It is with both excited anticipation and troubling concern that I walk myself forward towards the large double doors. My left hand holds a small well traveled overnight case; yet, today’s journey is different. I’m not approaching the airport terminal to commence a journey which will, in a few days inevitably bring me back through the same doors searching for my car so I can eagerly rush into being who I was as if nothing ever happens. This journey will display lasting changes unable to be glossed over or hidden any longer.

The doors open automatically in a gesture of greeting beckoning me to search for the queue so I might wait my turn to approach the check-in counter. I find nothing other than a small gift shop surrounded by tables and chairs. Several chairs are occupied by decrepit old ladies taking tea, all of whom look at me with that look reserved by people who long for a confused stranger to approach them seeking information so they might afford the opportunity to offload, yet again the story of their numerous ailments and continuing misfortune.

In the absence of obvious logical direction I scan the many notifications adorning the walls and attempt to decipher there confusing clarity. Most labels seem to point both left and right while advising me to go to a number of obscure places for various reasons, none of which seem designed for a first time hospital visitor who has little interesting in, or understanding of medical terminology. It has to be 314 or 726, or perhaps G02. Now that I believe I know the first letter is the floor plan level, and because the sign displaying elevators points left, right and up, I’m thinking G02 is worth a try.

I walk to the right, for no confident reason into the corridor labyrinth proper, watching closely the numbering of the many closed doors. G68, G66, G64, the labels seem to offer confidence, although at the current pace to number ratio I’m thinking I have some four hundred meters to go before I find G02.

The clinical hospital odour grows even stronger and with the tedium of number discovery growing mesmerizing monotonous I allow myself to drift into a sub-conscious state where chewing over the anticipated joy of how long I have waited for this day to arrive, yet this thought is still interrupted by nerves. I can’t help but dwell on the possibility that this day may become a nightmare from which there can be no recovery or escape.

Hell! I’ve come to a crossroad of adjoining corridors; it is now obvious the center number is the corridor, or something. G7’s to the right, G9’s to the left and G8’s straight ahead with G6’s still back behind me. I retrace my steps past the still searching eyes of the tea sippers into the G5’s for a healthy stroll than left into the G2’s. Yes; and left again into the G0’s and up ahead I can see the unnumbered desk where a G02 should be, it’s right beside the elevators.

Nursing is a curious profession they must all be trained to talk loudly about personal information as if the patient doesn’t exist; I suspect it’s to share the joy of knowing intimate details with their colleges. I’ve heard it said that everyone working in a hospital is a frustrated doctor; it must be true. The guy in front of me just had a colon resection, six polyps definitely a candidate for radiation his colostray bag is causing him lots of trouble.

It’s my turn, yes we read my documents in total out loud, a short discussion amongst themselves about how this might have happened, before the large one at the supervisor desk puts me straight, “You have come to the wrong hospital you’re an elective, private. This is the public hospital here, you should be at P27.”

They kindly show me the top of my letter where it clearly states Private Patient. I ask the obvious, not sure whether it might lead to trouble. “How do I get to P27?”

“You will have to take the elevator to 6, go along 9 than 5, across the air bridge to P take 7 than 4, cross the viaduct into 2 and you will see P27 on the left.” Wow, I smile gratefully and set off without delay, maintaining my thoughts on nothing but my immediate sequence of numbers.

P27 was something of a revelation. We do get what we pay for, the receptionist knew I was coming, had my details ready for me and guessed correctly as to who I was as I approached, all with a smile. A few questions, a signature and I’m under escort to room, P46. I change into the hospital gab and almost immediately start the first of several ‘prep’ sequences. A few hours of contemplation, wondering between anticipation of future happiness and genuine concern. Than off we go, wheeled along the corridor to the theatre, onto the table where I’m able to take the opportunity of a quick visual inspection to satisfy myself that everyone is somber and professional looking. I finish in time to hear the surgeon say, “We are going to put you under now, when you wake your gender re-assignment will be complete.”