Oh No Not Again

Ferretfingers is away on a respite with Emil, so this was meant to be a quiet, relaxing weekend.

Friday night went ok.

Saturday morning Fester and I went, as a couple, to Curry’s and ordered a new cooker and fridge-freezer.  The fan-oven ceased to function on Tuesday morning, and the freezer bit has been unreliable for some time and finally gave out.  Fortunately the fridge bit is ok and we have a chest freezer, so there’s no urgency.  I am a little concerned that the new one may be too tall for the hole, but Fester assures me it isn’t.

We will find out on Thursday 2^nd May, so watch this space.

Ferretfingers’ absence had no effect on Thunderthighs' activities. I spent the afternoon pottering about, mostly in the garden. Fester did his usual list of pits.

“Would you like a Chinese for tea?”

“Yes please.”

So at five-ish he trots off to Wokify with a shopping bag.

At 5.15 the front door bursts open with “Ben! Ben! I’ve had a fall!  F**kin pavements!”

He stumbled into the kitchen and started running the taps over his bloodied and bleeding hand.

“I can’t bend my little finger.”

He comes into the living room and collapses into an armchair looking quite pale and sweaty.

I dial 111 and, having negotiated several menus and pressed numerous numbers, eventually get through to a lovely girl called Nadine.

After getting the details from me she asked “Can I speak to him?”

I handed the phone over but he couldn’t hold it, and his voice was weak, so I put it on speaker-phone.

She told him to go to Accident and Emergency at the RVI 

"I've let them know you're on your way. Can someone drive you?”

 This is not the first time I've had to drive him to an A&E.

I remembered to put the boxes of the various blood-pressure and anti-gout drugs he takes into my handbag. I reassured Thunderthighs (who is anxious at the best of times) and told him a list of people he could contact if he needed anything.

Off we went.

Except he nearly fell over again on the front door threshold.

And again getting out of the front gate.

I drove as fast as the law allows on the shortest route into town, turned right into Claremont Road and discovered that Queen Victoria Road was not accessible from the roundabout due to roadworks. I was minded to carry on up to Castle Leazes and down Richardson Road but no, Marco Polo insisted

“Go right around the roundabout, back down, along Barras Bridge and up St Thomas Street.”

Which I did, despite the fact that there’s no right turn onto St Thomas Street, so if I get a ticket he’s paying.  Fortunately there was very little traffic and nothing coming the other way at the narrowed junction.

Across Queen Victoria Road, into the RVI main gates and the parking lot.

“No you can’t park there, I can’t possibly climb up that kerb.”

Despite the fact he says there’s nothing wrong with his knees!

This is the point at which I finally exploded with “For Christ’s sake give over, I’m doing my best.”

Then into the RVI, up to the third level and through the labyrinth of corridors from the Main Entrance to A&E.    

We presented ourselves at the Minor Injuries Reception.

“You have to go to A&E”

At reception there

“You have to go to the Triage Nurse.”

All these desks are behind glass screens.

The Triage Nurse is at the far end with a (presumably) privacy screen to one side and a pair of continually opening doors to the other.  There is a short queue of people with people coming through the swing doors pushing through them.

I’m not sure what the point of the privacy screen was because we had to speak very loudly to get the Triage Nurse to spell his name correctly on the A4 notepad she was using.

“You have to go to Minor Injuries over there.”

The bloke at Minor Injuries was wonderful, calm and patient.

“Yes I’ve got you here” looking at his screen and checking the name and address etc.

“Just sit down over there and someone will see you.”

The sign said waiting times would be an hour.

I phoned Thunderthighs to tell him we were safely arrived, his dad was ok and it would be at least two hours until we got home, but I would phone him if there was anything else to tell him.

Within ten minutes a trainee paramedic came out, called his name and in we went (like Hell was I being left behind).  She gently examined his hand and arm.  Then a nurse came in and did the same and said “You’ve won yourself an X-ray.”

Off we trotted, following the signs to X-ray.  Only it was after hours so we had to turn around, backtrack and go through the back door.  Instead of a desk and glass you present yourself at an office door opening into the waiting area.  It was only a few minutes until a radiographer came out and he went in.

Then we trotted back to Minor Injuries again and before long he was called to the nurse and trainee paramedic.

“You’ve dislocated it.  We’ll have to put it back in again.  Lie on the couch.  Would you like some gas and air.”

I laughed out loud remembered a significant moment during Ferretfingers’ birth when Fester’s face appeared around the head of the bed I was clinging to with 

“That’ll be the pain then.”

He eschewed pain relief and with very little effort (and in my opinion far too little pain) the top bits of his little finger were put back into the bottom one.

“Hard as nails” remarked the nurse.

“He used to play rugby” I replied “Look at his nose.”

She cleaned his hand, splinted the little finger to the next one and put plasters on the grazed knuckles. He demurred, or tried to.

"I wouldn't argue with her" said the trainee paramedic.

Another visit to X-ray to check it had worked and back to the nurse.

“It’s worked.  Come to the Plastics clinic on Monday morning at 10.15.  The hand people like to check up that everything’s working.”

Out with gratitude and thanks to all concerned.

We were home by half past seven.

The Chinese take-away was warmed up in the microwave.

I put a lot of gin in my orange juice.

God Bless and Save the NHS.