The Emergency Room

It’s a lovely Friday night in A&E. I thought I’d come as I had nothing better to do. Has anyone on the planet ever called 111 and not been told to come? In my present state I felt I should probably just do what I’m told and listen to my inner voice of caution. I wouldn’t be here if I’d listened more closely to my instincts. A bunch of bloods came back from my trip to the rheumatoid clinic. A long overdue appointment to see if I have an inflammatory disease (aside from cancer). I’ve been waiting three months for this one. It was where the GP sent me rather than for a scan to check if my cancer was back but hey ho. Seems obvious in retrospect. Anyway I was reading through the results and made the mistake of putting all the wildly out of range ones in chatgpt with the info about my cancer type and position of my tumours. It told me to call 111 in case I had a pulmonary embolism as the bloods plus lung tumour meant I was high risk. I called 111 and told them what chatgpt had found and they agreed. It’s only hour three and they’ve done some more bloods. I must have had a good pint taken out this week. I have lymphedema in my left arm from the last cancer so have to have them in my right. I look like a pin cushion.

I have a good book and have been comforting a pregnant girl next to me. I asked her if she was ok and she burst into tears. I remembered sitting here so many times when I was pregnant with my twins and bled throughout the first 12 weeks. I told her how everything had worked out even when we thought everything was lost and the hospital had taken really good care of us. I’m not sure I helped, but chocolate and a tuna sandwich seemed to cheer her up. How does any woman survive pregnancy? I have no idea. Another old lady told me she had open heart surgery, her husband died of a stroke a few months ago and her elderly mother is sick so she never gets to rest. Man life is tough. Why does no one ever tell you. It’s like a well kept secret if you grow up lucky.

It’s taking so long here for everyone we give a little cheer every time someone gets called through. I’m trying to find something magical here. The full diversity of London and the international names fascinate me. I am trying to keep a mask on in crowds again but it’s hard to get used to. I need to pee but an worried about losing my seat. Maybe someone nice will keep it for me. The trouble is I look pretty well but I really can’t stand for long. Last time I was having treatment I was much braver about asking for seats on the tube and wearing my little badge. People genuinely look at you with wonder if you seem able bodied. Also one risks being asked if one is pregnant. Perhaps I should be flattered at 51. Sometimes I tell them ‘no but I have twins’ and they say ‘ah when were they born?’. I only tell them ‘12 years ago’ once I have their seat though. It always gets a laugh from other passengers.

But in A&E who do you give your seat up for when it’s busy? The man on crutches? The lady with her head in a bloody bandage? Homeless coughing guy? Someone older? Tonight the answer is…none of them. Last time I was jumping up and down like a frog trying to judge who was more worthy but I think I will put myself first today. Sorry bleeding Asian octogenarian. Oh Lord I will go to hell for this. I really want to ask the large Sikh contingent to stop play their phones out loud but they smiled at me when I glared and I didn’t have the heart. The whole family have come with the dad and it’s kind of beautiful (if loud).

I had an encouraging day. A good friend of my father’s took me for a wonderful lunch and we talked about faith and letting people help. He’s a discreet and private man so I won’t share more but he was so generous in his wisdom and kindness and I find this transformative at the moment. He connected me with a very senior oncologist at the Royal Marsden who rang me later in the day and told me to have hope. She said that even at the advanced stage breast cancer is ‘more like a chronic disease these days and not a death sentence’. I got a bit emotional and explained that no one in the medical profession had said that to me yet and explained that I’d been (mistakenly) with the lung team who were sure I was one of theirs. She gave a dry laugh and said ‘ooh well yes, things are a bit different in lung’. Sorry means something else there. She helped me weigh the merits of Imperial vs The Marsden. Both excellent world class hospitals. She also told me that after all the years she’d worked there the only difference she could see between the private and NHS care was nicer food if you have to stay in hospital ‘but you can bring your own so who cares.’ There is something about talking to experts that is so reassuring. She even remembered my mum’s consultant from thirty years ago. My mum outlived him as he got cancer himself. She recommended I ask for a second opinion and get referred to the Marsden for it. It’s a gentler journey to be in a dedicated cancer hospital, she said, agreeing with me that Charing Cross could feel like a war zone sometimes. Still, it’s a bit preemptive seeking a second opinion before you’ve even been given the first. I like to be ready.

So I’ve taken all the good advice and done what I can. Sought second opinions and referrals. Bargained with and worked the system. Been a good girl scout patient advocate. My mother would be proud. And this afternoon I tried to help a few people I met along my way to give back some good karma for all the help I have received. The most rewarding was a young homeless guy called Nars outside Ealing Broadway. I was shocked by how young he looked, thinking he didn’t look much older than my son. I bought him a coffee and was reminded he was just a kid by how much sugar he asked for. I stayed for a chat. He’s a young looking 25, black guy with dreads outside Starbucks opposite the tube if you see him. He lost his home recently when his sister died by suicide. Mother also tried to commit suicide. He has no one else and is waiting for a place in a more permanent hostel next week. It’s so much for a young person to handle and he was so calm. He was a positive, bright guy and explained to me that he had had his guitar stolen this week and now couldn’t make money busking so had to sleep rough and beg for the first time since he had everything taken. There’s a nice lady in Southall with a hostel who lets him stay for whatever money he’s got so I buy him a couple of nights and make streetlink aware of him. He hopes to go to UAL in the Autumn to study music. I tell him about my cancer and we reflect on how life doesn’t always work out quite how you think it will but how there is always hope. I say I’m going to find him a guitar and I have a feeling he’s going to be successful in his life. He has that determined air about him. I’ve been asking for favours on local Facebook groups and have not one but two free guitars on offer for him by the end of the day. I’ll see if I can find him again over the weekend to take him one of them and check he didn’t sleep rough. I look forward to giving him the guitar but I want a song in return. If he’s shit I’ll know I’ve been scammed haha. If he’s not, I’ll post his song. I’ve also been offered unwanted ukeleles, accordions, a keyboard and a triangle. Perhaps we could start a band.

Hour four in A&E. My ass is numb. Talking of karma, will someone take my seat if I go for a pee? I deserve it.

Update: Hour 6. Do you think the parking time keeps clocking up at night.

Update 1.36am: All good. Slightly raised troponin and a few things indicative of…cancer…but no heart attacks or embolisms today. Bed.