The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1455 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I slept eventually because I think they put something in the drip, until then I heard the nurses come in and check on me, once or twice they gave me a little drink–but no food. I suppose they were worried about having to operate or possibly that I’d decorate their bed for them.

I awoke lying on my back and feeling alone and frightened. I had no idea what time it was or where I was. I heard a nurse enter–I presumed it was a nurse–and I asked her the time. A male voice answered, “Four a.m. go back to sleep.” I asked for a drink and he held the straw to my lips.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked him.

“Sure, can’t promise to answer though.”

“I think you’ll be able to answer this. Where am I?”

“Southampton General Hospital, neurology ward.”

“Oh,” that wasn’t what I was expecting–I lived in somewhere or Sussex, was it Sussex? Can’t remember. “Can you tell if I’m a man or a woman?”

“Look, luv, I’m not sure what’s happened to your head but you are most definitely female.”

“Oh, okay, thank you.”

“That’s okay, why the uncertainty?”

“I thought I was a bloke before I woke up here.”

“Well if you were someone must have touched you with a magic wand, because I’ve never seen hips like yours on a bloke. I helped to lift you on to the bed yesterday–now go back to sleep.”

“No chance of a cuppa, is there?”

“Oh alright, but don’t tell anyone or they’ll shoot the pair of us.”

“That’s okay, you sound a nice person to die with.”

“Eh? I’m not planning on dying for a long time yet, luv.”

A little later he came back with the tea and sat me up in the bed and I drank from a mug which I held in both hands. I felt almost human again–if not the right sex. I fell asleep sitting up and was disturbed by someone telling me they were going to wash me. It was a young woman by the sound of her voice.

“You’re getting some lovely bruises coming out,” she said.

“Am I?” I asked.

She handed me the cloth to wash my groin and breasts–they felt tender, especially on one side. She then wiped my face. “Your face is black and blue, air bag I suppose.”

“No idea, can’t even remember having a car–you sure I didn’t come off a bike?”

“The report says you were cut out of a Porsche Cayenne, up near Salisbury.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“Not for you.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You’re only married into one of the richest families in Britain.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, the Cameron’s, they own a bank or something.”

“That must be a mistake.”

“They don’t seem to think so. You’ve got cards and flowers from several of them, as well as from your children.”

“I haven’t got children.”

“You have and you were breast feeding the youngest, so we’ll have to extract some milk or you’ll lose it.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry–it doesn’t hurt–it might a bit because you’re a bit bruised.”

“But I’m a bloke, how can I breastfeed anything?”

“Look let me get the breast pump–it might all come back to you later, and then you’ll regret losing your milk.” I sat there and shut up, no one was listening to me anyway, so I thought I’d keep quiet and be thought a fool.

She came back and stayed with me for about fifteen minutes while the machine buzzed away. “Looks okay, I’ll get it checked out and next time we can send it to the prem baby unit, they’re always looking for breast milk.”

Oh well, I was being useful in some respects. I was taken for another scan and they told me the swelling was coming down and hopefully I’d be able to see in a day or two–unless the optic centre was damaged. Wonderful, so I sit here in the dark–actually it isn’t dark–I can see light. I put my hands in front of my eyes–it was darker, and then lighter when I removed them–I hoped I was getting my sight back.

A new voice entered my room, “Hi, Lady Cameron, I’m Dr Sylvia Pascoe, I’m a psychiatrist–we’ve got your previous medical history from Portsmouth, including a report from Dr Anne Thomas–ring any bells?”

“No, who’s she?”

“Your psychiatrist, seems she supervised your transition from male to female.”

“You mean I changed sex?”

“That’s what it means, you also got legal reassignment and got married to Lord Cameron and adopted seven children.”

“Seven children?”

“That’s what it says.”

“I don’t actually like children.”

“It seems you did, because they have you assessed as being a very good mother.”

“Mother–oh shit.”

“Lady Cameron–are you alright?”

I felt quite woozy–I’m a mother? Yeah, I know that guy, Simon, told me but I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t. What a situation to be in–here I am in bloody Southampton, living someone else’s life or should that be wife? It’s like some spooky story about body swaps–oh and I appear to be blind.

“No I’m in hospital–people who are alright tend to avoid them.”

“Very true, so what is wrong with you–as you see it?”

“Apart from seeing a psychiatrist, you mean?”

“You resent me seeing you?”

“Not really, it’s just news to me that I saw one before–a bit like this body, a husband I don’t recognise, and a whole school full of kids.”

“What can you remember?”

“Not much–I think I’m a biologist or something like that and I think my name is Charlie Watts–but anyone else or anything else–has gone. Like my sight and I am scared.”

“They’re hopeful that might return, like your memory.”

“Might isn’t good enough, is it?”

“I’m sorry. May I ask you, don’t you find it odd that you claim to be a man yet you have a woman’s voice and talk like one?”

“Do I? Maybe they altered my vocal cords.”

“Not according to your records.”

“Do you not hear it as a female voice?”

“I dunno, possibly–I don’t know what I think anymore.” I felt tears run down my face–what was I going to do? I wasn’t sure I’d cope with all this handicap–I either run away, and I can’t do that until I can see, or I live someone else’s life. What a choice?

“You’re upset, I’ll call and see you tomorrow.”

“That’s more than I can you.”

“I’m sorry, unfortunate turn of phrase–however, I’m brunette, five foot four, brown eyes and about eight stone.”

“Thank you, what about me–what do I look like?”

“A bit the worse for wear at the moment–you’re a red head, shoulder length hair, green eyes, not counting the bruises, they say five foot six and about eight stone seven.”

“That’s a bit light for a bloke?”

“You aren’t one any more, you’re a woman named Cathy. I know it’s hard to take on board at the moment but trying to deny it is only going to make things harder–believe your friends and family, they’ll guide you back to your life. I have to go, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you then.”

“That would be good,” she said and I heard the footsteps recede into the distance.