A Sense of Perspective

Becky’s finger began to throb again, pulsing rhythmically with her heart, but becoming more painful with each beat.  She glanced at the clock yet again and recalculated all her timings.  It was nearly four hours since she had trapped her right index finger in her ironing board and three and a half hours since her next-door neighbour, Ali, had driven her to hospital. Becky had decided not to ring her husband, Mike, as he was working the late shift at the factory, so would not return home until nine that night.  She thought she would have returned by then, especially as there were so few patients waiting when they arrived at A & E. 

Admittedly, it was only a quarter of an hour before the triage nurse inspected her hand, took Becky’s details and told her she would be seen as soon as possible. Holding her arm upright to stem the bleeding, was making it ache even more, but she had no option.

She and Ali had fidgeted on the hard, plastic seats for another hour, trying to find a comfortable position, before Becky was called in to see a doctor. She apologised whilst he unwrapped the tea-towel that she had wound round her hand, explaining that she was on the pointing of beginning the ironing when the accident happened and she had grabbed the nearest thing to use as a bandage. Now she realised how swollen her finger had become and how bruised it was.

“Can you wiggle it?” the doctor asked and watched as Becky flexed it as far as the pain allowed.

“Close your eyes for a few seconds”, he said, making Becky wonder what his intentions were.

She had nothing to fear though, as he gently touched her finger in various places, pausing to ask if she could feel anything. She could, except for the last time. She started panicking, thinking she had lost sensation.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said and when Becky did, he was smiling.

“I didn’t touch your finger the last time. Sometimes patients say they can feel things, when I haven’t touched them. I needed to check that you weren’t just saying “yes” every time, for the sake of it. The cut will need a few stitches, but I want you to have an x-ray first, to make sure the bone wasn’t damaged.”

He completed a form, handed it to Becky and gave her directions to the X-ray Department. She handed it in at reception and then sat waiting patiently for her turn. Forty minutes later, the radiologist completed his work, confirmed the bone was fine and he would email the results to A & E. All she needed to do was retrace her steps and report back to the reception there.

Once again, she found herself sitting next to Ali on a plastic chair, that seemed determined to make every one of her joints ache. The waiting area was much busier now, with a constant flow of new patients.

Becky was becoming used to the piercing sound of the sirens and the gaudy flashing of the blue lights as the ambulances arrived, followed a minute or so later by the thump of the outer doors of the department as another stretcher was disgorged. Then she realised that some blue lights belonged to police cars, bringing with them the first casualties of Friday night drinking sessions.  The level of noise within A & E rose rapidly and she began to wonder how the staff managed to think straight.

She looked at the clock again. It was just after 8.30. Mike would arrive home soon and wonder where she was.  Becky struggled to find her mobile phone in her coat pocket, only to drop it with a clatter, when her fingers refused to grip it.

“Let me,” Ali said, as she leant forward to pick it up.

She tried handing it back to Becky, but it fell to the ground once more.

“I need to let Mike know what’s happened,” Becky explained, as Ali retrieved the phone again.

“If you dictate the message, I’ll type it for you.”

“Hi Mike. I’ve hurt my hand. Nothing serious but need stitches. With Ali at the hospital. See you soon. Love. Becks.”

Ali read the message back.

“That’s fine. Can you send it please?”

Just as Ali hit the button, a nurse called Becky’s name and then led her back into the treatment area.

“We’re expecting a major incident soon, but there’s time to stitch your finger before they arrive,” the nurse explained, as she injected the anaesthetic.

It took effect quickly and Becky felt strange watching the stitches being made, without feeling them. As a bandage was being applied, she heard the now familiar sound of ambulances arriving and the clatter as the first stretcher was pushed through the entrance doors, closely followed by another.  Their passage created a draft that blew the curtain surrounding the bed to one side, giving Becky a clear view of the second stretcher. A man was lying there, connected to various tubes and monitors, with blood soaking into the blanket beneath him. A paramedic was by his side, holding a pack of saline aloft, which was connected to a canular in the back of the man’s hand.

He disappeared from her view, to be followed by a third and then a fourth stretcher carrying more casualties.

“What happened?” Becky asked the nurse.

“A serious traffic accident on the main road,” she replied. “Here’s a leaflet about keeping the wound clean and you’ll need to make an appointment to have the stitches out. Can you find your way out, as I’m need over there?” she asked, pointing in the direction of the stretchers.

“Of course. Thank you.”

Becky slid off the bed and walked slowly back towards the waiting area. Her finger may have hurt like mad when she trapped it, but now she realised how trivial her injury was compared to some others.