Open Writing

I feel compelled to report a rift in a certain relationship. My bike and I have become slightly strained.

On a balmy afternoon with flies swerving madly in all directions to avoid me, I breezed gaily down a hill at full speed. One minute I was whistling ‘Rock Bottom;’ next minute I had achieved one. I was on the concrete with the handlebars deeply encased in my full cup.

An assortment of onlookers all with ashen faces begged to drive me home. Naturally I couldn’t miss a chance to display my brave and courageous nature, and after replacing my personal effects, a bundle of Co-op stamps and two bus tickets, into my bag, I picked up my machine and carried on. After five minutes, a searing pain pierced my chest, changing my kneecaps to jelly.

The biting hurt felt like two or three broken ribs at the very least, possibly a punctured lung, with definite and severe bust displacement. Fifteen palpitating minutes later I was limping into Casualty praying my damaged lungs and ruptured organs would hold up until they had time to operate.

A clerk at the other side of a window was speaking in hushed funereal tones to a couple that looked as if they had both just finished donating all their blood to someone. Their diminutive son, who was giving an excellent impression of Napoleon, supported them. Trying with great difficulty not to overwork my punctured lung and fractured kneecap, I stood in the queue.

Another little boy wearing a false nose and spectacles came to stand behind. On closer inspection I realised the nose was real and probably broken. He smiled encouragingly and I tried my best to smile bravely back

When it was my turn to give a potted biography the clerk’s face lit up. He seemed to regard my ‘accident’ as light entertainment. My face often has this humorous effect on people, I’ve noticed it before. By the time we reached my date of birth we were almost chuckling, without moving my tender diaphragm, you understand.

Next it was round the corner to the row of stiff backs, The chairs were un-yieldingly straight, too. I could see that being a casualty was a seriously silent business. It was my first time but I soon got the hang of it. The idea is to fix your eyes on a focus point opposite and the first one to blink is ‘out.’ However, we did all move our gaze slightly when an elderly woman hobbled in behind her daughter and husband. The younger lady was terribly distressed, It transpired the old lady had inconveniently chosen son-in-law's swimming night to damage her limb.

I took time off from worrying about my painful breathing to dwell on another serious problem, the toilet situation. With a man on one side and a small Indian boy on the other, things looked desperately leg-crossing. I tried some lip service with the lady sitting opposite which fascinated my small companion but left her aloofly unimpressed. Finally, holding my broken body as firmly together as possible while effecting an angle of 45 degrees, I managed to get the message across my neighbour’s denim to his wife.

After all that sitting around the journey to the toilet and back seemed wildly exciting, but had it been too much for me? My temperature was probably raging. I amused myself for a while with thoughts of the children taking turns to wheel me around the village.

A kind nurse eventually sorted us out and I was sentenced to a tiny cell with a door at one end and a curtain at the other. She came back with instructions to strip to the waist and get into what looked like a double-bed sized cotton sheet, euphemistically called a ‘hospital gown.’

Had a few moments indecision here. Should I keep my beads on? I toyed with the idea of removing my headscarf, then, remembering the state of my hair, decided I would look less frightening with it on. There was no need for a mirror, A cleaner came in and almost burst into pitiful tears when she saw me. ‘You would think they could find something better,’ she muttered to herself. Still, a brown-and-white spotted scarf and black trousers were not quite the best accessories for this ‘Demis Rousses’ outfit.

All this waiting could prove nerve-racking for anyone of a nervous disposition. Luckily this situation was not new to me, having read all the best prison survival stories plus Greville Wynne’s compelling biography on how he foiled the KGB’s efforts to brainwash him.

It is simply a case of concentrating the mind and, as Samuel Johnson remarked, ‘When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.’

I struggled to haul my body on to the high-rise bed. At the same time a heart-lurching scream of agony tore down the corridor outside, In two squirts of a syringe I was at the door and would have been halfway home if I hadn’t remembered my bizarre outfit. So that was the reason for this ugly ‘get-up;’ it cuts out risk of escape!

Minutes ticked by and hospital sounds closed in. ‘This will sting,’ preached a gentle voice outside, followed by a violent yell from a profound believer.

Were casualties ever forgotten? What if I was still in this 3ft x 4ft tomorrow morning, with blood bubbling all over from my perforated lungs?

I was reminded of a nasty experience I once had at a family planning clinic. After screening me off in the corner of a large room, a nurse told me to strip off and lie down until she returned. She left at 9.30am and I was still there at 11am.

Mind you, time passed unbelievably swiftly. The room was also being used for interviewing new clientele. After becoming so deeply involved in everyone’s contraceptive history I felt it would be unwise to make my presence known. I had to wait until all was silent and then embark on my unique rendition of ‘Getting to know you,’ until someone remembered me.

More uneasy questions danced in and out of my mind. How would they mend me? Would I be parted from top to bottom?

Unable to stand my exclusive company any longer I pulled the curtain aside, and came face to face with a jolly clerk. He smiled appreciatively at my fancy dress. ‘Er . . . I just wondered . .’ I began, but a pretty Oriental nurse cut into my wonderment sternly, with an abrupt, ‘Stay in there please,’ and shut me up again. I felt most unwanted.

Some time later with my clothes in a large brown bag and feeling like ‘Orphan Annie’ I was directed to another chair outside a deserted and shadowy X-Ray department. It felt as cold and silent as a mortuary. A sister startled me by wheeling in and leaving what I hoped was a sleeping body beside my chair. One foot was exposed. I had to fight an overwhelming desire to tickle the foot and make her the ‘life and soul’ of the party.

In the X-ray room I posed as painlessly as I could, holding my breath obediently, trying not to think of the Norman Wisdom film when they forgot to tell him to breathe out.

Felt a little foolish when the handsome young man had me bent double across the table, wishing I were better dressed for my photograph. Wondered what sort of picture I presented with my black trousered posterior poking out in full view, lifting my trouser hems just enough to reveal my husband’s socks which are three sizes too big for me. Still, every job has its perks, I suppose.

At long last I arrived at my final obstacle, a cleaner who was wielding her status as strongly as her polisher, then back to the doctor once more. He pronounced a ‘bruised sternum’ and I was duly released on the world to breathe easy again.

Is it painful? Only when I laugh or stop talking about it. The hardest part to bear is not being able to show off all the technicolour bruising. You just have to take my word for it – unfortunately! Unless I keep abreast of the times and decide to go topless.