THE CORRIDOR TO HELL...

What's the one thing we all automatically do when we're waiting for anything? Waiting for a friend, waiting in traffic, sat in a waiting room, or just feeling awkward in public: We scroll on our phones. But it's a hell of a lot more fun and entertaining for everyone involved when you're off your face on morphine!

“Let’s jump on Instagram stories again then!” – was my next bright idea. Continuing to document to everyone what's happening in the next wild instalment of ‘Sophie's leg’. Paul held the camera at the foot of the stretcher and as I looked down, that was the first time I clocked that I was in the biggest, lumpiest plaster cast I had ever seen, starting from just under my bum right down to my toes, rivalling the Michelin man.

“Urrgh! Oh my God look at the size of it! It's like an elephant!” I shrieked, followed by another “Urrghhh!!” and a grimace as I suddenly noticed all the drains and cannulas dangling out of my arms like I was some kind of human adapter. When did all this happen to me? I must have been tripping.

Next up were little round sponges on sticks, which Angel Janais dipped in water and dabbed on my lips so I could kid myself I'd had a drink. But hold on- just because I couldn't eat or drink doesn't mean my support crew can't! In fact, they absolutely must! Especially Paul who's diabetic. I sent them off to the rumoured M&S just outside, while I attempted to have my first wee on a bedpan. (Was NOT a fan.) My leg was throbbing through the plaster and any movement was still a living hell, especially the mild bridge pose manoeuvre I had to pull. (Ask your yoga teacher.)

Support crew back in the building, armed with epic snacks and drinks they tried to so politely and discreetly consume in front of me, until the question no one wants to hear when stood outside a high traffic area A&E disabled loo: “WHAT’S THAT SMELL??”

We looked down and sure enough, there was a trail of poo on the floor as the guy who’d just gone in there obviously hadn't quite made it! A poor nurse quickly began cleaning it up, before the culprit emerged from the loo. He looked like he'd been in a bar brawl with his shaved head and thuggish appearance. He looked Paul dead in the eye and said “I wouldn't go in there mate- it's full of shit.” And nodded defiantly as he wandered off, hospital gown flapping, in all his stinky glory. Picture the scene: it's gone midnight, your leg’s broken, you and your friends are stood around your stretcher in an A&E corridor, trying to eat a pack of stale prosciutto, getting mowed down by paramedics, people shouting, surrounded by poo, with no idea when we would all escape this hell hole... If this wasn't a bonding experience, I don't know what is.

After probably nearly killing my diabetic friend as he'd gone so long without food due to me and the circus around us, I unknowingly almost single-handedly ended Matt-is-it-Matt’s career, when he came to hold the doors open when they took me for an MRI scan.

It was baffling me why none of these doors were automatic and I didn't particularly fancy opening them by having my feet rammed into them and jarring my already jarred femur. So, Matt volunteered to walk in front and help, all the way to the MRI room, until he found himself in the room with me. More bright lights, questions and being transferred to yet ANOTHER surface. Matt gave me his hand to squeeze in the painful moment transferring me across. I didn't want to squeeze it too hard as the poor guy was probably already uncomfortable being thrust into this situation, and this was actually the first time I'd ever seen him outside of work.

“Don’t be polite!” He said. “If it hurts, really squeeze my hand. It'll help, honest!”

After the count of three and one almighty shunt across to the right, I squeezed his hand so hard, even impressing myself with my own strength in the pain. I'm pretty sure I'd come dangerously close to breaking his hand. I released my grip and looked up at him, opening my eyes slowly. He was looking slightly shocked, cradling his hand with his uncrushed one.

“Wow…” he blinked. “That's the first taste I've ever had of childbirth! Like when the woman's in labour and she squeezes the guys hand when she's pushing.”

I'm privileged I could give him a taster of one of his future life’s biggest moments, but I felt terrible afterwards when we became friends on Instagram, and I learned he was a ‘commercial and ‘HAND model’!!! There I was, single-handedly ending his career! He could kiss those close-up ad campaigns of him adjusting cufflinks goodbye! Sorry Matt-is-it-Matt.

After more moving /wincing /groaning in pain, I was finally in position. This is where they inject you with a dye which you feel coursing through your veins like hot lava, before an electronic voice telling you to ‘breathe in’ and hold your breath for longer than I thought possible, before moving you along this conveyor belt into a claustrophobic tube. Again, I kept my eyes firmly shut and told myself it would all soon be over. And it was! Until…

“Oh sorry, we're going to have to do that again. There's metal in your shorts- the zip!” said the nurse. “We'll have to cut you out of them.”

For the millionth flipping time in my head: “ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME??!” Before I could think about it, they were hacking me out of my shorts! All I kept thinking was Thank God these were only cheap and I wasn't wearing my usual pleather grid girl pants- a la Sandy from Grease- 'cause they were expensive.

Matt was facing the wall like he was in the naughty corner-

“Don't worry, I'm not looking!” he called.

“Oh… there's metal on your underwear too” sighed the nurse, looking at the tiny gold metal fastening on each side.

“We’ll have to cut that too”.

“Wait!” I snapped, “No you're not. I was willing to sacrifice the cheap shorts but not Victoria’s Secret- they're part of a set.”

So, I made them stretch the strings over my enormous cast and roll my little piece of underwear up in a tissue for me, and place them to one side. I'm fully commando at this point.

“Don't worry, I'm still not looking!” called Matt, as he was probably more concerned with his fractured knuckle.

Like a boomerang I was returned back to the corridor once more, and it became apparent I was going to be spending the night here, parked up by the toilet and the A&E entrance doors flapping open and closed every two seconds behind my head.

“Guys- save yourselves. Get yourselves home.” I said to my heroic friends. I didn't realise it was nearly 2:00 AM at this point. Paul assured me he'd be back first thing in the morning along with Super Steph, followed by the legend Stephen Jelley, various awesome WSR mechanics and the wonderful Michaela Bennetts, who’d all been messaging, reassuring me they'd be visiting too. Aren't people amazing?!! Aren’t my team amazing?!

I'll tell you what's not amazing though (and downright scary): the man down an adjacent corridor letting out the most bloodcurdling screams, interspersed with “FUCK YOU’s” and multiple staff members and security all running past me to restrain and barricade him into his room. Was I in a mental asylum??!

Needless to say I didn't sleep a wink, down to his screams, stretchers thundering past me, the nurses in the Triage Bay despairing- also having a night from hell, the poo-filled toilet constantly in use, the blast of air from the doors constantly opening behind my head, the beeping from my morphine machine, the intense pain I was in, the fear creepy in, the tears rolling down my face… I felt like I'd been forgotten about. Just parked up in the corridor with my morphine long ran out, as dawn eventually broke and the staff handover started.

Things got better though when the police turned up. They ran in, immediately halting when they got to the crossroads in the corridors. They looked left, then right, as our mental asylum friend let out another bloodcurdling scream.

“He's down that way guys!” I said authoritatively, as they immediately took note and headed off in the direction I told them to. Even though I actually had no clue!

He was now switching up his screams of “FAAACCKKKK!” with Christmas carols- slipping into “FA LA LA LA LAAA, LA LA LA LAAAA!”

Wonderful.

I kept telling myself the reason I've been waiting so long for a bed on a ward was because the universe was preparing the perfect one for me. Sure enough, it felt positively luxury when I was taken to my very own cubicle with my very own curtain, and a window that opened three inches, propped open with a bedpan. Fresh air! And a slight view of the sky. I’d got so lucky! Let's focus on this instead of the fact I'm probably about to be taken down to theatre for major surgery and I’m shit-scared.