CASUALTY

Everywhere we look is another casualty. The man in the corner is slowly swaying, eyes closed, trying to shut out the world and simply deal with his pain. His partner is stroking his hair. The girl opposite him asks for a cloth. Blood is dripping from a gash just above her eye. There are wheelchairs, stretchers and crutches strewn about, with or without bodies attached. People hopping with swollen ankles. The walking wounded. Others with hot flushed, coughing babies pacing up and down.

Welcome to the place that offers you a greater cross-section of life than anywhere else I can think of.

Welcome to the NHS Accident and Emergency hospital waiting room on a Sunday afternoon.

Packed to the brim. At least a four hour wait. We wait more.

If they don’t see us soon I will have to be admitted for bed sores or piles, or whatever it is you get when you sit down for too long but daren’t get up because you will lose your space. This wait is too long for many. They shouldn’t have to sit like that for hours. It’s not right. A lot of them are very very old. We are seen almost straight away by a triage nurse who takes some notes and takes her blood pressure. Does this mean they don’t have to report on the waiting time? If so, that is wrong, because after that, we go back to the waiting room and wait another five hours. Everyone is pretty cheerful. Nobody is to blame within the hospital. Everyone is working hard and doing their best and people are generally lovely when they’re ill. Just grateful to be looked after, however long it takes.

That doesn’t mean to say that we can’t blame the government for the appalling state of our health care system does it?

I am here with my daughter, who suffered a fall at a club on Friday night and got knocked unconscious at 3am. That is the call you dread most – from her friend, telling me she was bleeding and that she was taking her to hospital. I was not only beside myself with worry, but stuck in Newcastle and couldn’t reach her. I didn’t know where she was or who she was with and all the phones were dead. Nothing more horrendous a feeling than not being able to be there to hold her hand and I don’t know how badly she bumped her head, so when this morning she still had a severe headache, you can’t afford to take the risk that something could be seriously wrong.

So we sit and sit and I’m sure she’s going to OK, but we can’t leave because you have to be sure. At times like this (because I’ve spent a lot of time in A & E with my children over the years) you want to tell them they are never allowed out on their own again or maybe just for a few short bursts, but only whilst completely wrapped and sealed in bubble wrap. However, even the doctor referred to her as a “young lady”. She’s not a child anymore, she’s 18. An adult on the brink of all that is amazing and exciting and exhilarating about being able to make your own choices in the world and take control of your own life. So whilst I hope I’ve taught her to fly pretty well on her own, at moments like this I just want to tuck her under my maternal wing again and sit tight, because I clearly haven’t taught her how not to fall down a flight of stairs.

It’s so hard being a parent. You have to learn to let them go, but sitting in a hospital waiting room they might as well be toddlers again, the Dr, when we finally see him says “I can see how close you two are and that you’re worried, you haven’t taken your eyes off her – they never stop being our babies do they”. No. They don’t. My heartstrings, which most of the time with my older two have grown thicker and sturdier, but longer, so more like extended ropes, slung casually across space attaching us together so that they can meander or tightrope or zip wire back to me as and when they need my help and advice. But today they are taut and there are lots more of them all lying next to each other in a row and they look more like a cradle, or a safety net or a life raft than the gossamer thread that I imagined a heartstring would look like that I am weaving around her.

She is given a CT scan and they glue her head back together like Humpty Dumpty. I don’t know why they didn’t do either of these things two nights ago when she came in. The doctor we have is wonderful – he tells us that the 10 drops of glue costs £57.00 a packet, but that stitches used to cost £100.00 and were a lot more painful. Apparently the glue was invented by the US army and they didn’t allow it to be used anywhere else for almost 60 years. The CT scan is clear. We are delighted and relieved. Then disaster strikes. My daughter is told she cannot wash her hair for five days. This is the most shocked I’ve seen her look for a long time. She’s got to go to school with greasy hair. “But I can use dry shampoo, right?”. Nope. “A hat?”. Nope. Oxygen deprivation. “Can I brush it”. Nope. Don’t do anything.

How will she cope? But for what it’s worth the doctor said to me “keep up the good work” as we left….I wonder what he means?