These are notes I made on the evening of Ned's accident in September 2015.
The worst bit, of so many worst bits, was seeing N with his nose hanging off - hunkered down and very still, not daring to move, bloody lumps of flesh hanging off his face like dark red clots. And a pool of blood on the floor, endless dripping of blood, trying to get him to sit back.
Incessant questions from the 999 handler: "How much blood?" "Still dripping?" "Get a pad and hold it in position." I knew I couldn't do that - I called Katie and Ruth - they came at once and were so good.
At the same time I was trying to sort out our AirBnB guest on the computer. The paramedics came at last, and took him into the ambulance. I came too. They were working on him for hours. When were we going to leave? It took 30 minutes to strap him up - put in the cannula. This was where Ned, who had been ultra calm, became panicky. He calmed down once the morphine hit him. Then he became more excitable, wanting to talk. Mark tapping at the door, standing outside in the rain with an umbrella, wanting to know what was happening. We are leaving for Ashford. I hadn't thought of this, I had assumed our local hospital. Will I have to stay the night? I need my Kindle, paper and pens.
I must be in shock too. It's claustrophobic in the ambulance, it's like a mobile clinic, drawers, bins, intravenous drips, hooks etc.
It's a long journey - at last we reach the hospital, straight into a group of staff standing by.
Everyone is lovely, the two paramedics, both women, one northern, one southern, and Katie and everyone remarking how calm N is. No shrieking - they are grateful.
Doctor's questions, nurse sorts N out, He's Turkish. We also see a max-fax registrar, an older anaesthetist and a younger woman anaesthetist.
It's hard for N to talk - I answer questions. He goes for a CT scan - his tooth apparently stuck in his lip. He may have swallowed one, and needs a chest X-ray. They will keep him in over night in the head injury ward and operate in the morning, we hope. Nil by mouth from 2 am, not that Ned fancies trying to eat or drink.
The nice max-fax doctor wipes his eyes clean, it's just closed with blood. He can see, his eyes seem OK, thank God. It's a strange thing that N has had three of these head injuries in his life, all of which have been pretty spectacular, but not serious in any long term way, simply resulting in scars or breakage. More sound and fury than anything seriously wrong - a bit like N himself at times.
While Ned dozes I sit and listen to the people around me. A doctor in the next cubicle is asking an old man about his wife.
"Does she smoke?"
"No she used to sing with a band and smoke a bit - but when I met her I said "it's cigarettes or me" and she chose me."
Later he tells the doctor that she's never been to hospital before. She got Parkinson's but now it looks as though her kidneys have packed up.
"She's not in a good way" a woman says "We have to take more bloods".
She's clearly in pain, a lot of grunts and groans, heavy breathing, the curtain shaking violently.
She probably dying I suspect, but not in a good way.
Her husband jokes gamely with the nurses. Someone probably told him to keep a smile in his voice when he was young.
Ned looks gruesome - head bandages padded over his mouth. We haven't washed his hands. I offered to but he said "No thanks". They are covered with blood from where he held a succession of kitchen towels and sacrificial tea towels to his nose. I guess we'll get rid of those now.
The lady next to us is going on a drip "and we'll take it from there". It's a sodium bicarb infusion. It doesn't sound good.
"Let's hope she starts to improve."
"If she doesn't well, there's nothing we can do."
"Thank you very much" says a modest sounding female voice.
The doctor is breaking the death sentence down into manageable chunks. She is thanking him. It's nearly midnight. Does she understand what he is saying? Or is she just keeping it all under control?
The doctor is suggesting alternative treatment to the nurse. Hypos? It all sounds grim, but they are still gamely trying to save her.
It's obviously sudden and shocking for her family - they were coping with the Parkinson's, but this sudden collapse is too much. Suddenly, unable to wee, dehydrated, a build up of salts, perhaps an undiagnosed ulcer. When I hear that I wonder if it's stomach cancer.
In the other cubicle a young thug of a child called Olly is resisting treatment with shouts and screams and considerable indignation. I have the impression that he's hitting people.
I am ravenous, I haven't eaten for 10 hours. One wants to be with the sufferer, but one has one's own adrenalin to cope with. M will be here soon I suppose. Its more than 90 minutes since I rang him.
"Let me breathe!" Gasps, whimpers.
A period of harsh breaths. Is it the death rattle? No, she recovers again, back to gasps. A mask is put on, calming her. Laboured breath, in grunts, laboured like a woman in labour. The work of dying, the work of giving life.
Olly's cutting up rough again, screaming and kicking.
"No!"
I think they are trying to take blood or put a cannula in. Or give an injection?
Whatever happened to tranquilliser darts?
The child is now shouting
"I want it in my other one!"
What? Hand - arm - leg?
His shouts are making N agitated.
Then it's quiet for a while. The woman's family have gone for a break. There's bleeping from her cubicle. The curtains are open and I see a tiny old woman curled up in bed,.Is she calmer because she doesn't have an audience, or have some drugs kicked in?
It's quiet - still no sign of M.
The three stories of the evening could provide an episode of Casualty, suitably sexed up..
The worst bit, of so many worst bits, was seeing N with his nose hanging off - hunkered down and very still, not daring to move, bloody lumps of flesh hanging off his face like dark red clots. And a pool of blood on the floor, endless dripping of blood, trying to get him to sit back.
Incessant questions from the 999 handler: "How much blood?" "Still dripping?" "Get a pad and hold it in position." I knew I couldn't do that - I called Katie and Ruth - they came at once and were so good.
At the same time I was trying to sort out our AirBnB guest on the computer. The paramedics came at last, and took him into the ambulance. I came too. They were working on him for hours. When were we going to leave? It took 30 minutes to strap him up - put in the cannula. This was where Ned, who had been ultra calm, became panicky. He calmed down once the morphine hit him. Then he became more excitable, wanting to talk. Mark tapping at the door, standing outside in the rain with an umbrella, wanting to know what was happening. We are leaving for Ashford. I hadn't thought of this, I had assumed our local hospital. Will I have to stay the night? I need my Kindle, paper and pens.
I must be in shock too. It's claustrophobic in the ambulance, it's like a mobile clinic, drawers, bins, intravenous drips, hooks etc.
It's a long journey - at last we reach the hospital, straight into a group of staff standing by.
Everyone is lovely, the two paramedics, both women, one northern, one southern, and Katie and everyone remarking how calm N is. No shrieking - they are grateful.
Doctor's questions, nurse sorts N out, He's Turkish. We also see a max-fax registrar, an older anaesthetist and a younger woman anaesthetist.
It's hard for N to talk - I answer questions. He goes for a CT scan - his tooth apparently stuck in his lip. He may have swallowed one, and needs a chest X-ray. They will keep him in over night in the head injury ward and operate in the morning, we hope. Nil by mouth from 2 am, not that Ned fancies trying to eat or drink.
The nice max-fax doctor wipes his eyes clean, it's just closed with blood. He can see, his eyes seem OK, thank God. It's a strange thing that N has had three of these head injuries in his life, all of which have been pretty spectacular, but not serious in any long term way, simply resulting in scars or breakage. More sound and fury than anything seriously wrong - a bit like N himself at times.
While Ned dozes I sit and listen to the people around me. A doctor in the next cubicle is asking an old man about his wife.
"Does she smoke?"
"No she used to sing with a band and smoke a bit - but when I met her I said "it's cigarettes or me" and she chose me."
Later he tells the doctor that she's never been to hospital before. She got Parkinson's but now it looks as though her kidneys have packed up.
"She's not in a good way" a woman says "We have to take more bloods".
She's clearly in pain, a lot of grunts and groans, heavy breathing, the curtain shaking violently.
She probably dying I suspect, but not in a good way.
Her husband jokes gamely with the nurses. Someone probably told him to keep a smile in his voice when he was young.
Ned looks gruesome - head bandages padded over his mouth. We haven't washed his hands. I offered to but he said "No thanks". They are covered with blood from where he held a succession of kitchen towels and sacrificial tea towels to his nose. I guess we'll get rid of those now.
The lady next to us is going on a drip "and we'll take it from there". It's a sodium bicarb infusion. It doesn't sound good.
"Let's hope she starts to improve."
"If she doesn't well, there's nothing we can do."
"Thank you very much" says a modest sounding female voice.
The doctor is breaking the death sentence down into manageable chunks. She is thanking him. It's nearly midnight. Does she understand what he is saying? Or is she just keeping it all under control?
The doctor is suggesting alternative treatment to the nurse. Hypos? It all sounds grim, but they are still gamely trying to save her.
It's obviously sudden and shocking for her family - they were coping with the Parkinson's, but this sudden collapse is too much. Suddenly, unable to wee, dehydrated, a build up of salts, perhaps an undiagnosed ulcer. When I hear that I wonder if it's stomach cancer.
In the other cubicle a young thug of a child called Olly is resisting treatment with shouts and screams and considerable indignation. I have the impression that he's hitting people.
I am ravenous, I haven't eaten for 10 hours. One wants to be with the sufferer, but one has one's own adrenalin to cope with. M will be here soon I suppose. Its more than 90 minutes since I rang him.
"Let me breathe!" Gasps, whimpers.
A period of harsh breaths. Is it the death rattle? No, she recovers again, back to gasps. A mask is put on, calming her. Laboured breath, in grunts, laboured like a woman in labour. The work of dying, the work of giving life.
Olly's cutting up rough again, screaming and kicking.
"No!"
I think they are trying to take blood or put a cannula in. Or give an injection?
Whatever happened to tranquilliser darts?
The child is now shouting
"I want it in my other one!"
What? Hand - arm - leg?
His shouts are making N agitated.
Then it's quiet for a while. The woman's family have gone for a break. There's bleeping from her cubicle. The curtains are open and I see a tiny old woman curled up in bed,.Is she calmer because she doesn't have an audience, or have some drugs kicked in?
It's quiet - still no sign of M.
The three stories of the evening could provide an episode of Casualty, suitably sexed up..
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