If the neurology and cardiology departments ever joined forces, maybe they’d even work out what the hell’s actually going on, and I could retire from being on 24-hour “ambulance alert.”

Instead, I’m left dealing with the vagus nerve going full Chernobyl, sending me into another autonomic dysfunction attack. By the time the ambulance turns up, of course, I’m done with the attack and left trying to convince whichever harassed medic is on duty that I’m not, in fact, an attention-seeking hypochondriac. Try explaining the weirdness of your body to doctors and you’ll get the “Google Doctor” eye roll especially if you use the same language they use. Pro tip: NHS staff hate AI, except when they’re using Google to look up what’s wrong with you. Ludicrous.

This morning, it’s a proper arctic frost out there every car iced up, the world glinting like a badly frosted Christmas cake. The kittens are running riot in the lounge, using the sofa as their own private Thunder dome, which is the only thing making me laugh. Meanwhile, I’m keeping my power chair battery topped up because the cold’s killing the range faster than you can say “Mobility Motability means nothing.” Nothing worse than being ready to go out, only for the chair to die and say, “Nice try, mate. Not today.”

So, it’s off to the chemist in the machine of death (Rusty One) for my weekly prescription pilgrimage. Albertine reckons the van will start; I have my doubts. Why I can’t get more than a week’s worth of tablets at once is a question for the ages. Maybe it’s a secret NHS tactic to get me out of the house. Either way, it’s still freezing and my hands are so cold I could play castanets with my own knuckles. Temperature regulation? Gone to pot like everything else.

OT’s been and gone apparently, next year I get a new wheelchair, so there’s a silver lining. Rusty One, meanwhile, needs a trip to the garage, which will no doubt cost me an arm, a leg, and possibly my soul. As I write, the smoke alarm is going off (Albertine’s burned the toast), the kittens are lying on the bed with that “we run this house now” look, and my new bed has bruised my side and pulled muscles I didn’t even know existed. Standard.

And now, in today’s episode of “What Fresh Hell Is This?” the kitten has discovered blueberries. Yes, you read that right. She’s rooting them out of the container and launching them across the room like tiny fruity grenades. You’d think it was catnip. I woke up this morning with one kitten on my head and the other on my shoulder purring away like they’re trying to heal me by vibrational therapy. Honestly, it works better than half the crap the doctors have prescribed. There’s something about the frequency of that purring that really does help.

Right now, as I sit in my power chair, both kittens have gone behind the computers to play with the wires so I’m just waiting for the grand finale: either “dead kitten moment” or “there goes my computer.” Albertine hands me the remote and I grin music, even when it’s Deathly Hallows chart stuff, makes the world a bit less deathly. The beat goes on, the kittens plot my doom, and I’m just trying to stay warm, upright, and very much alive.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

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