My father had a fall last week and I accompanied him to the
hospital, along with my 87-year-old mother. The old fella spent 4 hours in the
resuscitation area of the Accident and Emergency Department - part of it in a
cubicle, most of the time on a trolley in the corridor. My mother and I sat
with him, perched on plastic chairs. Contrary to what you might expect, this
extended period of waiting was rarely dull.
My lovely mum is hard of hearing and this long-term
affliction, together with some short-term-memory loss, can cause confusion and
disorientation. When she speaks she tend to shout, presumably as a consequence
of her deafness. Also, as she gets older, she seems to be less inhibited about
sharing what’s on her mind. While sitting in the crowded Accident and Emergency
Department - surrounded by bleeping equipment, suction machines and the night’s
ill and bleeding casualties - she announced the following:
- ‘LOOKING AT ALL THESE POOR SODS, WE DON’T KNOW HOW LUCKY WE ARE.’
- (When an obese nurse walked past and smiled in our direction) ‘GOODNESS, SHE’S A FAT LASS’.
- ‘I HOPE THESE CLICKS AND SQUISHING NOISES AREN’T GOING TO CONTINUE ALL NIGHT.’
I inform her that these noises are from emergency equipment that is
keeping people alive. On hearing this, she expresses remorse, and says the Holy
Trinity while making the sign of the cross.
(Thirty seconds later) ‘THIS
RACKET ISN’T GOING TO GO ON ALL NIGHT, IS IT? WHY DON'T THEY JUST TURN THEM OFF?’
- ‘SORRY, I’VE JUST TRUMPED – IT DOESN’T SMELL THOUGH’
5. (On being told that dad hasn't broken any bones and we can all go home, mum stands over dad and says) PICK YOUR FEET UP NEXT TIME, FAT ARSE - WE'RE NOT BRINGING YOU HERE AGAIN'.
