see doctors on their breaks, as they grab a bite to eat at the small store across the lobby. I see a middle-aged woman dabbing her cheeks as she flees the place. I see a father and daughter, a patch over the little girl’s eye, as they select a gingerbread man and move towards the counter.
It makes me think of my father and his larger-than-life presence, as if he had to make up for the loss of my mother by facing life with twice the personality. I was so young when it happened that I don’t remember her, but I wonder if I ever had moments like that with him. Whether, before he died, I was his little girl rewarded for being brave. I wish on this little girl’s behalf that she gets to keep this memory. That this moment stays alive for her.
I wish it was like that for me too. Only all those memories have been blocked out, overtaken by another. It’s only my father’s dying that I remember with the greatest clarity.
I’m not the only one with death on their mind here. You can see it on too many faces. The patients, the relatives, the doctors, the porters. But there is also hope. The cures, the second chances, the new beginnings. The people drift in and out without saying hello to each other. Maybe a nod of acknowledgement, a smile in greeting. They’re like the blood cells that are knocking alongside each other in this main artery of the hospital.
I wonder for a moment which department is the heart of the place. Is it the cardiology ward that I am heading to? Perhaps it’s the intensive care unit where they are attempting to revive the sickest patients. Or the management suite where all the important decisions are made.
As I reach the end of my hot chocolate, relishing the delicious sweetness, I realise that perhaps there isn’t one heart in a place as huge as this. I reckon the heart of this place lies in the staff rooms. It’s hidden in a coffee cup every day as the people running this place restore themselves and find the strength to do it all over again.
The end of my drink also signifies the end of any procrastinating. I take my heart rate and revel in the beat, noticing its rhythm is not dissimilar to the beat of people coming in and out of the hospital doors.
We are both alive, this hospital and I.
The thought gives me the strength to do what I need to, even though it’s the first time I’m having to venture to the coronary care unit. The other studies I run normally involve participants who are well enough to attend the laboratory at the university campus. My PhD study is different. It requires baseline readings from subjects while they are in hospital and looks to increase their nitric oxide levels in the recovery stage of broken heart syndrome in the form of beetroot juice. Whenever I try and explain the study in any depth, there are two responses: glazing over or the questioning gaze, wondering if I’ve gone mad. But there is genuine evidence to say the juice may help certain heart conditions and I’m hoping to go some small way to see if it helps with broken heart syndrome. If the study goes well then it is my ultimate hope that it will secure funding to test the theory on a much larger scale, understanding how to stop hearts from ballooning into breaking.
Even though the university and the hospital are linked, until starting my PhD, I’ve done my best to avoid Southampton General in every capacity. For a thirty-one-year-old I’m in good health and I do everything I can to keep it that way. Pulse-taking is just the icing on the cake. I use the university gym at least three times a week. I eat a balanced diet and ensure I rarely eat trans fats or anything that studies have shown are bad for the heart. I’m teetotal and even the notion that the occasional glass of red might be good for you hasn’t altered my stance. I don’t smoke. I avoid red meats. I am distinctly void of bad habits.
In short, I’m boring. I like to maintain the norm. I have a structure that I live by and like to remain within. I used to tussle with this, as if it was somehow a problem. But as I’ve become older I’ve realised there’s a silver