Long post ahead. Being succinct is not my strong suit. This is the story of a day in Cardiff with my son – part NHS rant, part plushie joy, part survival mode diary. There are trains, coffee, bath bombs, bears, and also the reality of depression and recovery. It’s messy, but so is life. Mostly, though, it’s about why recovery matters. And there’s plenty of cute plushie photos to give your eyes a break from all the reading.
My son needed a blood test on Friday – he’s almost three months into taking testosterone. The test was in Cardiff, and I offered to come with him. It felt important to support him, especially since he sometimes faints a few hours after ear piercings and vaccines. Plus, fasting was involved, and I knew that could make things worse.
We decided to make the day a double celebration: three months on T for him, and one month of me holding steady at a healthy weight in recovery. Plushies were, of course, involved.
My Son Wakes Up In My World
I’d had another rough week. My depression has been heavier since I increased my calories – it’s like the more fuel I give my body, the harder my brain pushes back. Sleep has been broken too; I hadn’t had a proper night’s rest in five days. By the time Friday morning came, after crying half the night, I was already exhausted.
But I love trains. And I’ve missed Cardiff. So despite the fatigue, I was looking forward to going.
My son, on the other hand, was already grumpy – no coffee, no food. I looked at him and said, “welcome to my world for the day. I won’t be able to eat either, so I’ll be right there with you.” He was unimpressed. I corrected myself: “We can get through this. We’ve got through far worse.” Reassurance isn’t really my strong suit either.
Because of my exercise intolerance, I knew I couldn’t eat either. Walking, even a little, makes my body react like I’ve run a marathon if I’ve eaten beforehand (runners trots and severe cramping and nausea). The only safe option is black coffee. I’ve tried dextrose, I’ve tried protein waters – same disaster. At least extreme hunger doesn’t ambush me anymore. A few months ago, fasting like this would have ended in me elbow-deep in a jar of Biscoff. Now it’s just… flat hunger. Manageable.
The Train
Despite the nerves and fasting, my son was excited. He’d made a whole itinerary for us, timing the train down to the minute. When we reached the platform, his chosen train appeared almost instantly. I was impressed. It was almost like being in a movie, with everything choreographed so perfectly.
We had just enough time for plushie photos: Frankie the Build-a-Bear Frog with him, Squigeon the pigeon Jellycat with me. Onboard, we found a table seat. He immediately chose the side with the sunlight – optimal plushie photography lighting. The train rocked us gently, and I thought about how easily I could fall asleep. Maybe I need a return ticket to nowhere, just to let a train rock me into finally getting some rest.
The Long Walk
When we arrived in Cardiff, it was time for the Long Walk. The clinic was down a street that seemed to go on forever. My son had calculated the walk time to the minute, despite never having been there before, and had the map on his phone. I just followed him. Usually, he does in fact know everything.
It was a beautiful area, further out than we usually go: tree-lined streets, old architecture, even a stained-glass cathedral repurposed into expensive flats. That made me laugh. Wales is full of atheists, so of course an empty cathedral would end up reborn as apartments with eye-watering rent.
By the time we reached the clinic, my legs felt like they were about to fall off. But we arrived five minutes early, exactly as he’d planned. I told him I was impressed by his itinerary skills. He just said, “It really helps my anxiety.” Which, to be fair, is much healthier than my version of managing anxiety: showing up thirty minutes early to everything, loitering outside and trying not to look suspicious, while looking suspicious.
The Comfy Seats of a Private Clinic
The clinic looked like any other house on the street, but inside it felt entirely different from the NHS. We sat down and were seen instantly. No waiting. I sank into the comfiest chair I’ve ever found in a medical building, and thought back to the last time I’d taken my son to a doctor – my hip screaming from standing for an hour because “seats are for patients only.”
My GP surgery and the mental health clinic rooms both remind me of police interrogation rooms. Same layout, same cheap uncomfortable chairs, same walls that echo every sound. In CAMHS, the waiting room was nice at least, but the therapy rooms were arranged exactly the same – the desk, the chairs, the lighting, the obnoxiously loud ticking clock. I’ve watched enough Jim Can’t Swim to know police do that on purpose to cause psychological distress. Why should mental healthcare feel like that too? For children?
This was not that. My son was given a chair with a pillow, Frankie the frog sat on his lap, and the nurse spoke gently as she explained that because it was the weekend, results would take three days instead of two. While she talked, I slipped into my own mind.
I thought about how dystopian it is that he had to pay for this private blood test in the first place – and yet, in three days, he’d have clear results online. Meanwhile, NHS patients with serious conditions wait two weeks. Two weeks of fear and deterioration. But my son, because he spent his student finance, will know in three days. That’s not progress. That’s a step backwards hidden under a rainbow-coloured logo.
“We’re so progressive and LGBTQIA-friendly! We pride ourselves on it!” That’s a funny joke, considering my son had to go private just to access the treatment he needs. The GP even told him to be thankful the waiting list exists at all. Anyone who repeats that line to me from now on, I’ll hand them the bill for his testosterone and blood tests. What? I thought you said you were progressive. Don’t wave the rainbow in our faces while ignoring the reality behind it. You can’t claim inclusivity without doing the actual work.
My son though, he’s a champ with all of it. He didn’t flinch when the needle went in – though to be fair, that was less painful than the dent it made in his student finance. Me? I’m bitter. This isn’t the world I thought I was bringing him into. I once imagined the NHS would look like this private clinic by the time he was twenty, except it’s worse. And everyone insists it’s “better than ever.” The gaslighting doesn’t work when you’re sitting in a private waiting room you can’t afford, watching your son pay for care with his student loan because you couldn’t cover it for him.
He’s a typical Gen Z, though – he hates that this is the way it is, but he shrugs, smiles, and says, “Everything is dystopian and ruined uwu.” While paying for his necessary treatment and drawing his frustration.
So, after the lovely and friendly nurse was done, we left and decided to drown our sorrows the only way late-stage capitalism allows: by saying, “let’s cheer ourselves up about the dystopia with little treat culture, YAY,” and heading to the shops. Hypocrisy never tasted so good – or looked quite so fluffy.
Costa Coffee
On the way back from the blood test – past the cathedral-turned-flats, which thankfully got me out of NHS rage mode and made me laugh again thinking about whether that makes you exempt from council tax – it hit me: a few months ago, I couldn’t have done this with him. Either extreme hunger or anorexia would have stopped me. He really appreciated me being there, and I realised: this is why I had to recover.
Recovery absolutely sucks. My depression is ridiculous. But despite all that, here I am. Walking through Cardiff, spiralling in the waiting room with my very justified fury at the NHS, and still able to support my son. That’s been the point of everything I’ve fought for over the last six months.
The other point, of course, was coffee. Sitting down together after the blood test to decompress, breathe, and finally get food into him after fasting.
Cardiff is full of Starbucks, but none nearby, so we ended up at Costa. The last time we went, neither of us had been impressed. But this time? Game-changer. My son ordered a sausage bap and an iced caramel latte; I went for an iced Americano. He fell in love with the bap instantly – declared it better than Starbucks. I loved my iced Americano too. Somehow it tasted better than anything Costa had served me before.
Both of us, shocked by this betrayal of our brand loyalty, agreed we’d need to test the Costa closer to home before hanging up our Starbucks aprons of loyalty forever. Possibly the relief of finally sitting down, or sheer thirst, swayed our judgment. Still, it was enough to shake our coffee hierarchy.
We took plushie photos with our drinks, of course. I kept telling my son how proud I was of him – for his itinerary, for his bravery, for getting through the morning. By the time we left, we’d re-energised ourselves for the next mission: visiting the bath bomb wall at Lush.
The Bath Bomb Wall
My son had been hyping me up for the bath bomb wall – he’d seen it on a previous trip and couldn’t wait to show me.
And there it was, right as we walked into Lush: an entire wall of colourful bath bombs. I approached it in awe, just like V approaching the Blackwall in Cyberpunk. I stretched out a hand, half-hoping to touch another dimension. Not a rogue AI dimension – but the essential oil, self-care one.
Unfortunately, I remained in the store. My clumsiness made me worry I’d collapse the entire wall, but instead my precarious reach found exactly what I wanted: my favourite Christmas bath bombs, already in stock. Two Shoot for the Stars, and one Yog Nog.
Then my excitement spiked – if they had Yog Nog bath bombs, that meant Yog Nog shower gel. I darted around the store, dodging the chorus of lovely Lush staff calling out “Can I help you?” until I found the sacred nectar. Victory.
We showed the staff our plushies, and my son bonded instantly with a staff member who also had a Build-A-Bear frog. Meanwhile, I mourned the Yog Nog body spray, now £30 instead of £20 – too much. Shower gel and bath bombs took priority, especially since we still hadn’t reached the Jellycat shops. I’d promised myself something special for one month at a healthy weight.
That’s when my son told me: Little Welsh Co. had pink Bartholomew bears, today only. He asked me excitedly if I wanted one. I said I wanted to see them first. In my head, he meant the medium-sized ones – and some of those can be so ugly. I’m shallow with Jellycat bears, and I admit it. Still, we hurried out of Lush and rushed over before the pink Bart bears sold out.
Little Welsh Co
I love the Little Welsh Co store. It reminds me of the souvenir shops we’d visit on school trips – always the best part of the day. Welsh gifts everywhere: dragon pin badges, tea towels, mentions of Welsh cakes and Bara Brith, and then, tucked in among them, the expensive plushies.
As we walked in, a shelf of pink caught our eyes. My son shouted, “LOOK, THEY’RE HERE!” He meant the large pink Bartholomew bears. I gasped: “I THOUGHT YOU MEANT THE MEDIUM ONES, NOT THE LARGE ONES!” He laughed, “YES, MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE SAID THAT OMG.”
I picked up the cutest one on the shelf and immediately fell in love. She would be my reward for staying at a healthy weight for a month: a beautiful pink bear, standing out from the crowd, taking up space with her uniqueness instead of disappearing into it. Exactly what recovery is. She’s the perfect, very large, representation of this stage.
I also grabbed a Welsh dragon pin badge for my bag – a little souvenir for the patriotic school-trip me, the one who would have absolutely loved it.
At the till, my son surprised me. He grabbed both my bear and my pin from me and paid for them. I was stunned – I hadn’t expected him to do that after already covering his blood test and medication. He just said, “Don’t worry, I’ll have more money soon hehe, and I know you really want the bear.” He got himself a pink bear too, so now we have matching floofy bears to remember the day.
We left laughing about how Jellycat destiny had delivered the pink Bartholomews to Cardiff on the very day we were there. My son wanted to go to Build-A-Bear next, and I thought it was a perfect idea – Frankie the Frog was wearing a pink jacket, and I could buy one so my bear could match him.
Build-A-Bear (and beyond)
I love Build-A-Bear for how my son transforms the second we step into that yellow-and-blue playground. His whole face lights up and he morphs into little him, grinning ear to ear. It fills me with nostalgia for younger days.
He darted around the store, hunting for more clothes for his ever-growing plushie family. At this point he has shelves full of frogs, Mothmen, and others – so many that he keeps needing new shelves. His plushies also have more clothes than I do. That’s not hard, but still. Outfits for every season, and yet he needed more: Halloween costumes, green plaid pyjamas, and even another plushie book, so the frogs can continue plotting their takeover of the flat.
I found what I was looking for: the pink jacket Frankie was wearing. Perfect for my new bear. I couldn’t wait to put it on her. I hug my plushies constantly, so clothes help protect them a little from being worn out.
To continue his regression into little him, we wandered into the Lego store in the same shopping centre. He picked up a Minecraft Lego set, mostly for the pig. He’s been obsessed with Minecraft pigs since he was tiny. His plushie pig, Reuben, has been his most prized possession for nearly ten years. They’ve been inseparable.
Parents are often in a rush for their kids to grow up, but watching him still light up with childlike wonder warms my heart. He’s a grown-up now – getting firsts at Uni, being responsible – but he still nurtures his little self. That part of him is beautiful, and I hope he never loses it.
After my wave of nostalgia, we made our way back toward the train station, popping into shops along the way for window shopping. We were both spent, financially and physically, but still enjoyed wandering.
As we passed the Starbucks where he works while at Uni, he asked if we could stop in before heading home. A great idea I was starting to feel pretty weak from coffee being the only thing fuelling me all day long. It was just what I needed, a caffeine top up in the form of peach iced tea seeing as we still had to get home.
Home Sweet Home
After a very cramped rush-hour train ride (thank god for the any-time return ticket I bought), we made it back to the flat. We dumped our haul in the middle of the floor between the kitchen and the living area and for the rest of the night it looked exactly like Christmas morning with goodies everywhere.
It was finally 6pm. We’d been up since 9am and I’d run the whole day on adrenaline and black coffee. I was hungry and dreading dinner at the same time – dreading because I knew the crash was coming.
That’s the dark trick of fasting: it clears the edges of depression so you can actually feel joy – but it’s joy on mute. It’s survival mode. That temporary lift is why restriction has been such a siren for me; it masks grief and gives me a brittle, fleeting lightness. Breaking the fast pulls the plug and everything comes rushing back.
I still somehow mustered the courage to make my burrito – a balanced choice so my blood sugar wouldn’t swing. At first it felt like relief. Then, predictably, the crash hit. If Jim Lovell had been piloting my body he would’ve radioed, “Houston, we have a problem.” Master alarms: overexertion, crushing fatigue, chronic pain.
And then the cluster headaches came, my usual overexertion tax and the literal price for a day like today. They hammered all night and made me wonder if the cost of a good day is always going to be this high. Still, as I lay there, jaw pulsing, head on fire, eye tearing, I looked over at the bears on the floor – proof that today had actually happened.
I did somehow manage through all that to catch up with my food intake and eat maintenance. Mostly from the help of a giant bowl of protein cereal, and a pain au chocolat from Lidl.
The Lights in the Dark.
It was still a good day. I was able to be there for my son when this kind of day wouldn’t have been possible for me just a few months ago. We bonded over coffee and frogs. We had precious, uninterrupted time together before Uni work pulls him under again. And we came home with fluffy bear mementos to remind us that light always exists, even in darkness. My son being the brightest light of them all.
Now all that’s left is to recover from today while being really thankful for it. And also thankful that my son didn’t faint. I’ll probably be horizontal for the next few days, but at least I have the pink bear my son so kindly bought me to remind me what all of this recovery has been for. Fasting may bring an immediate lift, but it always devolves into its own kind of torture – the torture of saying no to your son when he wants you beside him. Today, I said yes.
Oh and if you have any ideas for a name for my newest bear, feel free to leave me a suggestion in a comment 🙂
Absurd Universe 