Tanya cackles. “Fuck off. I’ve been a nurse on and off for twenty years. I’m doing my job, which I’m required to do by the draft, I’m not Mother Teresa. Anyway. There’s less trolling now but trans women still get some awful comments. Saying that I should have died as the last thing the world needs is a man dressed up as a woman—it needs real men, and I should have stayed as one. Well, I’m a woman and I can’t help that a murderous Plague swept the planet leaving devastation in its wake. What the world does need is people. The point is that I understand. I’m not reading from some stupid leaflet with a useless mnemonic. I get it. How many support groups for gay men in Scotland exist now? Three. How many support groups are there for trans men and women in Scotland? I know the answer to that—it’s one. You’re looking at the person running it.”
For the first time in a long time I feel put on the spot, like I’m not doing enough, like I’ve already made a mistake. I suspect this is how people who work for me usually feel when I’m talking to them. I can’t say that I enjoy the role reversal.
“I want to change that. That’s why I’m here.”
“Then you’re going to have to work hard to recruit men and women who are empathetic, have the right life experience, have the time after whatever Working Draft jobs they’re doing. The LGBTQ community is in crisis. The gay men who have seen their social circles, lovers, lives decimated. They need help.”
I can feel myself becoming defensive even though I know, logically, it’s not a helpful response. “We’ve all been working in what felt like a war zone for so long. I couldn’t worry about people’s mental health when I was fighting to get enough gauze and antibiotics and antiseptic to keep operating rooms open and people alive.”
Tanya snorts. “Guess what, mental health also keeps people alive.”
I was going to ask if I could sit in on one of the sessions Tanya is running this evening, but I have a feeling I’m going to be given short shrift. I understand it. I’ve been a disappointment, and yet I don’t regret the choices I’ve made. I think back to the horror show Gartnavel was, not long after the outbreak. The male doctors were all dead or waiting to die. There were two doctors in the hospital then who are still alive now who, I think, knew that they were immune—a radiologist and a general surgeon. Fuck, they were busy. All the doctors were. There was a shift in the numbers of doctors in a way you didn’t have with nurses. Only 11.5 percent of nurses were male; 87.8 percent of surgeons were male. It was, with the best will and staff effort in the world, a shit show.
And then there was the “emergency wing” of the hospital, which was this godforsaken bit of the building that used to be the maternity wing. There was obviously a lot less need for that so we converted it. You weren’t allowed to enter the wing unless you were visiting a patient or working there, in a useless attempt to stop the spread of the virus. But really, what was the point? Everyone carried it. We all knew that.
I stand up to leave, and just as I’m getting to the door, Tanya calls my name. “You doctors are all the same. You think you’ve got your priorities all in order, the way at the beginning of the Plague you’d do all your treatment protocols. Well, no doctor can say that you were responsible for any of the men who survived. There was no particular magic to it. It was plain old good fortune. You find me a doctor who wants to admit to that and I’ll turn into a raccoon. You’re not so keen on ‘luck,’ weirdly. It must be down to your exceptional caring skills. Of course, any time you ask a doctor something as simple as the name of a patient they go, ‘John? Jack? Joseph? Jean?’ You forget, nurses keep people more than just breathing, we keep them alive. I know what my priorities are and keeping people’s minds working is just as important as gauze and antibiotics. I’m doing something to keep people alive. What are you doing?”
I pause. What am I doing? Plenty to keep the Scottish population physically healthy. On this issue? Nothing. My cheeks begin to heat but I quickly tell myself to get on with it. Shame and regret don’t help anyone. I pride myself on being a doer. Am I seriously going to hear everything Tanya has just told me, go back to my office and act as though I wasn’t listening, or wail that I feel bad? No.