Last night, for the first time in 15 years, I found myself in the Accident and Emergency department (as with the last time, very much emphasis on 'accident') of the Royal Berkshire Hospital.
My problem? Drunken misdemeanor involving a traffic cone and a statue of Queen Victoria? Punched in the face repeatedly after defending an old lady from two callous criminals? Falling off a bicycle and under a truck, leaving my lower body looking like a toothpaste tube nearing the end of its natural usage? Anything even remotely cool or exciting?
Nope. Bet that wasn't a surprise...
Being a spry, youthful 24-year-old, it was a dodgy back. Yeah, a dodgy back. A debilitating, horrendous, tear-inducing series of sharp, stabbing, excruciating jots of agony pouring out of my lower back up as far up as my shoulders and down as low as my knees leaving me on two occasions unable to move and, even now, stooped like a marginally prettier Hunchback of Notre Dame (but with a far worse singing voice apparently). All that and more. But still, a 24-year-old hobbling into A&E with a hot water bottle crammed into my lumbar region with a back problem.
Anyway, enough self-pity.
Outside of a Wetherspoons at 7.30 in the evening, the A&E department of any hospital at nighttime is perhaps the closest you can get to a Mad Hatter's tea party - sans tea and cake but with added vending machine Fanta - in terms of strange, concerning and daft characters.
In roughly two-and-a-half hours last night (big up the NHS for that short wait) I witnessed, to mention but three:
-a certainly drunk and potentially mentally troubled middle-aged gent who arrived in ambulance, was led out from the A&E ward to the waiting room, asked the receptionist on five separate occasions if he could go back on the ward to find his '£220 glasses', asked who had won the football 'Brazil or Argentina', fell asleep in the toilet for half an hour and then fell asleep again outside the toilet door for another 15 minutes.
-a chap behind a pair of dark glasses who had an 'accident' at 7pm the night before, proceeded to sit in the waiting room for 90 minutes making out with his very blonde other half and then deciding to head home- despite said other half referring to a 'fractured eye socket'- mentioning the word (presumably not entirely in jest) 'curfew' to the receptionist as he left
-a woman rant and rave about the competency of NHS staff to a poor Irish patient who looked as if all she wanted to do was be on her own but was far too polite to say so.
And then some people who were genuinely injured and in quite some pain.
Through all this, the lovely NHS staff took it all in their stride and got on with their jobs with smiles on their faces, the picture of politeness when by rights they should be legally (let alone ethically) allowed to administer a heavy dose of tranquilisers and be granted a short, sharp kick to the sensitive parts of said damn fools - me included for basically turning up to get some super-strong codeine when there were people who walked as if one of their legs had been replaced with a none-too-supple pool cue.
Personally, in my adult life, I've never had to rely on the NHS apart from an occasional GP visit, but happily paid my taxes knowing that one day I would need to utilise it. That night came last night.
For free at the point of use, I could call a hotline to get some information and help, speak to an on-call doctor (who basically told me to go to A&E and get off the phone, perhaps as the second half of the World Cup final was just starting), get checked out, reassured, get some painkillers and be granted the bliss of a relatively painless night's sleep, advice on how to get literally back on my feet and prevent it from happening again in the future from pleasant, knowledgeable staff, all within three hours or so.
What more could you possibly ask? Except maybe more comfortable chairs...
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