Day 215: Hospitality

An unexpected* visit to Watford General A&E.  I am not the patient - just the transport/vending-machine bitch.  It's been a fair few years since I've been in an A&E department.  I'd forgotten how grim they are. 

Endangered

First hurdle is trying to secure a wheelchair.  Abandon the hobbling victim in the car park, and speed to the reception area.  Have to wait behind a line, while three members of staff have a chat about a fourth person, who is not there.  I jig up and down on my line.  A woman behind me can't contain herself and, with an apologetic glance, CROSSES THE LINE.  She's anxiously trying to find out whether someone with appendicitis has been taken to theatre.  This does not go down well.  'WAIT BEHIND THE LINE!'

Eventually I am seen.  All I want is the damn wheelchair, but we have to do a bunch of paperwork first.  Finally, we're done.  'The wheelchair?'  'Oh, yes...  I'm sure I saw one recently.  Marie, is there a wheelchair back there?  No?  Oh.  Well, you could try looking in Minors.  There are often chairs lying around there.  Or failing that, Acute Admissions.'  I'm off - firstly to Minors, where I go through 'Strictly No Admittance' doors, and past curtained cubicles, charts and equipment.  No chair.  Then Acute Admissions - no chair.  Back to A&E reception, to a laconic response.  'No luck?  I could ring a porter, if you'd like?'  Five minutes later, and it's quite clear that a porter will not be forthcoming.  That's underfunding for you.  Back to Plan A - the supported hop.

Lots of waiting.  Oddly frothy machine tea.  Warm chocolate bars.  A disturbing visit to a loo that rivals a Sunday Glastonbury portaloo.  A trip to feed the meter.  There's a girl standing in the car park, smoking a cigarette.  She's attached to a portable drip, and wearing a leopard print coat and a bored expression.  Wish I had a camera, but I left the house in such a hurry I don't even have my phone.   Back on the seats lining the corridors, watching patients being wheeled past.  Many are elderly, small and vulnerable - isolated on their parapeted trolley beds, lost amidst the tubes and the oxygen tanks. 

As ever, I am incredibly thankful for the NHS.  But it's always good to leave a hospital.  I used to have a teacher who was fond of saying 'If health is not one of your priorities, when will it be?'  He had a point.  While there's nothing more joyless than a healthorexic, there's no need to run full pelt towards ill-health.  Resolve to be a better person.  Again... 

(* Unnecessary - is there ever any other kind?  Who plans a visit to A&E?  Stupid.)