Flu notes.

a mother walks in to the doctors

I went to the doctor a few days ago.

My first time in the Liverpool, visiting my new GP. In London I never met the same GP twice, so I was surprised when I was told at the practice that this doctor would now be My Doctor.

I rang the surgery in an uber on the way to an urgent walk in centre, assuming I would not be able to get an appointment with my GP, but I got through quickly and was given an appointment 30 minutes later. I had to pay for the uber to turn back and apologised for coughing in his car. He was very nice. He had a school photo of two children on his dashboard. A nice father, I thought, keeping his kids at the forefront of his mind even when he’s driving a random coughing woman dressed in pyjamas around in a circle.

In London, I would set the alarm for 7.59am and be ready to ring the surgery as soon as it hit 8am. I would get through and be told by an automated voice I was number 29 in the queue. The music they played while waiting in the queue was so annoying, closer to a drilling than classical music.

The music they played in the queue for the Liverpool surgery was more like Hits Radio. The receptionist, when I got through, was cheery. No anger????

It’s all so different up here! I like it!

I was expecting my doctor to say why are you here if you think you’ve got flu, you should be at home not infecting our waiting room, but she was sympathetic when I explained my symptoms and then smacked me with a question: what do you do for a living?

She was trying to work me out as well as my symptoms.

It may have been my fever or the dehydration, but I panicked. It was agony enough to talk though my ulcers so I thought the quickest route would be to say dismissively Just A Mother rather than hair content creator and failed actress.

She said ah the mother is the hardest job of all! and I did a rather pathetic and neutral hmmmmmmm.

She continued I had mine and then handed them over to childcare the second I could and was back here 8am every morning. I just said “keep them alive” and went back to work. I liked it that way. Children leave but your vocation stays.

My panic grew. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. That I approve of working mothers? That she did it right? That yes, silly me, I have nothing to live for apart from my children and I’ll be alone soon once they’re done with me?

She checked the back of my throat and said wow that’s red and I felt relieved that we were back to diagnosing why the fuck I’ve felt like death for weeks. I wanted to stay on track – am I dying? – but then she asked how many kids I have.

For a moment I wanted to say 8. 8 kids. If I had 8 kids then it would be understandable that I’m Just A Mother, that I’m run down. I considered making some random reference to Christ so that she could blame my religion for the number of offspring. Give her Christ and she can boil me down to religious quirky woman, needs more sleep.

But I was honest. I said 4.

oh that’s the same number as me, I have 4. And let me tell you the best sleep of my life was when the youngest left at 22.

A few things crossed my mind at this point.

The first was 22? 22? Why did they leave at 22? That seems a bit late? Or is that too early? When do I envisage my children “leaving” and when they leave is it for good? Will they find their way back? Surely my sleep will worsen when they out in the world, with all the risks and danger and decision making for themselves – why did she sleep better only once they were gone? I feel so at peace at night once we’re all in bed, under the same roof, it’s probably the only peace I feel in the day.

And then finally – I judged her. I’m sorry to say that I judged her. I thought….why have 4? Why have 4 if all you want to do is work and then wait for them to leave?

This was wrong of me because of course, I’m not factoring in the time that she was not working and having weekends and holidays and precious moments with her offspring. I’m not factoring in the peace she must feel with the knowledge she’s providing them a good role model, doing such an incredible job and service and fulfilling her own potential as a doctor and professional, having given her own children a good start in life to create their own worthy paths.

Perhaps, like me, she had 4 because she was fascinated with the medical feat of pregnancy and creating a human and learnt invaluable lessons with every pregnancy that could enable her to be a better doctor.

I realise that I face judgement for having 4 children every day.

In this climate four children might seem excessive– each child stamping their own carbon footprint. I guess I judge myself daily. But then my kids do something incredible, and I have such hope that they will do something brilliant for the world, and I don’t feel bad at all for having so many.

My eldest has worked so hard for the last two years and just passed his 11+ exams. I’m so proud of him and my first response was he could be a doctor! He could cure cancer! My daughter looks into the mirror singing Billie Eilish songs and her facial expressions evoke such joy and pain that I know she will be create something one day that will heal someone like she heals me.

You lose your identity for a bit after becoming a mother, that’s what everybody says, right? I suppose that’s true. But I’ve formed a new one with each child, I’m a different mother to each of them. and when I’m sick? I question everything. I worry I won’t ever get better, that I won’t have energy to run or to hoover or to sort out my desk or hard drives. I can’t imagine eating a massive meal – which is a small tragedy – but eating a massive meal is one of my main pleasures in life! I don’t remember what clothes I wear outside, I don’t remember waking up and not wanting to scream. I don’t remember just feeling fine. I don’t remember me.

Why didn’t I tell the truth when she asked what I did?

Perhaps it’s guilt that I’m not a doctor, like my parents (and one or two of my siblings)? That I haven’t changed the world? Sometimes I don’t bother answering the truth if I know I’ll never see that person again. But I will see this doctor again.

I realised that I lose a little bit more of myself every time I lie about what I do, or every time I don’t own my achievements.

While I was sick, my mum came to visit.

She’s currently emptying our family storage unit – and every time she comes to Liverpool, she brings up another batch of my childhood/teenage belongings. There are a staggering number of sketchbooks and diaries and I’ve spent my time in my bedroom this week laying them all out on the floor and wading through them. My writing started early! In my Britney spears diary! And I’m still going now, on substack.

I’ve written since I was 11. I’ve filled enough diaries and notebooks to get to the moon.

and I’m fucking proud of that. It may not save lives, but it’s my job, and I’m constantly trying to find ways of progressing as an artist.

Also?

I’m proud to be a mother, and I’m proud that being a mother is what takes up most of my time.

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