What happened when I called 999 #NHS

Image courtesy of Krzysztof Hepner

I remember watching the news during lockdown. Seeing the rows of ambulances stuck in hospital carparks, nowhere to put the patients inside. My heart went out to those people. I couldn’t imagine how they felt. To be taken to a hospital where you should feel safe, secure, and not being able to gain entry for hours.

I never dreamt that this was still going on. That over two years later I’d be the one stuck in an ambulance overnight with nowhere to go.

Firstly, I’m a notoriously private person but I feel it’s important to share my experience because, naively, I’d assumed this problem was a Covid one and didn’t happen anymore. Yes, I’d heard there are sometimes delays responding to emergency calls but I’d thought (no judgement please) this was because of staff shortages, lack of funds, all of the ambulances being out on calls. Not… this.

I was away for the weekend. Having a really nice time, until suddenly I wasn’t. Something was wrong. Very wrong. My husband called 999, it was the first time we’d experienced doing this. The operator was the calm we needed. Professional. Assured us that an ambulance would be with me as soon as it could.

We waited. And waited. And waited.

In hindsight, we should have made our own way to the hospital (remember, no judgement). But we were sure the ambulance would come any minute. Knew I needed medical care. We were miles from home and panicking.

After approximately 3 hours a first responder attended. We sat in our cramped holiday accommodation. He explained he lived minutes down the road but had only just got the call.  He worked voluntarily and shockingly had paid £2000 for his own kit so he could do so. He said there was a big backlog. He told us where the nearest A & E was, an hour away, and then called the control centre and said my husband could drive me there. They ran through my current symptoms and strongly advised against it. Wanted him to stay with me so he could save my life if needs be.

And so we waited. And waited. And waited.

Around 3 hours later the ambulance turned up. The paramedics gave me a quick check over and said they wanted to get me to hospital straight away. They were super calm and so friendly and I’m eternally grateful to them.

When we got to the hospital around midnight, the carpark was full of ambulances containing patients. I’m not sure how many, I heard the figure 28 mentioned by another paramedic outside. It was explained to me we would have to wait.

For hours.

I was cold, exhausted, scared. In pain. I couldn’t help thinking of the other occupants in the other ambulances. How did they feel? Their families? I was getting a string of frantic texts from my husband who had been told he wasn’t allowed to come to the hospital (Covid rules). I told him to try and get some sleep. It was going to be a long night. And it was, broken up at 2am by having to move ambulances in the frigid night air as my crew had finished their shift (which btw is often in excess of 12 hours).

I chatted with all 4 paramedics involved in my care. I had many questions about the situation. The paramedics explained that this was usual for their hospital. That they knew this was also standard in other areas. That it’s set to get worse with the onset of winter, a new strain of flu on the horizon. An expected increase in Covid.

Worse?

I apologised to them over and over. I couldn’t, still can’t, get my head around that they spend between 2-4 years training for the career they went into to save lives, help people, make a difference, and much of their shift is spent sitting in a car park. Unused. Undervalued. Although they were all positive people, morale was understandably low. I also felt horribly guilty that while the ambulances were stuck, there were people out there desperately needing them. Those, like me, who had called 999, reassured help was on the way. These lovely, experts receiving abuse when they do turn up on jobs sometimes because of the long wait which is completely out of their hands.

I think, that’s one of the worst things for me. Despite my medical history I’ve tried to remain optimistic, always believing that if my life was in danger I could call for help and help would come in time. I’ve now lost that sense of safety. The faith I had in our NHS. The future now more uncertain.

Terrifying.

The night passed slowly. The paramedics keeping my mind off of my situation. We talked about everything from going into space, to the challenges I am facing with the plot of a time travel book I’d begun. The magnitude of the multiverse book I want to write. Copies of my latest thriller were ordered from Amazon (every cloud!)

It must have been approaching 6am when I was moved into the hospital. Another couple of hours after that when I saw a doctor. And then came more waiting for tests, results. Being wheeled around the hospital, left alone in waiting areas, in corridors. Dizzy from an entirely sleepless night. Lack of food.

Other patients were polite to staff (who were wonderful and trying their best), I was pleased to see this and can imagine it isn’t always the case.  But faces were etched with pain, with despair. People sitting on the floor because all the chairs were full, head in hands, sometimes crying (and this was me 14 hours in…). Symptoms were discussed between doctor/patient/nurse in the waiting rooms, perhaps to save time and perhaps because there were no private areas. The lack of privacy, dignity not being addressed because everyone had the same end goal. Doctors to discharge patients, patients desperate to go home.

It was approximately 16 hours later that I was discharged. The doctor giving me paperwork to pass on to my consultant who I’m scheduled to see. Me, still despairing because although I’d been having urgent tests (appointments for which have still taken months and I’m still waiting for some) my follow up appointment to discuss results is next April.

So what’s the answer?

Genuinely I don’t know if our beloved NHS is fixable. Not without a huge injection of cash at the very least. It’s easy to sit at home and rage and ‘if I were the Prime Minster I’d get the money from…’ without understanding the ins and outs but… something, surely?

I haven’t seen any evidence this government cares enough to try.

So what do we do?

My eldest son has private healthcare through his employer and I’m very grateful he does. Private healthcare is something I’ve looked into but no one will cover my pre-existing medical conditions and I didn’t even get as far as a quote. It will be unobtainable for many because of finances and medical history.

My middle child already can’t makes ends meet with the steep increase in everything. He’s had such a rough deal already. Mountainous student debt accumulated during a practical degree in filmmaking. The university not being able to deliver anything they promised due to Covid/lockdowns. Graduating but without any practical experience, a portfolio, work experience placements. The university not refunding any of the fees although we asked and appealed, the government not putting any measures in place (and you can watch my chat with Kai about the challenges students face here).

If you’re UK based you already know of the current hardships. The ripples of fear. The fruitless longing for our MPs to spend some time living on benefits, caring for sick relatives, grappling with childcare, living on a low (normal) wage. To gain an understanding of the lives of ordinary people and then, perhaps to show some empathy, compassion. We need to add spending the entire night in the back of an ambulance to that list.

Perhaps then something might change. But, of course, this is unlikely to happen. So how can we instil a much needed change? Is there anything the public can do? I’m asking this as a genuine question.

I was a mindfulness teacher within mental health, before I was a fulltime author, I always try and look for the positives but I’ve struggled to think of a positive way to end this post, so I’ll finish up with Cyril.

After I’d been discharged I had an hours wait for my lift to arrive and I got chatting to a man in his 80s who told me he didn’t often get to talk to anyone. He’d lost his wife 5 years previously – his one true love – and it was an absolutely pleasure to listen to him talk about her.

Sitting on the bench, in the sun, bonding with a stranger. A lovely end to a traumatic couple of days.

 

 

 

 

 

Writing my novel didn’t go as I’d planned…

I certainly didn’t plan for my brand new release ‘The Art of Loving You’ to be so relatable to virtually everyone when I began writing it in 2019.

In my second love story Libby and Jack think they have their life figured out. With the help of their dear friend, eighty-year old Sid, they’ve bought their first home and have big personal and business plans for the next few years. But then suddenly, unexpectedly,  tragedy strikes, the future suddenly uncertain, and huge compromises and sacrifices have to be made in order to move forward.

When I began writing I drew on my own experience, exploring the emotions I had felt after my own life veered off course and my carefully laid plans couldn’t come to fruition.

I had spent years training as a naturopathic kinesiologist and building up a complementary therapy practice when a car accident exacerbated a pre-existing health condition, caused some new damage, and whisked away my mobility. In an instant, everything changed. No longer able to stand unaided I couldn’t practice anymore and the future looked very bleak. I’d lost my health, my business, my social life and my sense of identity, but worst of all I had lost my hope. When I’d spent so long planning and imagining the shape of my future how could I even begin to envisage starting again?

And yet somehow, much like the people in my story who became so dear to me (particularly 80-year old Sid who was such a joy to write), I did.  

While the world has been gripped by a pandemic most of us have had to make drastic changes to our day-to-day life as well as altering, postponing, or cancelling our plans for the future. 

The characters in my book, like the majority of us, couldn’t being to imagine their world ever feeling ’normal’ again but little by little, they carved out a new path, found new hopes and dreams to hold tightly against their hearts. 

‘The Art of Loving You’ is a story of resilience, hope and courage, drawing on the power of friendship and family. 

It’s the story of never giving up, finding happiness and moving forward after you fear all has been lost.

But, most of all, it’s a story about love.

Download ‘The Art of Loving You’ for just 99p for a limited time only or order the paperback or audio book via Amazon, Waterstones, Kobo, Google Books, Apple.

Paris!! The Coronavirus, disability & me – My trip.

It had been 17 years since I last visited Paris. My youngest son had never been, his older brother only had sketchy memories. We were due a holiday and wanted something different – a city break. All being creatives, Paris had to be that city. We spent months researching the arrondissements, the tourist attractions and the places we could visit off the beaten track. We decided on an apartment rather than a hotel, wanting to experience a tiny bit of Parisian life, drinking coffee on our own balcony, overlooking the rooftops. Our train to London was booked, along with the Eurostar. I devoured novel after novel set in the City of Light. I was immensely excited, nothing could spoil our trip.

And then the Coronavirus hit.

We were part of a visit Paris group on-line – everyone remained upbeat – nobody was going to cancel – cases in distant countries weren’t going to deter people from travelling. But then the virus escalated and suddenly the countries affected weren’t too distant and after an outbreak in Italy it was only a mater of time before it spread widely in France. People began cancelling their trips, should we?

Two days before we were due to leave The Louvre was closed with warnings that more attractions would follow. A hotel of tourists in Tenerife was quarantined. We were concerned, not solely because of the virus but because we didn’t want to be stuck overseas. My son had to be back at uni on time for assessments otherwise he might have to repeat his second year.

The day before we were due to travel there was a massive rise in cases in France. I rang my insurance company, would they cover us if we didn’t travel. They wouldn’t. Rather than excitement about our impending trip, all I felt was a sick dread. Was I putting my children in danger? What should we do? On the morning of our departure, we were still debating. In the end we decided to risk it and hope for the best. Hurriedly I packed, clothes for rainy days, layers for the chill and plenty of things to do in case we were quarantined. Our journey was uneventful, no health checks were made or questions were asked when leaving our country or entering France,

On our first day I was anxious, we decided to have a calming wander around the city. I had a loose itinerary but knew from past experience the best way to enjoy Paris is to follow your feet and see what you stumble across, around every corner is a joy to discover.

We stepped out into the glorious Spring sunshine and meandered past the stunning architecture, sharing a smile. We were here! It was okay! Before long we spotted signs for a museum. When we got there it was closed, the sign on the door was in French but we understood the heading in thick, blood letters ‘CORONOVIRUS’ we turned away, just as a group wearing face masks passed us. It was sobering. Again I wondered if we should have stayed at home. The streets were quieter than usual. On the bridge a man coughed and visitors skirted around him, however there weren’t nearly as many people wearing masks as I thought there would be, most people weren’t.

A handful of attractions were closed because of the virus but there is so much to do in Paris it didn’t matter. As the days passed we (I) grew more relaxed. The city wasn’t crowded, it was always possible to get a table in a cafe. There were no queues anywhere, not even at the Eiffel Tower or Musee D’Orsay. It was Paris like I’d never experienced before and likely never will again.

In retrospect I am so glad we didn’t cancel our trip but that’s no judgement on people who do. Face masks and fear are things you shouldn’t have to content with on a vacation. Paris will (should) always be there, hopefully the virus won’t.

We crammed such a lot into our week, far too much to share but these were our highlights: –

Place de Vosges – This is the oldest planned square in Paris. The writer, Victor Hugo lived in one of the gorgeous houses here. It’s so tranquil it’s like stepping back in time. There are some amazing galleries and boutiques lining the square as well as the bookshop in Hotel Sully.

J J Leto is the best busker I have ever seen and definitely one of my favourite things. The second we saw him we settled ourselves on the pavement and listened to his entire set before buying one of his CD’s. It’s the unexpected delights that often make a trip. This was one of them.

 

We wandered along the river and ended up at the Luxembourg Gardens which was a very pretty oasis away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Montmartre is one of my favourite places. I love the street art and the galleries. We visited the Montmartre Museum and I was thrilled to try the swing featured in Renoir’s ‘The Swing’ painting. The Sacre Coeur is stunning and the views across the city are breathtaking.

 

I’m a bit of a stationery obsessive so Melodies Graphiques was a real treat. I came away with bags of handmade paper, a dip pen and ink vowing to write everything the old-fashioned way from now on. Expect my next book to be ready in about 2029…

 

We were lucky that in between the torrential bouts of rain it was warm enough to sit outside at the cafes, soak up the atmosphere and eat a waffle or two.

 

The Eiffel Tower offers such sweeping views it’s great for a photo opportunities. For the best view of the tower head over to the Trocadero and of course, go back at night to see it illuminated and watch the light show that sparkles every hour.

 

I’m such an art lover but I knew we wouldn’t have time to see all the galleries and so I chose carefully. The Musee D’Orsay did not disappoint. I became quite emotional to see paintings I had admired for years via books (including Renoir’s The Swing – I think I’d nailed it.)

The French were so friendly. I greeted everyone with a happy smile and a ‘Bonjour’ and received the same in return. The food was heavenly – we didn’t have a single bad meal although sometimes we had to try several restaurants before we found a vegetarian option.

We would avoid – taxis – we sat in traffic for so long the first day we didn’t bother again. The metro is simple once you’ve done it once and there’s always someone who will help you out.

 

We came away laden with wine, cheese and chocolate; many happy memories and a love for the city. Paris – we shall see you again soon!

Lastly, a few words about disabled access. I have compromised mobility and although I didn’t take my wheelchair I was heavily reliant on crutches. I have walked more this week than I thought was possible (and am paying for it heavily!) The French are super conscious and considerate of anyone disabled. Each time on the Metro I was offered a seat. Had there been queues at attractions I could have skipped them if I’d asked at the front of the queue. There are a lot of stairs in the city. Some avoidable. Some not. The Sacre Coeur has a few hundred but you can avoid most (there are still some) of these by riding up in the Funicular (which is free with a metro pass). The Pantheon had a ramp. Most restaurants and cafes unfortunately have toilets downstairs. There are very few lifts in eating establishments. Most metro stations don’t have them. There are many toilet facilities scattered around the city which I think should fit a wheelchair in. Some of the larger places (The Musee D’Orsay for example) have wheelchairs which you can borrow.