Thirty

Six months after turning twenty, I nervously tucked my summer dress under my bum, sat down on a wipe-clean plastic chair in an airy office in the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and waited to be told the results of a recent liver biopsy and ultrasound scan. That appointment heralded the end of my up-to-then ‘normal’ life. With a diagnosis of an autoimmune condition, which had progressed to irreversible cirrhosis, I quite honestly wasn’t sure I would make it to thirty. Wikipedia, after all, had me in the grave by twenty-three.

Halfway through my twenties, I spewed up blood at 3am on a February morning and thought, this is it. This is how I die. There have been a few moments – weeks of perniciously elevated liver enzymes despite a barrage of steroids, an outbreak of shingles, a brush with heat stroke, to name but a few – which, combined with a fondness for melodrama, had me organising the order of service at my funeral (we’ll play Get Lucky, with nobody dressed in black, just FYI).

Yet here I am, soon to be blowing out thirty candles, thanks to some insanely clever people who discovered some insanely clever (but side-effect-ridden) drugs, the pharma companies who make them, the doctors who prescribe them, and the nurses who slide needles into my veins a la Mark Renton to confirm the drugs are, indeed, working. Credit goes especially to Sheila Sherlock, Gertrude Elion, and whoever worked out rubber bands are more effective than injecting poison to eradicate varices in the gut. A shout out also to Ali (Mac)G, Tim, and Andrea, who will never read this but feature highly in the list of people I respect the most.

What have I learned in those three decades? I’ve learned that I need to keep learning, because every pearl of wisdom garnered turns out, approximately six months later, to be a Primark imitation. Maybe the first step towards Buddha-esque wisdom is accepting that you know very little; my paradigm shifts more flexibly than Mick Jagger on stage. But, as I’m more reflective than a newly fitted Velux window, here’s a summary of what I think I’ve learned. A letter to my twenty-year old self, sitting in that plastic chair and gripping my first ever script for prednisolone, if you will.

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Your parents are the two most supportive and hard-working people you will ever know. Yes, keep challenging everything they read in the Scottish Daily Mail, but go easy on them, because you lucked out on the parent lottery, and even you agree it’s got a good crossword.  Your sister is a more rounded version of you, with a hefty chunk less cynicism. Sibling telepathy exists. These three people will sympathise with your predicaments, locate the Kleenex when you cry, challenge you when you’re being unreasonable and let you off with not doing the dishes. Never take them for granted. And be thankful for dogs, too.

There is more to life than work, and you should probably chill out a bit more, but continue to give everything your best shot. Attending a hospital appointment to discuss neutropenia is more important than attending a meeting to discuss supply chains in Saudi Arabia. Don’t stress too much about finding the ‘dream’ job; it doesn’t exist. Be enthusiastic, be eager to learn, be polite and know your worth. You may question the meaning of life after sending your eightieth email in a day, but when you’re lying in a hospital bed, you’ll give anything to hear that little Outlook chime on a drizzly Monday morning at 8am.

Ignore LinkedIn. In fact, ignore social media generally. Comparison is the thief of joy, you have perfectionist tendencies, and the grass is always greener on the other side. This unholy alliance means Instagram is not good for you.

Every single person you meet has something interesting about them, you may just need to dig to find it. Compliment random strangers – it might feel weird at first, but the joy in seeing someone’s face light up when you say you like their cardigan is genuinely priceless. That said, you don’t need to like everyone nor make them like you – even if a tiny part of your soul dies if you can’t win them over. Try hard not to hold grudges. As Grandad would sing, que sera, sera.

Do not swipe right just because he wears those little round tortoiseshell glasses which you inexplicably and incorrectly believe makes said wearer intelligent. Don’t be so easily impressed by someone working in Guy’s & St Thomas’ or Whitehall or – heaven forbid – someone with a star neck tattoo who can play the guitar. Be suspicious of anyone who screws up their nose at ABBA. Dating apps are awful. (Although, you will date some interesting characters e.g. the man with his tales of partying with Jessica Simpson in L.A. Little did he know you were already mentally rewriting Shania’s hit to include a verse about his PhD in law  – Okay, so you own three flats in Stockbridge? That don’t impress me much.)

If the most stressful event in your day is when someone doesn’t thank you for stopping in your car whilst they pass in theirs, then life is going well.  Any day you’re not getting an endoscopy is a good day. Even endoscopies could be worse; sedation is the closest you’re ever going to get to being high.

Anyone who says you could be doing better than what you’re doing, or that you’re too good for something/somewhere, is well-meaning. But only you know the full story of what’s going on in your life, and the motivations for your decisions. You conceal the bad bits better than Touché Eclat, so take their advice with a barrel of salt.

Stop focussing on yourself and your problems. Everyone has uncontrollable problems: you’re ultimately in control of how you react to them. Aye, life can be a bit shite, but read Viktor Frankl and Anne Frank, get a bit of perspective, stop wallowing in self-pity, and get on with it.

Losing your hair will seem like your world is collapsing like sand through your fingers, and it is the watershed moment dividing the ‘illness-free’ and ‘illness-filled’ eras of your life. But being able to change your hair multiple times in a day is fun. And seeing people’s reaction when you tell them you wear wigs is equally entertaining. Being outwardly vulnerable is a strength.

Likewise, being told you can’t drink will seem like a death knoll on your social life when you’re twenty, but you’ll soon understand why this is a mere footnote on the gastroenterologist’s long list of concerns. In the words of Jay-Z, you’ve got ninety-nine problems, but sobriety is not one. You have a fantastic excuse to leave shite parties early, to never waste a Sunday lying hungover in bed, and to not have to pretend you like Jagerbombs. Anyone who has a problem with accepting you don’t drink (and make a point of saying you don’t, rather than can’t – it is still a choice) most likely has a problem themselves. But don’t point this out.

Your knees will forever be insulated by that stubborn layer of fat, no matter how much bread you cut out of your diet or how many lunges you do before bed. It’s your body’s way of being permanently prepared to return to Northern climes. You will also always have cankles, but then so does Hilary Clinton and she’s done alright. Skinny trousers and skirts above the knee don’t suit you, and you can’t walk in heels. Sit up straight, shoulders back.

Paying more for things doesn’t necessarily equate to better quality. Staying at the Balmoral may well include an in-room Nespresso machine, but what use is this when there is a distinct absence of biscuits? The Travelodge in Motherwell gives you custard creams and bourbons. Be frugal but be generous with those who deserve it. And set up a reminder to pay your car tax.

There will always be someone prettier, smarter, skinnier, more tanned, richer, more sophisticated, and infinitely cooler than you. Take the converse of each and this will also be true. Just be happy with being you. Liking Berlin, Bon Iver and Cartier-Bresson does not make you a hipster, it just makes you pretentious. Alas, you will never be a hipster; you were born in Nairn.

Be nice to everyone unless they’re a complete arsehole, but even then, be the better person and move on. Whatever life throws at you, in the words of the great Daniel Bedingfield, you just gotta get thru this.

You will be glad to have had your heart broken, because in a roundabout way each time it happens, it propels you onwards to meeting some of the most amazing people. Listen to Bob Dylan when you are heartbroken; they’ve just kinda wasted your precious time, but don’t think twice, it’s alright. Whilst you will frequently lose faith in the male sex, the universe will occasionally sprinkle your life with decent men to remind you that they aren’t all idiots.

Stop buying lifestyle magazines; nobody can realistically afford lamps from Anthropologie. Subscribe to The Big Issue. Read The Guardian and then The Spectator and continually challenge your thoughts on everything. Read, read, read. Listen. Stay curious and ask questions – at work, during blood tests, on guided tours.

Open an ISA and put money in a pension. Respect the person who serves the meal in restaurants and the person who cleans the desks at work. Make your bed in hotels. Make people’s life a bit easier where you can. And put a bit more money in that pension.

If you’re sad, YouTube the Riverdance 1994 Eurovision interval act, or the Lay All Your Love on Me scene from Mamma Mia (that key change – chef’s kiss), or Jay doing the Misirlou jive on Strictly, then go for a walk and have a cup of tea. You’ll probably feel better.

Enjoy having an appetite. Enjoy being able to walk. Enjoy not being in pain. Eat as many Percy Pigs and Maltesers as you bloomin’ well want.

Being single might, at times, feel like the loneliest place to be in the world, but remind yourself that so, too, can being in a relationship.

The peak achievement of your twenties will be a close call between learning how to bleed a radiator and the moment when you realise you can officially sing the Independent Women verse: the shoes on your feet, the clothes you’re wearing, the rock you’re rocking (albeit from M&S), the watch you’re wearing, the house you live in, the car you’re driving, they all depend on you. That fact is both terrifying and liberating.

Be aware of your privilege. Be less judgemental and more empathetic. Mute the constant commentary in your head from time to time. Avoid fake tan, you are meant to be one shade up from cool blue. Exercise. Drink more water, your kidneys put up with enough as it is with the tacrolimus. Wear your SPF 50. Keep trying to be better than you were yesterday.

There are a million more things I could write but I know you’ll read this again a month after turning thirty, cringe, and disagree with half of the sentiments, so I’ll stop.

Above all, keep smiling.

Kirsty x