annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A Day in A&E part 2 5.00pm I’ve been moved out to the waiting room. It’s changed since I was last here. You have to check yourself in on a screen – Christ, I immediately think of Gemma and Cathy, bottom set kids I taught that never really managed to grasp literacy – what happens to the likes of them? They’ve changed the seats as well. They used to be in rows all facing the same way, towards a massive TV screen permanently tuned to ITV1 at a painful volume and no chance of turning it over or down. Now there’s nothing, just silence. There are 25 of us here. Most seem to be alone apart from one young couple holding hands and an older couple sharing food – something from a folded up piece of foil and now biscuits from a blue freezer bag. The seats are in rows facing each other – there was nowhere I could sit that’s not up close to someone else (don’t want anyone reading this), so I’ve been knitting till now when a gap has opened up in a back corner – three empty seats in a row, yes please. The staff nurse who told me to come out here got me a sandwich when I told her I forgot to bring my purse. I had a choice, nasty plastic cheese in nasty sliced bread or nasty sliced ham, also in nasty sliced bread. Honestly, whoever chooses the food in our hospitals needs to be sent on a course about nutrition and health. “Ring your mum and tell her I’m in hospital. I said, ring your mum and tell her I’m in hospital.” A tall man in a hoodie with the hood up, pacing around as he makes this call, voice getting louder each time. “Look, just ring your mum and tell her I’m in hospital. She needs to know I’m not going to be able to help her.” People are being called through quite quickly but more come in. Eighteen of us seated plus the man pacing about and a boy on the screens. Lots of mumbled conversations, few loud enough for me to hear. The sound of swing doors opening and closing. “What do they usually have for Christmas dinner?” “I’m looking forward to the lamb.” People walk through here on their way out. This bloke pushing a baby in a buggy, serious face, he’d been with the woman groaning who’d come past me earlier. Is she on a ward now or is he taking the baby to be looked after by someone? Then a lad, naked to the waist, blue hospital blanket draped over his head and chest, walking aggressively, chin first, followed by a girl with heavy make-up, contours, all that, tottering behind him on massive heels, and a woman who looked like his mum, hair tied up tight and high, laughing on her phone, young, tired looking. Someone comes in with a pizza in a box - the smell is suddenly enticing and I don’t even like pizza. It occurs to me that I haven’t noticed smells at all – they must have good ventilation these days. Man at desk: “My father is in here. They said I should get here as soon as possible. His name’s Patrick….” Oh no, Patrick on the trolley, with the morphine. Maybe there’s another Patrick. A woman in blue scrubs comes through from A&E. “This way, darling.” ‘Darling’ feels ominous. 5.53pm I went to the loo for the first time – I’ve been here all day with a big splotch of paint from art group all over my face. FFS. Bloke moaning: “I been here six hours and I’ve got cancer as well.” “How many grandchildren you got? Eleven?” “Yeah, eleven and one great grandson.” “Bloody hell! I’m sixty-nine you know. Sixty-nine today and I’m spending it in here.” “… today you’d get done for child abuse…” [Jeez, what was the rest of that?] 7.00 now. Waiting room fuller, noisier, people chatting, bing bong noise all the fucking time. I’ve moved to a chair next to the water cooler to charge my phone, next to a woman slouched right down in her chair who said, “Shit, I hoped your charger would fit my phone.” We chat for a bit about how I’ve come prepared, what with the knitting, my kindle and my charger. I’m sat opposite a bloke with blood all over his face. He was called into triage just now but is back, still covered in blood but with a box of tissues. There’s a big queue at the desk, some of them coming to see family, getting led through behind the doors that say MAJORS. I get talking to the woman next to me. She’s 30ish, lots of curly hair, slumped down, her legs right out in front of her, wincing in pain every so often but quite jolly. She’d had a hysterectomy three weeks ago and the wound has become infected, now very painful. She hasn’t managed to get anyone to look at it – her GP told her to come to A&E as the quickest way to get seen but she’s already been here for hours. I decide I can’t bear this and set my alarm for 7.30. If I’m still here then, I’ll go home. But before it goes off, I go up to the desk and ask the woman behind it what the deal will be if I go home now. She asks for my name and looks up my file. Tells me I need to stay, that if it has been a ‘cardiac event’ I need to know so I can start taking medication. I sigh and tell her I’m hungry, that I’ve hardly eaten all day as I forgot my purse. She tells me to hang on, disappears behind the screens and comes back with a packet of three digestive biscuits. I thank her and go back to my seat. Now I’ve been moved to the ‘Urgent Treatment Centre’ where apparently spaces will come up more quickly. It’s deep in the centre of the hospital, no windows. We walked round so many corners to get here that I’ve totally lost any sense of where the fuck I am and I used to work in this hospital. There’s a big screen displaying the ‘Greatest Hits Radio’ logo and an annoying smarmy radio voice blethering on. I sit here for what seems another lifetime, while a man with a limp disappears then reappears on crutches. A woman who’s sat staring at the floor, face pale and sweaty, while her husband tried to cheer her up finally gets called and there’s just me left. The woman in pink scrubs who’s been passing to and fro calls my name and I follow her to a room. As we walk I ask her about the different colour scrubs and what they signify but she says they don’t mean anything – you can wear what you like and she’s Dr so and so. She tells me my bloods came back completely normal so whatever it was, it wasn’t a ‘cardiac incident’. We have a bit of chat about what it could have been – wind seems most likely to her, though I’m not convinced – I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for a couple of hours. Can wind materialise out of nowhere like that? Who knows. I don’t really care. The doc tells me I did the right thing and that if it happens again, to call 999 again as the symptoms were indicative of a cardiac incident and just cos they weren’t this time doesn’t mean they won’t be next time. Christ. I thank her and give her my little speech about how grateful I am for how they have all kept the NHS going despite the horrendous funding cuts and all that and off I go. Time 8.50pm. Yes, I have been there nearly eight hours, but everyone has been kind and pleasant, explaining things as best they can. No one is slacking, they’re all on the move all the time. People who were there when I arrived are still there now. At no point has there been any mention of money – in fact I’m up one sandwich and one packet of biscuits. 10:08 p.m. - 24.11.23 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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