Angela Hughes’s first book tells us of priceless gifts. My Heart’s Content is a deeply moving memoir, and here, for BooksfromScotland, she tells us of her story.

My Heart’s Content
By Angela Hughes
Published by Liminal Ink

It’s here again, that bells a-jingling, chestnuts a-roasting, snow a-falling, consumers a-spending, debts a-rising time of year. And I love it. Always have. Not the full on, shop-til-you-drop approach, but that feeling of optimism, of togetherness. Of peace and goodwill to all. The Dickens’ effect, or in my case the muppets’ interpretation of Dickens.

As a child Christmas was Top-of-the-Pops, new pyjamas, an array of grandparents, selection boxes and party games. Sleep became a bargaining tool, carrots reindeer fodder and tangerines appeared in the toe of my dad’s work socks. And then there were books, filled with worlds in which to lose myself. Books with chickens and skies that fell in; books with witches and wardrobes, with dogs called Timmy and girls called George. Stories of soft rains and the death of a butterfly that changed the trajectory of the world. Moors and doublespeak and Beat poets and …

In later years Christmas brought an awareness of those who were alone. Those who were ill, suffering, in despair. It also brought It’s a Wonderful Life and the idea of reflection and reconciliation, of personal transformation. All of which came into sharp focus in early December 2013, when I was listed for an emergency heart transplant.

In a reverse Grinch moment, I was told my existing heart was three times larger than it should be. For seventeen days I occupied the liminal space between life and death. In a weird twist I felt better than I had in years. Hooked to a drip to support my heart function, I was surrounded by medical staff who were never more than several seconds away from my bedside, should anything untoward happen. There were mornings when I would wake and for a moment forget that the only way for me to walk out of the hospital doors would be if a donor were found. In time. Someone with the same blood and tissue type as mine. Of a similar height and weight.

The stark reality: for me to live, someone else must die. And though I understood the two events were in no way related, how could I hope for life when the only circumstances in which that were possible involved the death of another?

At any other time of my life, including my numerous previous stays in hospital, I would reach for a book or a pen. Read or write. Neither was possible. The drugs brought uncontrollable trembling and concentration eluded me.

Instead my mind meandered beyond my hospital room. I imagined the reflections from fairy lights agitating the feet of last minute shoppers. Friends trading stories, fingers curled round glasses of wine. My family, together for Christmas, laughing despite themselves. They had wanted to come to the hospital. My refusal brought sadness, and a sense of relief.

Only Paul, my husband, would be with me.

The call came just before midnight on Christmas Eve. An offer, that’s how they referred to it. ‘You’ve got a wee offer,’ the nurse who woke me said. And I smiled and fell back to sleep.

On Christmas morning, after the blood tests and skin scrubbing, and before I signed my consent form with the word MORTALITY, capitalised and underlined, I opened presents with Paul. Among them, books. The gift of Patti Smith’s New York; a wistful summer on the Med. Short stories bound in bright orange from Lydia Davis. Slivers of life expertly captured by John Burnside and Alice Munro. A book of poetry from African poets, foraged from a second-hand book shop. Pages of possibilities. Each a glorious confirmation of another’s belief that my life wasn’t over. That I would be home one day. Gifts that said we know you. We know who you are, what you like. Gifts that said you’re important, you matter, we haven’t forgotten you. We believe. My own George Pratt moment (or George Bailey if you prefer the film version).

During my stay in hospital, one of the nurses leant me a copy of the memoir by Diana Sanders, a heart and lung transplant recipient. It wasn’t an easy read and I often felt the need to hold it away from me, to read it out of the corner of my eye. But its veracity and honesty resonated with me. If she could survive, so could I.

Post-transplant, with renewed clarity and a steadier hand, I wrote My Heart’s Content. It wasn’t the book I had in mind for my debut, nor was it easy to write. I was compelled. It felt urgent. Immediate. I wrote to make sense of what had happened. To raise awareness. An affirmation: this happened.

My original intention was to use my experience in fiction. Yet somewhere along the way, I decided to tell my story. Perhaps it felt too personal to fictionalise. Too difficult to stand back from. Or maybe because memoir seemed the perfect hybrid of fact and fiction; the ‘based on a true story’ narrative. As accurate a retelling as any can be after the fact. It’s something I’ve considered a lot recently, particularly since reading the brilliant Mayflies by Andrew O’Hagan.

Signed by Freight but never published, for a while after, the manuscript lay dormant on my computer, until another set of extraordinary circumstances prompted a discussion with Paul. ‘Let’s set up our own publishing company and put it ourselves’, he said. And so we did.

Of the many messages of encouragement, enthusiasm and positive feedback I’ve received, the one that brought the greatest satisfaction was from a fellow heart transplant recipient, just before Christmas last year. Two words: ‘Nailed it!’

It’s the magic of Christmas. And books.

I believe.

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Liminal Ink was formed just over a year ago. My Heart’s Content was our first release.

My Heart’s Content by Angela Hughes is published by Liminal Ink, priced