It takes a long time for me to be able to get into the car. Bending is difficult, and with only one working hand (that is also getting more painful by the day), it is a logistical challenge to work out how to do it. In the end I manage to back in and swivel round. It's not elegant, and it hurts like hell. But that pain is nothing to when the car starts moving. I basically scream and yelp the entire 15 minute journey, it is just awful. Every bounce of the car (that a normal non-damaged person wouldn't even notice), feels like someone is slicing my arm open from the inside. It is horrible. And not much fun for the driver (poor Mum!) either.
We find A&E and now the NHS reverts to the hell that I remember. First we queue at a processing area. Then when we are roundly ignored by the two people talking behind the counters, notice a sign saying that they are not open between 12 and 1, and we should proceed to main A&E reception, just a bit further along. So we shuffle 10 paces along.
And wait for the 3 people there to finish their fascinating conversation about Simon's party that weekend, and whether they are supposed to all take individual presents or whether they can club together and buy some joint piece of crap. Eventually they tear themselves away from this (I'm almost disappointed, by now I felt invested in whether Simon would be happy with a joint present. I shouldn't have worried, they didn't let a little thing like actual patients distract from continuing their discussion) and bark "Yes?".
So over we go and I hand over the package the nurse had given me at St Thomas'. They aren't interested in this. They are only interested in why we didn't check in at the previous counter. "There's a sign saying they are not processing between 12 and 1." "Oy, are you not processing people?" she yells across the room. "No" they yell back. That established, we proceed. Well, sort of. First she turns around to rejoin the latest saga about Simon's present. My mother's face is a picture - she used to work in a hospital admissions area and cannot believe this behaviour - she certainly wouldn't have tolerated this from anyone on her team.
Having established that they are buying Simon a joint present (phew, that's a relief), the delightful creature brusquely tells us to go away and report to the on-site GP, who will see if the Fracture Clinic might be willing to see me (I wonder what the criteria are? I would have though having a fracture would qualify you, but what would I know?). So off we shuffle again.
We find the onsite GP, and the seats in the waiting room are not things I am willing to attempt, I don't believe that even if I could get into one that I could get back out, in my current condition. Another delightful creature barks at us, demanding to know why we are there. Not by choice, honey, not by choice. I tell her that her fellow customer service award winner in A&E sent us. I decide to give this 5 minutes before I give up and go home. Actually, we are then called in immediately (much to the chagrin of the other people already waiting, which is fair enough actually).
Finally we get to see someone medically qualified. Well, I assume she is. It's not entirely clear, given her behaviour and attitude. She could have been a gardener for all the medical care she provided. The upshot is that the gardener says the records weren't sent by St Thomas's (I call bullshit on that, I saw the screen there where it confirmed that they were sent). But it doesn't matter anyway, the Fracture Clinic can't see me until June 29th, that's the first appointment. When we ask about the spasms and what could help, the gardener actually chuckles (seriously, chuckles), and says "Oh you've got the one fracture we all dread getting, it's really painful". Gosh, really? I hadn't noticed.
My mother, who hasn't had to deal with the NHS for many, many years, persists and asks about diazepam for the spasms. Oh no, that can be addictive. Right ok, well about adjusting the sling which is clearly in the wrong position - the gardener actually recoils at the idea she might have to go anywhere near a patient, much less touch them. Good grief no. Nothing is going to really make the pain go away completely, so on your way now, bugger off. No pain meds for you, the NHS believes in fully experiencing that fracture.
And so back to the car. This whole charming interlude has taken 45 minutes, and most of that was taken up with Simon's party discussion.
After another hellish trip back, I make an appointment with the private GP for the next day. It's going to be another horrific night of pain and spasms.
Now I know there is a lot of pressure on the NHS, and the doctors and nurses who work there are underpaid and overworked, and there appears to way too much money going to a huge layer of middle management, but this particular hospital could sack all its reception staff and replace them with machines for all the value they add.
Photo of the bruise progression (and badly placed sling). It's funny to think that we actually thought this bruising was quite impressive - little did we know that the internal lacerations caused by the spasms were going to turn my arm into something that scared children. And Ocado delivery men, come to that.
Now I know there is a lot of pressure on the NHS, and the doctors and nurses who work there are underpaid and overworked, and there appears to way too much money going to a huge layer of middle management, but this particular hospital could sack all its reception staff and replace them with machines for all the value they add.
Photo of the bruise progression (and badly placed sling). It's funny to think that we actually thought this bruising was quite impressive - little did we know that the internal lacerations caused by the spasms were going to turn my arm into something that scared children. And Ocado delivery men, come to that.
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