Late yesterday evening, sitting in the dining room listening to the family swapping anecdotes over a belated cheese course, I started to feel dramatically worse: I was nauseous, and the pain in my ribcage was now so bad I could barely breathe. But it had been a crazy day, and I was very tired, so rather than make a fuss I caught R on his own, explained the situation to him, took some more painkillers, and went to bed, hoping that sleep would allow everything to calm back down. I asked R not to upset the Offspring by telling them how I was feeling, but – par for the course – he completely ignored this request, so it was no great surprise to L when I woke her up, gasping for breath, at 3.30am and said I was really terribly sorry, but I thought I probably needed to go to A&E.
It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes after she dialled 999 that an ambulance arrived, staffed by two charming young paramedics who lugged a huge amount of equipment into the kitchen, did a rapid assessment, and told me that they couldn’t find any rib displacement, my ECG was fine, my oxygen saturation was normal, and – contrary to the sensation I had that I was only able to inhale shallowly into the top half of the right lung – air flow through both lungs was good. They weren’t worried, they said, but I probably needed stronger pain relief, and maybe a chest x-ray just to be on the safe side, and if I wanted to go to A&E they were perfectly happy to drive me there. L and I had a quick chat about other options, then I decided to go – she following on behind in her own car.
I’m mildly addicted to the television show 24 hours in A&E – though I never had any desire to feature in it – and when I was admitted to triage I couldn’t stop a voiceover running through my head:
“A 68-year old woman has been brought to A&E by ambulance, two days after falling at home and sustaining a rib injury – during which time she completely failed to seek medical advice or assistance, until, waking up in the small hours of Boxing day morning, she found herself so short of breath that she feared she was about to die, and finally asked for help.”
“The 68-year old woman with a rib injury has now been joined by her daughter, who arrived with a flask of Earl Grey tea, a punnet of grapes, two bananas and a supply of energy bars. The mother is drinking the tea but repeatedly refusing food, to the daughter’s evident bemusement. They are chatting cheerfully with the receptionist, though the mother yelps in pain whenever anyone makes her laugh. Staff are waiting for the results of blood tests before deciding what further steps to take. The 68-year old woman says she was told three days ago that her blood is perfect.”
“Blood tests and x-rays of the 68-year old woman who damaged her ribs in a fall before Christmas have given staff no reason to suspect any serious injury, and though they can’t absolutely rule out a greenstick fracture, they believe that she’ll feel much better in a few days time. She is now being discharged with a small supply of prescription painkillers, and the probably vain hope that in future she’ll make a better job of keeping her feet under her centre of gravity.”
So off L and I went into a frosty, sunny Boxing Day morning, straight to the nearest Starbucks for breakfast. And then back home, for more breakfast. Shortly after that – or so it seemed to me – all the other adults in the house began constructing and devouring huge plates of Christmas leftovers for lunch. I was still feeling a bit frail though, so I only managed a turkey sandwich with dauphinoise potato, sliced pigs in blankets, cranberry sauce and mayonnaise. I fear that the bathroom scales and I may need to remain strangers for the rest of the year.
After lunch the entire family went for a walk (or in my case, wheezing hobble). It was still sunny, but pretty cold, and the Baby Brother graciously consented to wear this hat, which is, I’m told, the only one he’ll ever tolerate, though it’s clearly had at least one previous owner, and is much too big for him. He chooses to wear it pulled right down so almost none of his face is visible, and won’t have it any other way. Every now and then during the walk someone would lift the front to check on him, and he’d stare them down silently until they let go of it, then yank it back down over his face. I predict a career as a bank robber.
R: L2, C3, D8.
