A Truly Awful A&Evening

WILLIAM SUMMERLIN hates A&E

A&E dribbler durham injured

Of late I have been anything but proactive in terms of writing for this cyber rag. This is because a few of weeks ago I broke my cheekbone. This in itself is not the reason for my inactivity however, for while breaking a bone in one’s face may sound ball-burstingly painful, after the initial novelty of ‘oh f**k, I’ve broken a bone in my face’ wears off, it is actually an immensely boring injury.

No, my sloth has been largely down to my experience in accident and emergency after the occurrence of said injury, an experience so draining and pointless it made me wonder whether curing people of illness and injury is actually a worthwhile endeavour.

As ever when faced with a challenge, in this case sitting in a Beckettesque waiting room with a bunch of pseudo-lobotomised oxygen thieves, I’ll try and think of some sort of game to amuse myself. In this way ‘Guess the Ailment’ was conceived, a simple game whereby you have to attempt to ascertain why people are sitting in A&E without touching or talking to them (not that you’d want to do either of those things).

Once a conclusion is reached, you have to point at the subject, proclaiming what you think is wrong with them. However, this proved rather dull as apart from the obvious burn victim in the corner, it was rather difficult to gather why people were there. While obesity is definitely an ailment, it is not an emergency and definitely not an accident.

The only other conclusion I could reach, given their vacant stares and penchant for humming to themselves, was that my fellow inmates were suffering some sort of mental illness, but pointing my finger and repeating the word ‘mental’ a succession of times began to make it seem as if I had caught the ailment I was diagnosing, thus rendering the game dull.

I was awoken from this stupor by the gentleman opposite me, who gestured to my face asking ‘you do that fighting like?’ to which I replied ‘No, I did it while playing rugby’. This disappointed him, and he turned away realising that, because I didn’t like fighting, not being able to construct proper sentences or wearing shell suits, we had absolutely nothing in common. Added to the nausea I was feeling due to the head trauma and the general unpleasantness of being stuck in A&E, I had now unwittingly made an enemy.

The tension was somewhat alleviated by the next dribbler who staggered into the waiting area. He was bleeding rather profusely from his head and definitely fell into the ‘mental’ category, with a stupid grin plastered across his face. Obviously he sat down next to me. Predictably he attempted to engage me in conversation. He asked why I was there. I waited for about 10 seconds before I answered, hoping his massive blood loss might cause him to pass out and thus save me from telling a story with which I’d already become bored.

Once I’d regaled him with tales of oafish Grey College props and criminally unqualified St John’s Ambulance volunteers, I hoped I’d be allowed to feel rotten in peace. However, my moron friend just sat there, his eyes expectant for me to ask him about his injury. Despite not caring, and I mean at all, I indulged him:

Me: ‘So, how come you’re here?’

Dribbler: ‘This guy was p*ssing me off like, so I smashed a glass against me head’

Me: ‘Your own head?’

Dribbler ‘He was being a proper t*at like’

Me: ‘Oh, I see’

I didn’t see. And then it dawned on me. Why is the NHS treating a man like him? Surely this is natural selection doing its work, and the NHS is merely acting as a counter-evolutionary force?

Then there was a rather sombre moment, when an elderly gentleman was wheeled in. He must have been over eighty, was deaf, had many bandages wrapped round his head and all he could do was to repeat his name (‘Bob… Bob… Bob…’) to any question that was asked of him. The whole waiting room looked at him with a pang of pity in their eyes

5 minutes later and the nausea finally got the better of me. I spectacularly and humiliatingly vomited all over the floor. As I gasped for air I looked up. Bob had met my gaze, with pity in his eyes. New low. At this stage, my bleeding dribbler friend asked me whether I wanted a glass of water. While being terribly thirsty, I declined. His past record suggested this might be tempting fate.

After 4 hours, I was called in, flecks of vomit on my shirt and shoes, to see the doctor. It was confirmed to me that I had indeed broken my cheekbone. They sent me home with a prescription for codeine and a strong sense of self loathing. At 2am, I got home, and thought while I was feeling so low I may as well watch ‘Requiem for A Dream’. Depressingly, it actually cheered me up.