Sick, Sleep, Suicidal, Swimming Cars, Sandwiches, Smiles and Compromised

My home at night, view from the driveway, author photo.

At first, I thought life couldn’t get too much worse than 7 straight hours in a wheelchair in an emergency room.

I couldn’t lie down on the hard beds, though I tried for a while. Right next to the automatic doors where the ambulances backed onto A and E.

A draught hit me every time, even some sleet came on in on a rainy afternoon, yesterday.

I watched paramedics unload the people, and then spend ages convincing them to take out their piercings in case oxygen needed to be given.

The 20-something dark-haired girl who put up such a fight was then fighting sleep. I watched her eyes go to half-mast, spring open, half-close, spring wide, then drift off.

She looked peaceful, more lovely with her lashes down, her face relaxed, and the thick double silver nose rings removed.

The rhythmic same-old, same-old sound of beeping machines permeated the quietness.

I couldn’t help getting a little excited each time I heard the shrrrr of the blue curtains being parted or closed around me.

But nothing much happened.

No doctor for another 6 hours. Just nurses wanting wee tests and blood pressure taken.