So the other night, a dear friend of ours had to be taken to hospital in an ambulance. I'll pause right here to say that she's fine and it was nothing deeply traumatic. She's back to work, keeping calm and carrying on. :)
But I felt that this was worth blogging about as it was most definitely a night of drama. I shall skip to getting into the ambulance and draw a privacy curtain around the events that led us there. I've never ridden in an ambulance before so that was actually kind of fun. My friend's husband also accompanied us and a former UK soldier now paramedic was asking questions.
It didn't take long for him to realize I was American, largely as I was being more direct in answering the questions than my very British friends.
"As you can see, we're not racing to the hospital, so we're not overly concerned" he pointed out. Ah, that's why the siren wasn't going. My friend's husband and I exchanged the first of many ironic looks for the evening.
We arrived at the hospital and my friend was wheeled into the emergency receiving ward and the paramedics discussed the situation with the person on duty. Eventually it became clear that there was a shortage of wheelchairs and one doesn't use gurneys from the ambulance in the hospital. Ah. Could my friend walk down to the trauma ward? My friend who had had a few balance issues? Oh sure. She was behaving with typical Britishness--of course, it was fine, she'd be fine, no problem--while I was internally dropping my jaw on the floor. Sure, yeah we'll just walk down badly marked and under construction hallways with her. No problem my eyeball. But we did make it to the trauma waiting room so we could see a nurse. Who wasn't there yet. The trauma/triage nurse wasn't there. Of course. We sank down upon the bright red and blue PLASTIC chairs in the tiny room. Overhead, a light flickered. I exchanged another ironic glance with the husband. This could be very very long. My friend expressed this thought as well. The junkie across from us, unabashedly listening in, agreed. "You should have gone to Frenchay" he told us. Thank you. He plucked at a few of his guitar strings and jiggled his foot. An old gentleman in a shabby jumper wandered over to show my friend's husband a picture on his camera. This time my friend and I shared the look as the husband nodded politely. Apparently the old man had done some renovations on a home and was proud of his work. Fair enough. His teeth were the epitome of a British stereotype.
The trauma nurse arrived 30 minutes later, in no hurry. I wondered how the bloke in the wheelchair with a clearly badly sprained ankle felt. The nurse went into a tiny room. The waiting room pretended not to care too deeply, but you could feel everyone's spines getting more painful. Finally a name was called. Not ours. My friend decided she needed the ladies'. Naturally, after hobbling along several hallways to find it (bathrooms in hospitals are stealth bathrooms for security) we discovered it was out of order. "Of course" I said. "Use the men's". She gave me a look of horror. "Oh I don't know..." "I'll stand guard" I insisted "you do what you have to." She went in and I stood outside feeling like secret service. A man wandered by and looked curiously at me. I stared him down and he looked away. Victory. We went back to the waiting room. "It's always like this. Terrible." Commented the junkie. "Frenchay is much better. Treat you better. They treat you like **** here. Do you have a cigarette?" Sorry no we didn't. "Oh well." He wandered over to the people who had just recently come in supporting a man who looked as though he'd been in a club. He rounded the corner and we didn't see him for a while. Two security guards strolled by, thumbs in their vests. Another name was called. Not ours. An overweight girl came over to the vending machine for some poor choices.
The junkie returned. "I've been here before, they just don't treat you right." He let us know. His name was Josh. He wore a cap and carried the guitar around. He didn't open his mouth all the way when he spoke. He strolled down another hallway and disappeared. A moment later, the two security guards strolled by. The friend's husband and I shared a look. Apparently, there was a connection. FINALLY, our name. My friend and her husband went in. I avoided eye contact with the old gentleman as he was impatiently wandering now as well, and I didn't much fancy conversation. I picked up the citizenship booklet I was studying and turned to the health care section. Ha. I also read about women in Britain, the legal system and other largely useless information that most Brits likely don't know. Josh wandered back in and miraculously, his name was called. I looked up. Mistake. The older man took this as a signal and came over with his camera. Ah. However, it was not as I feared. He wasn't drunk, or not much, and was a rather pleasant individual. The look he gave Josh as he went in to see the doctor was not flattering. But he proceeded to tell me about what he did ("most jobs really") whose house this was ("Brunel lived there for a while") and quizzed me on my knowledge of Bristol history and significance. Josh came out, fussing about needing medication. Shocker. Apparently he was fine. "Frenchay would treat you better. Finally called your friends eh? The **** are terrible here. Shoulda gone to Frenchay." The old man just stared at him coldly. I pasted a weak smile on my face and nodded. Josh ambled down another corridor. The old man continued to talk to me and then his name was called. The door shut and I picked up the booklet again as the security guards returned to stroll down the same hallway Josh had disappeared into. Mhm. The light flickered. After a small eternity, my friends returned. All was well. She would have a follow up at the local GP in a few days but we could go home now. Thus, we wandered out to find the lifts to take us up to a level from which to call a taxi. My friend and I seated ourselves on the small sofa as the husband called a taxi service. A confused looking Asian lady wandered by looking for the exit. Right behind her we explained. She thanked us and went that way. Josh came by. I wasn't surprised by now, though we were now two floors up. "Always throw me out. Frenchay..." His mumblings went down the hallway. But now here were the two security guards, right on his tail. They caught up with him and they all moved toward the exit. "It's time to leave sir" they explained. Josh took up his mantra "They always throw me out. Don't treat you right, it's terrible." After further argument and our little group wondering if we would witness some interesting drama, he was escorted out. "I was looking for the exit!" He explained vehemently, "I was going!" "Yes sir." replied the security guards with straight faces. "Right out here." "I was looking for the exit!" The sounds died away outside. My friend and I looked at each other. It was after midnight and our coach was the pumpkin of a taxi, and our driver was unshaven. But we made it home. I made up the sofa bed for our friends and then went to collapse into my own with Mark. But first I had to share with him the whole drama and we chuckled in the dark.
