If my camera roll had to write the clinical summary of this week, it would probably say: multiple subjects requiring observation, supportive care and snacks. There was me, still attending physiotherapy. There was Miyu, recovering from her spay and behaving as though we had personally betrayed generations of her ancestors. There was work doing what work does best—being work. And somewhere in between all of that, my partner decided that perhaps I needed to be removed from the house and taken to Birmingham before I became permanently attached to the sofa. So no, this was not one of those glamorous weeks where I accomplished seventeen goals, reorganised my life, drank two litres of water every day and somehow became a better person by Sunday. This was a maintenance week, and frankly, maintenance deserves better PR.

Work had been busy enough to leave me with that familiar nurse problem where technically the shift has ended, but apparently nobody informed the rest of your body. You clock out, go home and discover your shoulders are still at work, your feet have submitted a formal complaint and your brain has decided to replay completely unnecessary details from several hours ago. Nurses are very good at telling other people to rest. We say things like, “Make sure you take it easy,” then personally interpret take it easy as doing six household jobs because we happen to be at home. Apparently professional advice becomes optional when the patient is yourself.

My physiotherapy is still ongoing too. I had quietly assumed I would have graduated from it by now, perhaps receive a ceremonial certificate and be released back into society. Unfortunately, my body appears to have its own administrative timeline and has declined my discharge request. So I continue: appointments, exercises, reassessment, repeat. It is not particularly dramatic, which is probably why it makes terrible social-media content. Nobody posts a cinematic reel entitled Week Seven of Doing the Same Exercise Because Apparently This Is How Rehabilitation Works. But that is basically what progress sometimes looks like: repetitive, unphotogenic and annoyingly effective.

Then, because apparently one recovering creature in the household was insufficient, Miyu had her spay. The photographs from this part of the week tell their own story. Before surgery: cat. After surgery: cat who would like to speak to management. She came home sleepy, grumpy and deeply suspicious of everyone involved in the operation. I do not know exactly what she thought had happened, but her expression suggested she had already identified several suspects. Suddenly the house turned into a small feline recovery unit. We watched how she walked, checked whether she was eating, made sure she was comfortable and monitored her incision while pretending not to stare at her every three minutes. Naturally, being a nurse did not make me less worried. If anything, healthcare knowledge occasionally gives anxiety better vocabulary.

Every tiny movement became an observation. “She ate.” Good. “She moved.” Excellent. “She looked at me.” What kind of look? “Judgmental.” Normal baseline. There is something quite funny about looking after a cat who does not understand that you are trying to help her. She only knows that she went somewhere, woke up feeling strange and returned home wearing the expression of somebody who intends to remember this betrayal permanently. The photos make her look tiny and vulnerable. They do not adequately capture the attitude. Recovery may temporarily slow a cat down, but apparently it does nothing to reduce her capacity for resentment.

And then came Birmingham. No major occasion. No elaborate itinerary. No grand declaration that we were going away to “reset.” We simply went out. Shopping. Food. Walking around. Taking photographs. Spending time together without either of us needing the day to become something profound. Which, perhaps, was exactly why I enjoyed it. Sometimes I think adulthood has convinced us that every outing needs a purpose. We need to celebrate something, accomplish something, visit somewhere impressive or return with enough photographs to prove the day was worth leaving the house for. This one was much simpler. I wanted good food. I wanted to browse shops. I wanted to spend time with my partner. Mission accomplished.

Looking through the Birmingham photographs afterwards, what I like most is that they do not look like people trying terribly hard to have a meaningful day. We were simply having one. And my partner, as usual, has a particular way of taking care of me without making a production out of it. There are people whose affection arrives with speeches. His tends to appear as practical things: making sure I have eaten, noticing when I am tired, sorting something before I have asked, or quietly making the day easier. Not particularly cinematic. Very useful. I recommend it.

Somewhere between the shopping bags, restaurant table and wandering around Birmingham, I realised how nice it felt to temporarily have no professional responsibilities whatsoever. At work, so much of my brain is occupied by what needs doing next. At home this week, part of it was occupied by physiotherapy and monitoring a post-operative cat who looked at me as though she was building a legal case. For several hours in Birmingham, my most pressing decision was probably what to eat or whether I actually needed the thing I had just picked up in a shop. For the record, “need” remains a highly subjective concept while shopping.

The photographs from this week are funny when I look at them together because they appear to belong to completely different stories. There is Miyu recovering at home, looking decidedly unimpressed with life. Then there is me out in Birmingham, eating, shopping and looking considerably more functional. Somewhere outside the frame are work shifts, physio appointments, tired evenings, chores and all the other ordinary things nobody thinks to photograph. And perhaps that is a more accurate record of a week than the polished version anyway. Life rarely sticks to one theme. You can be tired and still have a good day. You can be dealing with something tedious and still laugh. You can spend one afternoon worrying about your cat and another deciding where to have dinner. You can need looking after while simultaneously looking after somebody else. Sometimes all of those things happen before the weekend.

I do not think this week gave me a major revelation, and I am actually pleased about that. I have had enough weeks trying to teach me character development. Sometimes I would simply like seven days with reasonably manageable plot. What it did remind me of is much less dramatic: life requires maintenance. Bodies need it. Relationships need it. Homes need it. Cats, apparently, require quite a lot of it. And occasionally your brain needs to be taken somewhere with restaurants and shops and reminded that there are subjects available for discussion besides work, appointments and whether the cat has eaten.

So that was my week. Work happened. Physiotherapy continues. Miyu survived her great betrayal and is recovering. I was fed, taken out and temporarily distracted by Birmingham. Nobody underwent a major transformation. A successful outcome, I would say. And judging by the photographs, all patients are currently stable.

Discharged with advice to take it easy,
Anj 🩺