I knew I had been in London too long after I found myself explaining to a perplexed ambulance driver that he would have to wait to take me to the emergency room until I had moved my car.
It was a great inconvenience to me that the night I had woken up in agony was the same night that I had failed to park in a residents bay. If my car was still there at 8.30am I was looking at a £60 fine, and if it was still there 24 hours later it would be towed away.
To put my dilemma in context; I was unsure whether my BMW was worth £60, and I was damned sure that I would never bother to recover it from the police pound; as it would undoubtably mean driving outside of Zone 1 to Zone 2 or god forbid Zone 3.
I didn't want to risk the altitude sickness.
In the end, I gave into the stomach pain that had me reaching for the phone in the first place, and I begrudgingly agreed to get on the stretcher.
Mainly really for the sake of the neighbours: it was after all only 3am, and as a result of all the screaming from me and the sirens, one by one the lights in the neighbouring houses had gone on. My prioritising the avoidance of further embarrassment over and above anything else at that moment was also surely a sign that I had been in London too long.
I don't remember much of my journey in the ambulance. Regrettably I do remember announcing to the paramedic that I needed painkillers, and that if I had had the foresight to bring my wallet would have happily paid him for them. I even went so far as to offer to buy him a little stash for himself. He thanked me for my not entirely unpleasant offer, but said I would have to wait for the doctor before I took anything.
Surely there is no better sign that I am a failure in my chosen career of advertising: I am unable to score drugs even in the back of an ambulance.
After spending several hours in A&E and being given no less than three shots of morphine (and warned that if I didn't keep the screams to a minimum I would have to be gagged,) I was wheeled into the 'Critical Decisions' ward.
I think the London hospitals would benefit from spending a bit more time brainstorming the names of their wards. I mean if my new ward had been called the 'Double Cheeseburger' ward or the 'Saturday Morning' ward, I would have been more optimistic about how I was doing. A sort of verbal poker face if you will.
I would still be in that ward had an incredibly kind girlfriend not come to visit me, and asked me why I had not been transferred to the private section of the hospital. The truth was that after 18 hours of morphine I could barely move my hands let alone negotiate a bed transfer. The NHS had successfully managed to take my blood, urine and my spirit.
So with some much needed help from a friend I found myself in a private room with all the luxuries not available to the patients on the NHS: water, food, a shower, and visits from a doctor. A doctor finally diagnosed my kidneys and gallbladder were not functioning; somewhat of a story anticlimax given my performance started at 3am.
The rest of my stay was a bit of a blur: I was in a self induced Ribena & 'Antiques Roadshow' coma. It was several weeks before I could look at vase without being tempted to swipe it.
After my first day back at work I came home to find a letter from my health insurance company; they were seeking payment for the excess on my hospital stay.
I am glad my car wasn't towed away: I may now have to live in it.
A NOTE: The author of this blog would like to thank everyone who visited me armed with cupcakes and jelly. I am now considering using the leftovers to build a second bedroom.
Showing posts with label NHS. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NHS. Show all posts
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Identity Crisis
Recently whilst sitting in the doctor’s surgery I was asked to complete a customer service survey by the monosyllabic receptionist that the NHS had undoubtedly recruited as some kind of social experiment. The interruption broke my train of thought, I had been preoccupied weighing up the pros and cons of killing the four year old who had just managed to ram a toy truck into my ankle whilst his mother looked on. In the end I decided that it would be more painful for his mother if I kept her son alive.
I agreed to do the survey, knowing that my 4.30pm appointment stood the same chance of actually happening at 4.30pm as the receptionist stood of knowing how to use the pen she handed me. NHS appointments are run with the same efficiency as the London buses. Sadly unlike the buses doctors never come in threes.
Once I had managed to get the pen to work (I assumed yet another social experiment by the NHS) I began ticking boxes with the proficiency of an epileptic civil servant. Often on surveys it is easy to be tempted to bend the truth somewhat. Answering such questions as ‘how old are you?’ or ‘how much do you earn?’ no good can come of you telling the truth. A year off here and an extra zero added there and everyone comes off feeling good. As I was completing this particular survey wearing Ugg boots, odd coloured socks and old sweat pants and looking every one of my 32years, it seemed pointless to lie.
Then there came the question which I would never dream of answering with a lie: ‘how would you describe your ethnicity?’ As ‘bloody foreigner’ didn’t seem to be an option, I scanned the boxes for the best fit. Having been born in Australia of Anglo parents I could have taken pleasure toying with the NHS by ticking ‘Caribbean,’ but the NHS appeared to already have enough problems to cope with. There wasn’t a box for Australian; apparently the survey designer had never been to Earl’s Court. I didn’t want to tick the box ‘other white,’ for two reasons: firstly being the 'other white' made me feel a little too like the other white meat: pork and secondly I didn’t ever want to be grouped into the same box as the Americans. So I ticked the box ‘other’ and scrawled across the line left for further explanation the word ‘Londoner.’
I looked at the paper, realising the significance of what I had done. I had for the first time perhaps most accurately pinpointed the way I saw myself. I was a Londoner. Well, only as ‘floating misfit’ wasn’t an option.’ Maybe that’s what being a Londoner was? I wasn’t even sure if such an ethic group existed. If it did what distinguishes it from other groups?
A Londoner in 2009 is unlikely to have actually been born in London. The fact that so few of them are reliant on surviving a stay in a London hospital ensures the continuation of the race. Those that have been born here will speak with affection about the corner of town that they grew up in, they needn’t tell you where as their accent will tell you that. Perhaps it is more pride that affection. It is a tremendous accomplishment to survive your childhood in a city where more teenage girls carry knives than handbags and where the boys carry sexually transmitted diseases. I looked at the teenager opposite me in the surgery and tried to imagine what he had. He looked like a pin up for Chlamydia.
I wasn’t born here and it remained to be seen whether I survived my first hospital experience. So what made me feel like a Londoner? Sure, I live here, but I have lived in other cities without ever feeling the need to adopt its identity. Was it the fact that every time I saw a moving staircase my body would move to the right unconsciously? Was it that I thought it was unacceptable to have to walk more than thirty metres to get to a beer tap? Or seven metres to a rat? Or two metres to a Starbucks?
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that I would I never be caught dead in an English rugby jersey, yet I would proudly sport a London jersey if such a thing existed. Was I simply a geographical snob? Not much of a snob really to be proud of a town where Z list celebrities have taken on the role and status of Roman Gladiators? These people perform like caged animals while the crowds decide if they should survive or not after each battle. Those that do survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to. Those that don’t survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to.
It wasn’t just the people I had to question my affection for but actual the city itself. It had been designed centuries ago by groups of aging men who never expected in their lifetime to physically have to cross the city and so they didn’t allow for that practicality in their planning. Or the need to go to the bathroom during said journey.
So it wasn’t the people. It wasn’t the city. The fact that I was dressed like an Eskimo who had been let lose in a North Face factory sale meant it sure as hell wasn’t the weather. So what made me publicly out myself as a Londoner? I had better work it out as I had ticked the box ‘contact me to discuss further.’ And in a moment of madness I had given my real contact number. This was a rookie mistake, something perhaps that no true Londoner would have done. Where had this sudden outburst of honesty come from? I could feel the convict blood thinning in my veins. In an attempt to reinvigorate my Australianness I handed back the survey but I made sure I slipped their pen into my pocket.
I agreed to do the survey, knowing that my 4.30pm appointment stood the same chance of actually happening at 4.30pm as the receptionist stood of knowing how to use the pen she handed me. NHS appointments are run with the same efficiency as the London buses. Sadly unlike the buses doctors never come in threes.
Once I had managed to get the pen to work (I assumed yet another social experiment by the NHS) I began ticking boxes with the proficiency of an epileptic civil servant. Often on surveys it is easy to be tempted to bend the truth somewhat. Answering such questions as ‘how old are you?’ or ‘how much do you earn?’ no good can come of you telling the truth. A year off here and an extra zero added there and everyone comes off feeling good. As I was completing this particular survey wearing Ugg boots, odd coloured socks and old sweat pants and looking every one of my 32years, it seemed pointless to lie.
Then there came the question which I would never dream of answering with a lie: ‘how would you describe your ethnicity?’ As ‘bloody foreigner’ didn’t seem to be an option, I scanned the boxes for the best fit. Having been born in Australia of Anglo parents I could have taken pleasure toying with the NHS by ticking ‘Caribbean,’ but the NHS appeared to already have enough problems to cope with. There wasn’t a box for Australian; apparently the survey designer had never been to Earl’s Court. I didn’t want to tick the box ‘other white,’ for two reasons: firstly being the 'other white' made me feel a little too like the other white meat: pork and secondly I didn’t ever want to be grouped into the same box as the Americans. So I ticked the box ‘other’ and scrawled across the line left for further explanation the word ‘Londoner.’
I looked at the paper, realising the significance of what I had done. I had for the first time perhaps most accurately pinpointed the way I saw myself. I was a Londoner. Well, only as ‘floating misfit’ wasn’t an option.’ Maybe that’s what being a Londoner was? I wasn’t even sure if such an ethic group existed. If it did what distinguishes it from other groups?
A Londoner in 2009 is unlikely to have actually been born in London. The fact that so few of them are reliant on surviving a stay in a London hospital ensures the continuation of the race. Those that have been born here will speak with affection about the corner of town that they grew up in, they needn’t tell you where as their accent will tell you that. Perhaps it is more pride that affection. It is a tremendous accomplishment to survive your childhood in a city where more teenage girls carry knives than handbags and where the boys carry sexually transmitted diseases. I looked at the teenager opposite me in the surgery and tried to imagine what he had. He looked like a pin up for Chlamydia.
I wasn’t born here and it remained to be seen whether I survived my first hospital experience. So what made me feel like a Londoner? Sure, I live here, but I have lived in other cities without ever feeling the need to adopt its identity. Was it the fact that every time I saw a moving staircase my body would move to the right unconsciously? Was it that I thought it was unacceptable to have to walk more than thirty metres to get to a beer tap? Or seven metres to a rat? Or two metres to a Starbucks?
Perhaps more interesting was the fact that I would I never be caught dead in an English rugby jersey, yet I would proudly sport a London jersey if such a thing existed. Was I simply a geographical snob? Not much of a snob really to be proud of a town where Z list celebrities have taken on the role and status of Roman Gladiators? These people perform like caged animals while the crowds decide if they should survive or not after each battle. Those that do survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to. Those that don’t survive have ‘Celebrity Come Dine with me’ to look forward to.
It wasn’t just the people I had to question my affection for but actual the city itself. It had been designed centuries ago by groups of aging men who never expected in their lifetime to physically have to cross the city and so they didn’t allow for that practicality in their planning. Or the need to go to the bathroom during said journey.
So it wasn’t the people. It wasn’t the city. The fact that I was dressed like an Eskimo who had been let lose in a North Face factory sale meant it sure as hell wasn’t the weather. So what made me publicly out myself as a Londoner? I had better work it out as I had ticked the box ‘contact me to discuss further.’ And in a moment of madness I had given my real contact number. This was a rookie mistake, something perhaps that no true Londoner would have done. Where had this sudden outburst of honesty come from? I could feel the convict blood thinning in my veins. In an attempt to reinvigorate my Australianness I handed back the survey but I made sure I slipped their pen into my pocket.
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