After what felt like DAYS actually getting me out of hospital, across the carpark and loaded up into the back of the ambulance, when they finally took the handbrake off and we started moving, it was the most speed and excitement I’d felt since being pushed in that wheelchair to the physio department, and far away from Lesley. I was FREE! Out in the world in my customised one-legged pyjamas, seeing actual trees, cars and normal non-broken people going about their daily lives. I craned my neck to see out of the window which didn't achieve much as I was strapped to a stretcher and couldn't really move. But I was moving! Towards the North, towards home, albeit travelling backwards- which no one likes to do.
Within 10 minutes we were pulling into another nearby smaller hospital to pick up my fellow passenger. Who would it be? What would they be like? Which part of themselves had they broken and how long have they been in hospital jail for? I had so many questions! Plus, the mere thought of conversing with somebody new instead of my usual 3 cubical neighbours was positively thrilling! A Rush of cold air flew into the ambulance when they flung the back doors open outside outpatients, unfolding the ramp. I had a packet of posh M&S cookies which I managed to fish out of my many bags, ready to share with my new ambulance friend as a welcome gift. I also thought it might soften the blow when they saw just how much STUFF I had, leaving very little room for their potential bags and invalid kit. After a quick Instagram story post- here they came! Reversing her up the ramp, I couldn't see her face but I could see her long grey hair, neatly clipped back to one side, and her handbag resting delicately on her lap.
“This is Elsie. She's 95!” Said one of her farewell entourage, who then went to fetch us some sandwiches from the hospital vending machine for the journey. How thoughtful? Yet far from fresh.
“Hey Elsie! Lovely to meet you! I'm Sophie. I bet you're glad to be going home aren't you?” I beamed.
No response.
“How long have you been in for?” I tried again.
No response.
“I hope they looked after you well… I broke my femur! Wouldn't recommend it!” I joked.
The silence continued. Was she asleep? Was I offending her?
“Would you… like a cookie?” My last-ditch attempt, as I leant forward with the packet, just about placing it in her peripheral vision. Was I missing something here? Paramedic Kingsley returned on cue with a cardboard box of equally cardboard sandwiches.
“Kingsley- is she OK?” I whispered, getting genuinely worried they’d passengered me with a corpse.
“Yeah, she's just deaf!”
Oh! That explains that then. So she doesn't hate me or my cookies, she simply couldn't hear me or turn around to see my lips move! Poor Elsie. I couldn't help it, but this made me want to chat to her even more, or try and get some kind of other confirmation that she was indeed OK and feel involved in our little home-bound mission team!
“HEY ELSIE!” I yelled. “I'm glad you're travelling lighter than me! WOULD YOU LIKE SOME GRAPES?!” I stretched forward with my box of half red/ half white seedless from my well-equipped snack bag. Kingsley looked at me shaking his head, making a ‘cut it out’ motion with his hand as if to say “don't bother”.
When we pulled out of the car park and were officially on our way, Kingsley put his headphones in and went to sleep and I'm guessing Elsie did too (minus the headphones). I knew at that point I was in for a long and tedious, silent journey. I'm used to long road trips going the length and breadth of the country to various race tracks, but please be aware I like to stop for a Starbucks, a wee, or a leg stretch every 90 minutes- so it probably takes me longer than most to get anywhere, despite driving a Porsche. I also like to blast an eclectic mix of gangster rap, 80s rock, Post Malone or Vocal House music all the way there. I soon realised this wasn't going to be the Sophie style road trip I was accustomed to.
For a start, the traffic gods were NOT kind to us and we were almost stationary for about two hours on the M40. Wait-why were we even on the M40? Turns out dear Elsie here was going back to her care home on the outskirts of Birmingham, so a slight detour was in order on our way up to Manchester. ‘Slight’ being the operative word! But a few wrong turns and a malfunctioning satnav later and we found ourselves going round in circles, and all desperate for a wee. How was this going to work out?
One of the various stretcher straps across me was perfectly positioned to press into my bladder, so God knows how poor Elsie was coping. She wasn't saying anything but seemed to take it all in her stride so gracefully. I leant forward and placed a bunch of grapes on her stomach whether she wanted them or not, but she appeared to wake and immediately gobbled them down.
By the time we made it to the care home, there was no question they were going to have to wheel me in with her so I could use the loo. Sounds simple enough right? Wrong! First, they had to get us off the stretchers, into wheelchairs, down the ramp, up another ramp into the building. My non-bending braced up leg precariously stuck out like a boat oar, narrowly missing plant pots and kicking a cat as I was swung around on two wheels. I was almost wetting myself, and not from laughter.
I hadn't really been in many care homes before, but I was expecting a wide open spacious reception area with an even more spacious disabled toilet. Instead, this was an old Victorian style house, with an entrance hall not big enough to swing that cat in, or my enormous stuck out leg. I immediately filled the entire space, along with the many sideboards, the visitors book and huge staircase. Never mind. Just get me to the loo! But damn it- Speedy Gonzalez Elsie had beat me to it in her V8 powered wheelchair! While I waited and prayed she wouldn't be long, in the world's worst timing- all the residents suddenly started piling out of the lounge and into this tiny hallway, all needing to use the same toilet. I'd unintentionally barricaded them all in with my leg, and the mother of all human traffic jams developed. The battle of the zimmer frames vs wheelchairs! I started apologising profusely for my existence, while they all tried to figure out if I was a new resident who looked oddly young for her age, and had maybe drunk from the fountain of youth. It just hadn't reached her femur, as something had clearly gone wrong there. They all stared at me and my leg with much confusion.
After causing utter carnage and making sure Elsie was safely settled, we couldn't get out of there quick enough. Ambulance driver Kerry wheeled me out backwards down the slope at such speed, I genuinely kicked over a plant pot and the whole thing really should have been dubbed with the Benny hill theme.
We were in the final stretch now. Next stop: HOME! Apart from having to pull over on the motorway hard shoulder so I could do my anti-blood clot injection in my stomach. I figured better to do it with paramedics present in case I did it wrong and punctured my spleen. Once again, I burst out crying in the build-up, then clearly had a terrible jabbing technique because I started bleeding everywhere. Great. The next 40 nights of these were going to be fun! I genuinely considered asking bezzie mate and diabetic superstar Paul to helicopter in every night, just to hit me with a needle.
As darkness fell and rush hour traffic eased, after an over 8 hour journey that should've taken half that, we finally turned into my driveway. I was home! Now the small task of getting me up two flights of stairs, and the reality that everything was suddenly about to get really flipping hard...
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