*(sic) in recognition of one of the late great Tony Hancock’s most popular half-hours. Thanks to Dave Lewis for the suggestion.
The power wheelchair fell off the kerb.
For a moment I thought that the chair had come to an abrupt stop. However, eventually it started to topple over. The chair moved, in almost comically slow
motion, to the right, as in some cartoon animation.
 | ||||||
(My spectacles, or what was left of them. Have refrained from making any puns about
being ’arm-less) I gave a silent prayer of thanks to God that I
was not badly hurt – which was probably hypocritical of me as I still find it
hard to believe that He exists – although I am less of a doubter following the
recent Alpha course I attended online. I
certainly learned a lot. If you want to
know more go to www.alpha.org Nevertheless, it became apparent that I was still in trouble. A large pool of blood had formed on the road, close to my right ear. As Woody Allen once famously said after his film character had a minor accident and spilled some of the red stuff – “Blood! That’s supposed to be on the inside.” I shouted for help. At first, no-one came. Then a woman came to my assistance. When she saw what had happened, she returned immediately with a towel to stem the flow of blood. Fortunately, the flow was more of a trickle than a torrent. However, a wave of anxiety swept over me. I take Warfarin to treat my Atrial Fibrillation (not a good name for a band – too long, not catchy enough). Warfarin is an anticoagulant (or blood-thinner), used in prevention and treatment of harmful blood clots. I take Warfarin and 2 other medicines that also thin the blood. Not getting blood clots comes under the ‘good’ category; bleeding to death on a road in the town centre is ‘bad’. Fortunately, the towel did the trick – holding it firmly against my head wound stemmed the flow of blood. By now, about 12-15 people had gathered. Some were local residents who lived nearby
and had heard the commotion and had come out of their homes to offer help. Someone phoned for an ambulance. I was now sitting in a semi-upright
position. Some residents made sure I was
protected from cars driving up and down the road. The road was a cul-de-sac so cars went past
me in low gear, but drivers still needed to take care. Most drivers were very considerate, but,
inevitably, there was one exception. One
driver, unknown to me, demanded that I move out of the way. I could probably have done so, but I had not
been assessed by medical professionals, and I was unwilling to risk further
injury. The driver continued to berate
me. For one brief moment I suddenly had
an uncontrollable desire to grab the kebab and insert it up & into the
driver’s rear passage (and I refer not to the alleyway leading into the back
garden of his house). This idea floated
into my mind following a post on Facebook by my friend J. She recently posted that she was walking her
dog R on the pavement. She was nearly
sent flying by 4 cyclists coming up behind her.
They were riding more than one abreast.
Both J and R, were lucky to escape serious injury. Even so, the poor old creature (R not J) was severely
shaken up. Understandably J was
extremely angry; this could be deduced from the punishment she said she would
have meted out to the cyclists should she have caught up with them. Suffice to say that handlebar insertion up &
into the rear passage (good name for a band) of each cyclist would have
featured prominently. J is a lovely
lady, but I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her (on a pavement, or
off it). Only joking, J, you're not that scary!
Fortunately, the local residents came to my rescue, and made the driver see the error of his ways (and yes, it was a male driver). I almost decided to omit this detail as I’m aware that it can be considered just as sexist to negatively stereotype the male species as it is to do the same to the female species. However, I don’t agree – women still have it far worse than men in all areas of life. Even so, women have a greater degree of mental strength than men and far more resilient. Who would you rather have as POTUS – Donald Trump or Michelle Obama? (Or, for that matter, Joe Biden or Michelle Obama?). I hope you agree, but if not please do let me know. End of rant. Also present were people from my care home,
including maintenance staff. Selflessly,
they had come at the end of their shift with a van to collect my wheelchair and
return it to my room. Once the ambulance
arrived, the paramedics lifted me onto a stretcher and put me in the
ambulance. I’m still unsure how they managed
to get me onto the stretcher, without causing me further injury. Someone kindly offered to come to hospital with me in the
ambulance. However, I declined as I
could foresee me being in hospital for most of the night. In any case I was quite used to going to
hospital. I first went to hospital
around age 8, when I was jumping from one concrete bollard to another. I misjudged the distance and hit my head on
the bollard. I can still remember the
lump on my head. It was like one of
those soft pink and white marshmallows.
The second stay in hospital, around the same age, was to have my tonsils
and adenoids removed. There was then a gap of almost 50 years before
I was admitted to hospital, when I was rushed to hospital in November 2017 and
operated upon (see earlier post). Since
then I have taken to hospital on 6 occasions – each time with suspected
urosepsis (confirmed in 2 out of 6 cases).
It took me ages to realise that the word is spelt ‘urosepsis’ (the
prefix being derived from ‘urology’), and not ‘eurosepsis’. I had assumed eurosepsis was a form of sepsis
prevalent solely in European countries, and that, post-Brexit, would not threaten
UK nationals once we were no longer in the European Union. Whilst I was being put into the ambulance, the wheelchair
and my other belongings were put into the van and returned to my care
home. Because the maintenance men were
doing all this in their spare time (they deserve massive credit for this), the
van wasn’t unloaded until the following morning. I later learned that when the van doors were
opened, around 7 am, a pungent, unpleasant aroma infiltrated the nostrils of
the maintenance men. At first, they
thought that some sort of roadkill had been inadvertently put in the van;
perhaps, when I toppled over in my chair, I had landed on a rabbit or a fox or a
duck billed platypus or similar form of wildlife. Then the unfortunate animal had somehow
attached itself to my wheelchair. However,
the roadkill explanation was soon rejected when it became apparent that (unknown to
the maintenance men) the elusive kebab had also been put into my bag and the
bag then put into the van. The kebab had
matured nicely overnight…… Meanwhile, the ambulance took me to hospital. I was taken to A&E at the same hospital I had visited only 3 hours previously. I had to spend the night in A&E, having the head wound stitched, but eventually I was given a clean bill of health. It was now midnight. I was tired and keen to return to my care home. I needed an ambulance to take me home. Unfortunately, none were available. I was also hungry. I looked in vain for the kebab, but it continued to elude me. Instead, I had to settle for tea and
biscuits. To be fair, as you might
imagine, the A&E staff were rushed off their feet and completely occupied with
clinical matters, and had no capacity to provide me with a hot meal or even
sandwiches. refreshments. Mind
you, there’s nothing wrong with tea and biscuits. I once took a girl out on a date and she was
given tea and biscuits. That’s all she
had – tea and biscuits. Nothing
more. Not once did she complain; she was
quite content with tea and biscuits. Mind
you, she wasn’t very happy about the having to give blood …. Eventually, an ambulance became available and I
was returned to the care home. It was 6
am. The night staff (carers) were still
on duty. They were waiting for me with a
manual wheelchair. I was transferred
from the stretcher into my wheelchair, and then escorted back to my room. The carers then told me they would hoist me
into bed as soon as possible, but I would need to be patient. I replied that there was no need to put me into
bed as I would be going out to choir practice in 2 hours. I had booked a taxi to take me to the venue where
we have our weekly rehearsal (it’s 2 miles away in the town centre). The expressions on the carers’ faces were priceless; the looks they gave me were of sheer disbelief. They were speechless. When their control over their vocal cords returned to normal, they pointed out that I had just had had a major trauma that needed hospital treatment (albeit not a hospital admission), and that I needed to catch up with some sleep. I disagreed, and said so. A good, hearty sing-song would be just what was needed to put the colour back into my cheeks. What I didn’t realise is that I already had plenty of colour in my cheeks, or rather, on my cheeks. The carers suggested I look in the mirror. I was horrified to see that my face was still caked with clotted, congealed blood. I looked like someone from a particularly gory horror film.
Until recently I was wearing my spare pair (b),
but unfortunately, at present they are unusable. A week after my accident I was in the roof
garden of the care home. I had not
noticed my glasses had fallen on the ground.
I then ran over them with my wheelchair (by accident). The
damage was even more severe than that incurred by pair (a).
And that’s that, really. I don’t know when I will be able to get into the town centre in my power wheelchair. COVID-19 means it could be 6 months, 12 months, even longer, perhaps never. Will I be able to get another kebab? At this rate, small businesses will fold, and there may be no fish and chip shop in the town centre. If this happens, then the kebab won’t just be elusive – it will be extinct. |
