blue paper towels

September’s finished, and that marks the first month in GP done. I’m writing this from the patio at the top of the garden, on a little folding wooden table that slightly wobbles in the divots between each paving stone. A few little pink petals cling to flowers in bushes of variegated greens. Overhead, blue skies mingle with bubbles of cloud which disintegrate into stripes of grey, white, silver, and peach-tinted hues over the sea. The whisper of the trees and constant crashing waves are only interrupted by the odd birdsong or distant chatter of someone walking along the beach. It’s the first time I’ve sat down, alone, outside, since getting back to university. Everything feels so real, with a few deep breaths and putting my endless to-do list down for 10 minutes.

But, at the bottom of this to-do list has been to string together some memories which have been bumbling around in the back of my mind; all conjured by blue paper towels. Those minimally absorbent, rough, single-ply, folded-in-rectangular-stacks-for-plastic-dispensers paper towels.

Before our first clinic, I washed my hands in a small toilet. The sink barely came past my knees. A plastic dispenser jutted out from the wall, overshadowing the separate hot and cold taps. Blue paper towels dried my hands. Their rustling sound, blue hue, and familiar roughness brought me back to primary school. The same sink had once come up to my chest as I reached over to wash paintbrushes, cups, and my hands after an art lesson. Blue paper towels rubbed away the final splodges of paint from the brushes and cups, leaving my fingers the last thing to clean and dry. The little hands I used to have are now calloused and scarred from too many bike rides and clumsy moments cutting vegetables.

A week later, sitting in one of my first solo consultations, tears spilled from my patient’s eyes. She hastily wiped them away with her hand. I furiously searched the room for tissues. Blue paper towels were the only option. Her tears turned each paper towel dark between her shaking fingers. As I passed them to her, I remembered being in her position - sat in a little plastic chair against a wall with an awkwardly smiling healthcare professional offering scratchy blue paper towels to wipe away tears. But while she sat in a surgery, I had been sat in our little sickroom at school. Both of us were overwhelmed. I had choked on my panicked breath, so overwhelmed by feelings of boundless inadequacy and worthlessness that I couldn’t sit still in school assemblies. Both my patient and I were disappointed by the inadequacy of the blue paper towels to cope with the stream of snot from tear-filled noses.

Later in the week a girl came in, maybe 11 years old, with earache. After brief questioning, the source of her earache became clear. Blue paper towel. A whole sheet. Lovingly folded, dipped in cold water, and scrunched entirely into her right ear canal. Her reasoning made sense. The exasperated tone with which her mum asked her “why?” echoed that of my mum’s. My patients teachers had said if you have a scrape, an itch, or something sore, put some cold water and blue paper towel on it. She had quite logically applied this rule to her sore ear.

I can still hear echoes of my own mum’s disapproving “why?”s. There are the fun ones - why the risky travel choices, why the skydiving and rock climbing. But some are heavier. Why the hidden food and faked weigh-in when trying to recover, why did I let my phone battery die when it really mattered, why did I choose such unhelpful partners. Those questions don’t just echo - they reverberate. Not just for their weight, but also their frequency. I imagine my patient will experience a similar dissipated “why”if she packs her ear with blue paper towels again.

But there have been so many blue paper towel moments! Leaving a urine dipstick to process on a neatly folded blue paper towel, to distinguish an old man’s UTI from prostate symptoms. Both he and I peered across the room to see those little squares change colour when we sat in our seats as patients. Neither he, nor I 15 years ago, had a UTI.

Making flimsy coasters to protect flimsy plastic tops of plasterboard desks from countless cups of tea and coffee. The base of each cup leaves navy rings in the squares of blue paper towel. Another overlap of memories from recent and far.

All of this is to say that time is feeling less linear with all this superimposition of memories. The space between these memories is not even, and the “size” of memories doesn’t seem to relate to their recency. Their vibrancy is entwined with their substance and their triggers. I never found blue paper towels evocative — until they triggered so many little memories. These blue paper towels, now a part of my everyday, have taken me back to snapshots of my life through bathroom sinks, sickrooms, and doctor’s offices; single ply connecting my now with my past.

The same me is pootling through this world, just with a little more resilience now (and evidently too much time to daydream about blue paper towels).

But what will be the next blue paper towel? In 25 years’ time will there be a shade of paint, a specific beep, some kind of fabric that’ll weave together the eras of middle age with youth? I hope, whatever it is, it brings the same gloss of nostalgia and amusement. Amusement at both the little hands that used to grab paintbrushes so carelessly, and the big emotions that sometimes grab me so entirely.