The A&E party
9.20am ( sat on sofa)
Too tired to sit upright. Eyes, head numb. Numb as if I had been drained from feeding a new born through the night.
Tired because I spent four and a half hours in A&E with Syd and a suspected broken foot. Football and feet. Feet and football. Boys and balls and accidents.
This was my second visit to A&E this week, least the magazine selection has improved. I loved the escapism of Harpers Bazaar, luxurious clothes. Pages of them.
Dolce & Gabanna have beaten me to it with their Mamma Fall collection. Silk dresses made up from children’s drawings. Never mind. I can still make something. Mine with be naughtier. More wearable fine art than fashion.
Women with young babies pacing corridors. Families. Blood. Bandages. A receptionist that was so much more than a receptionist. I saw her finding wheelchairs for ambulance men, clearing up drink spills, directing lost patients, and she was blessed with the task of telling us that we all had longer than ever to wait.
Wait be very patient this is the NHS of austerity. I can see it falling apart in front of me. Not enough staff, too many patients. Wait. Wait. Our beautiful NHS. I am patient. I want to kiss it better. The woman sitting next to me gets on my nerves she thinks its slow because the staff are chatting. I feel like ranting at her but I decide not to waste my energy and just grunt back at her instead.
A young girl does the splits.
The woman with her epileptic son decides to leave. She gives up on seeking care in the early hours. We wait.
The fracture doctor who reminds me of Tubaka eventually calls Syds name. Syd is slumped in the wheelchair deep in sleep. I rouse him as I wheel him down the corridor. I marvel at the spectacle of Syds beautiful bones made visible by the X-ray. The doctor cannot find anything, least he cannot find a break at two in the morning. He is unsure. There might be a break, we might get a phone call tomorrow, or it could be a torn ligament. Either way we leave with crutches and days of elevating a foot and of being able to do nothing.
Hop. Hop. Hop.
I drive home singing to radio 2 songs, U2 wild horses, its all pretty dreadful sludge. I sing to keep myself from slumber. There are no cars on the road, all the valley are sleeping.
Home. Negotiate stairs after staring at stars. Tuck syd in bed. Watch hunted, drink cider, eat chocolate and wish myself a happy birthday. I will postpone celebrations for another day.
I need to sleep. Least Naoise was good today, we weren’t late. There are roses to smile at, owl earings, hand cream and soap. A fungus colour chart. Mum bought me a handbag. I have never before owned a handbag. It smells lovely and leathery. Its a funny grown up woman of a present. I like it.
I am lucky. I am here. I am born, and the stars must have aligned because I got my period today as well!. Too much information, probably.
Its good. Two boys. Two boys to structure my life. Bad writing, must stop and sleep.
The Problem With Dolce and Gabbana’s Motherhood-Themed Runway Show, Megan Gibson, March 2nd 2015