Bike crash 2023 part 18 (approximately)

[lproven]

(Previous instalment: https://facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10159083697221691&id=608866690)

I got home last night. That's home as in rented house in the Isle of Man. The ward sister, Amy, at the Aintree University Hospitals NHS Foundation Trust, is kicking me out at about midday.

I had to find and book flight or boat, fast, myself, now. Stress levels now 11/10. Pain 5-6/10. Not pooped in 10 days -- morphine side effect -- but strong laxatives mean painful intestinal cramping.

It took an hour but I managed to go. Even more exhausted now.

My mum phoned and told me that Patient Transfer Services would handle this, and to call Nobles Hospital. I did. They gave me a number. I had to memorise it, as I am currently ill equipped to write anything down while holding a phone. The woman told me I'd memorized it wrongly. I hadn't. This is Noble's helpfulness in action.

I gave it to Sister Amy. She called them. I had got the number right. She came back later and told me it was wonderful. It was all sorted for me. No payments, nothing. I'd be collected from the hospital and taken home to my door. Stress levels down to 10, maybe 9.

Amy helped me to tape a plastic bag over the bad arm and its plaster cast, then I managed to give myself a somewhat sketchy shower. (For example I still have a large black arrow on my right upper arm, meaning OPERATE ON THIS ONE.)

It was great. Definitely top 5 or so of my life ever, although maybe not quite as good as the first after the crash.

I staggered out to find that lunch had been served. After 6 days they still hadn't remembered that I'm vegetarian. Steak slice, chips and beans. But soup and dessert.

Sadly while I was still trying to clean up post shower, someone took it away uneaten.

2 student nurses helped me get dressed and to pack. There was way too much stuff for the tiny case Jana brought.

It was okay, though, they said. I'd be transferred to the Patient Discharge Lounge where I could eat. And Julie Faith McMurray and Patrick McMurray had told me they're on their way to be there any minute -- about 1 PM they said -- so I thought they could help.

While I tried not to shake so hard with extreme tiredness and fatigue that I'd fall off the bed, or sweat so much I'd soak my "new", "clean" clothes (some are very much neither, but I've not enough spares) I attempted to direct the packing. Once everything was bagged they stashed me in the family room for a while before formally transferring me.

There at least I got a small unsweetened instant coffee and 2 packets of bourbon biscuits. Virtually impossible to open 1 handed with no working incisors, but food.

(For those at the back doodling, thinking about the opposite sex and not paying attention, I have braces on my teeth. Can't bite, can barely chew.)

And I had a small cupcake in a bag stashed from dinner a day earlier. Not much but solids.

Here I discovered: no coat, and it's cold outside. And Julie and Pat are no longer coming. Stress levels to 12. Awooga, alert, awooga.

Anyway. I went back and found my coat, hanging on the door of my former private room where nobody had looked for 3 days. Hospital hygiene thanks to NHS cuts, folks. Go hang a Tory from a lamp post, si seulement pour encourager les autres.

I asked for them to change the forgotten dressing on my left elbow. No time.

They moved me to another floor in another building with some random geriatrics. I reminded the official checking folks in that I need a dressing change. Not his job. He's not a nurse.

I'm frantically trying to message several people likely to be close enough to come and get things and look after them. My phone of flaky and has intermittent internet. The hotel doesn't provide patient Wi-Fi.

Gods, I'm getting faint stress flashbacks at the memory.

Anyway, the saintly Benji, wife of Pete Young, came and took a big carrier bag of stuff, including the (hand woven?) basket of fruit they'd given me.

The less saintly but definitely still holy, or at least holey, David Coveney also came to seize the last chance for a brief visit.

I managed to poop *again.* It's a very welcome thing that you just don't appreciate properly until it stops for double digits numbers of days at a time.

I reminded the staff again that it was now half an hour to departure and no dressing, no drugs TTO. (To Take Out or some similar TLA.)

They changed my dressing. They brought me a huge carrier bag of drugs, including liquids. When knowing I'd fly. Oh dear.

A housekeeper and a tall thin African healthcare assistant took me to the main entrance. My new Ethiopian friends and I waited for the taxi. Big Balls Cars, we were told. Riiiight. No such company online. Quelle surprise.

We were 10 minutes early. It was OK.

Soon it was time. No cab.

Then it was 15 min late. No cab. I asked him to go outside. He did. He couldn't find a taxi for me.

At 20 min, I asked him to take me outside. "But is cold!" Yeah, well, I have a coat, and I'm vibrating with tension anyway, I'll not only manage, it'll be welcome.

I pointed him at various taxi like vehicles until one was left. "No! People in!"

"Just ASK!" He asked. Yes it was mine.

The driver came over and started to berate me. Why was I in the wrong place? Didn't I remember the last 3 or 4 times I was in the wrong place?

In vain I protested that I'd never been here before, never used Patient Transfer before, never been to this hospital before, never seen him before. No, it was MY fault he consistently went to the wrong place and didn't go inside to check.

He put me in the cab. He drove to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. The 3 other passengers chaated among themselves about how awful Manx Care was (agreed) and how they should never have renamed the Isle of Man NHS anyway (fair) and how while everyone else was awful they did their jobs and made everyone happier and improved lives (frankly seems dubious but what do I know?)

We got to LJLA. Sounds like half of Ljubljana to me. Silly name, silly logo. Anyway.

They parked me in the cripple queue and left me. After a while, the whole member of staff came to check me in. Yes I have ID, it's in my bag. He pulls my bag out from under the wheelchair. Where is it? I'm not sure, I didn't pack it. I can't. It's inside I think. He unzips the top and tried to fumble inside. I tell him it's hey tightly rammed in and he'll have to open it. He tells me he can't as he can't bend much die to a trapped nerve in his back. He tries to wheel the half open bag to check in. I tell him not to as it's contents will spill and both our days will be worse.

He tells me off and that it's not acceptable to use that tone with him.

Anyway. The checkout lass climbs out over the luggage belt, finds it, climbs back, checks me in, climbs out again -- also not the sharpest knife in the drawer -- gives me passport and boarding card, closes the case up, stashes it, and climbs back in. 4 round trips, maybe 6.

I am wheeled back, past an ATM, and parked with the other cripples. I consider going and getting some UK money and thence to Gregg's for a pasty. But I'm already in the dog house and font want to worsen my position. I could walk, it's very close, but then I might lose cripple service and I think I'll need it. So I sit tight.

An hour before the flight, it's time. I ask if I can get some food. No, we're boarding. But wait, yes, maybe. Where? *Points* There. OK. A newbie lady takes me. She wants consent to open my bag to find my wallet. More hilarity and confusion.

Nobody is making Gregg's counter. I holler. I holler more. I shout. I howl. An eleven year old appears. I buy 2 pasties. They did not understand 2. They do not understand 1 bag. They do not understand much. Everyone knows that people in wheelchairs are mentally deficient.

They get me through security. The security gate computer crashes. The operator retried although warned. 5 attempts and you're locked out. She is locked out. She calls IT. IT comes, fast. But it's now working.

I am allowed through security, after a cursory search, my drugs passed. We get to the gate. We wait. An escaped cripple is rounded up and corralled with us. We are moved to the wrong gate. This is alarming. Here, there's a ramp, apparently.

We get on the plane. Despite the assurances I'd have nobody in my right (because shattered arm), there is a man on my right. He grumpily agrees to move to the 1st row. Damn that extra legroom! Curse that free space! How very dare?

The flight is short but rough on me. Perhaps the drop in air pressure. I'm struggling to read on my phone -- I just have to take it on trust that my bags got in and I have no book -- both for the distraction and because otherwise I might slump over and alarm people.

We get to Ronaldsway Airport Isle Of Man only 10 minutes late. Jana and Ada are very happy to see me and Ada has water for me, *and* gives me some of her Wotsits, a privilege.

There are many taxi drivers. None are from patient transfer. One tells me it's a minibus, waiting outside. He pushes me. He tells me, tell them that when his can company had this contact, they went inside to check, and the bus company should do the same. Meanwhile, the minibus drives off. We are stranded. I'm cold, shivering. Jana is near meltdown.

I ask the airport security. They give me the number of the hospital. They put me through to patient transfer. It's shut. I call back. Despite asking for the duty admin, they put me through again. It's still shut.

This is what passes for helpful efficiency on the Isle of Man.

I ring a 3rd time. 25% battery left now.

I get given the number of the bus coordinator. I ring him. He's surprised. I was not on the list... but he radios the driver. They'll come back for me. 20 minutes or so.

We wait. The airport is trying to close. It's dark. At 25 min I call back, but then the bus appears.

I was not on his list. So do I have my transport mandate? He is shocked I don't know what one is. He takes our names down on a sheet of blank paper, "for insurance purposes."

He doesn't know where my road is and apparently lacks any way to look it up. I direct him.

I got home about 10 PM, cold, shivering, in pain, deadly tired. Jana is stressed and unhappy. Ada is annoyed daddy stole her blanket. No I may not share it.

I try to call my mother. She is annoyed with me too. I am talking too quietly and sound far away.

I go to bed, weeping.

That was not a day I'm keen to repeat.

I am due back there in 6 weeks.

I may sail.