Oh no! Emergency Ward Ten, ER, Holby/Blackburn City here we come again. This was history repeating itself, Luis in agony and me trying to translate. Why oh why didn’t I revise my Spanish medical terms after the last time? (refer to old blog ‘Pricks and Stones’ and my confusion with the word drawers as opposed to testicles, which are very similar in Spanish.) A&E Luis examined by lady/girl doctor with two pens stuck in hair like chopsticks who could also speak French so thankfully they could communicate without me adding to the confusion. Everything sounds so much nicer in French doesn’t it, even horrible yuk medical things. After an x ray he was then seen by another lady/girl doctor (they all look about ten nowadays) who was dressed in a short black chiffon evening type dress, vaguely Goth, which revealed quite a lot of her abundant cleavage. She gave him a very brusque and thorough examination, at which point I had to avert my eyes. Then we sat in a side room to wait – and wait – and wait for the specialist to appear.
Luis after the rather rough examination was now in extreme agony and his earlier dose of morphine was wearing off. “Adriana,” he ordered me impatiently “Get me some (Spanish swearword) aspirina.”
“I’m not a frig nurse,” my patience was running out too.
“Bluddy hinglish khospital and no (Spanish swearword) aspirina is (worse Spanish swearword) ridiculosa.
“Calm (English swearword) down, they can’t give you anything till they know if they have to operate.” Long line of Spanish swearwords, calling the Goth doctress a whore of the worst description etc.
All hell then broke loose. Luis decided he’d had enough and was going home. He shoved me out of the way ripping needles out of his arm going completely Latino on me. Then he started beating his fists against the wall and hyperventilating. I thought he was having a fit or a heart attack.“Can somebody please help me?” I begged. The Goth doctress stopped flirting with young medical student in the corridor and a flurry of young doctors and nurses went into panic mode, stuck him on a stretcher and ran off with him to the emergency room. It was just like an episode of Casualty. I thought he was going to die on me – but fortunately he didn’t.
I arrived at the hospital early the next morning to find him staggering through the revolving doors dazed and confused. He’d come down for a cigarette then couldn’t find his way back to the ward. They let him come home with me and I thought the worst was over, but a few hours later he came flying down from attic looking like the wild man of Borneo, eyebrows knotted, beating his head and cursing in Spanish. “Mira,” he fumed waving his identity tag in the air and jabbing the barcode with his angry finger. Apparently, he’d woken up, lit a cigarette then come over all peculiar (even more peculiar than has become his norm these days) ripped off his identity tag and immediately felt better, thereby coming to the conclusion that the barcode was some kind of nicotine patch. Do they do that now I wondered? I was getting as daft as him by this time. Surely they would have told him – or maybe they had and he hadn’t understood.
I called the hospital. “Do they put no smoking patches on patients identity tags these days?” I asked her.
“Well, not that I know of,” she laughed, “But I could do with one as I’ve just given up smoking. I’ll put you through to A&E maybe someone there knows.”
The nurse who answered the phone laughed her socks off. “No we don’t, but maybe it’s a good idea.”
Luis still not convinced and definitely not amused glowering fit to bust at me. Oh dear, never a dull moment around here. All is now calm on the Western/Blackburn Front but for how long – no peace for the wicked as they say. Joking aside, just have to add a positive comment here for Blackburn Royal Hospital and the (in reality) lovely young doctors and doctresses.
