K8 the GR8

My Accidental Terrorist has jippy back pains due to a dodgy discus.  When I say Jippy, I mean mind numbingly puke-inducingly excrutiating back pains.  These tend to arrive in the form of electric jolts that recently have begun to render TAT a bruised and angry man due to the public humiliation of collapsing unexpectedly.

This first happened on Tuesday in the G.P.’s carpark.  He was whisked away by ambulance in an ether induced haze, and dosed on Morphine which made him a very happy little egg for a while.  The only problem was that the hospital refused to book him in because they were self-confessed ignoramii on the subject of spines.  They did say that if it happened again, we were to zoom right into another hospital in west Dublin where his back-gurus were.

It did happen again.  On Wednesday, an eerie thump resonated through the house.  I rushed upstairs to find TAT in the foetal position looking like roadkill.  I called the hospital and they played ‘pass the problem lady on the phone’ around within their system until I gave up and just decided to drive TAT in myself.

7.30pm:  We arrived.  I gave TAT’s info to the administrator.  I wrestled a wheelchair (literally) off a porter and helped TAT out of the car.

8.00pm: TAT was seen by the triage nurse.  He was told that he was #8 on the priority list.  We began to wait.

9.00pm: Still waiting.

10.00pm: Still waiting.

11.00pm: Still waiting.  Light entertainment is provided by a drunk and slurring skanger who attempts to order “shickkenballs an’ a tree in wan” loudly over the phone from the local Chinese.  When he is asked for his number, he reads the product I.D. number from the back of the handset and gets mightily pissed off when Chinese lady hangs up.  He tries again.  And again.  Finally he begins to call out what sounds like a genuine mobile number.  Two lads handcuffed to each other behind us hurriedly begin to jot down said number with a view to prank-calling skobie.  All are dismayed to find that skobie’s number is three digits short.  All patients wait until Skobie leaves for a smoke and lapse into piss-taking skobie impressions.

12.00am: Still waiting.  TAT is now very pale from all his squirming.

1.00am: Still waiting.  Dissapointed to find that pub closing time has not produced new and interesting A & E victims.  Turns out Ireland isn’t as full of booze hounds as was previously alleged.

1.10am: TAT is given Pethidine injection which was as useful as saline to TAT.  He is X-Rayed.

2.10am: Dozy doctor spends an hour deliberating and poking TAT.

3.00am: Dozy doctor #2 explains that TAT can’t be admitted because of Protocol.

4.00am: Nurse gives TAT watered down injection of Morphine. 

4.30am: TAT and I are found spooning on a hospital bed in the corridor while TAT squirms and we both try to sleep despite repetitive renditions of;

*retch*

“Simon, stop sticking your fingers down your throat!”

*retch*

“Simon, stoppit!  You’re making it worse now, lookit!”

*retch*

“Ahhh Simon, will you please stop putting your fingers down your throat?!”

*retch*  *gurgle* *splash*

“See, now look at this mess!”

7.00am: TAT and I decide to leave, cursing Harney all the way to the car.  We note that despite the fact that there are many many patients lying in corridors, A & E is now completely empty, as are most of the stalls.  We decide that this must be a nightmare and begin pinching ourselves until we cry.

8.30am: We arrive home to disbelieving parents who kindly distract toddler while we grab an hour or two’s kip.

Now: Completely and utterly totally wasted.