E is for Emergency Room

They call it Emergency Room or ER in the United States or Casualty or Accident and Emergency in the United Kingdom. Whatever the terminology, it was not the best place to end up on a Friday night.

Meth amphetamine is known as Meth or Crystal Meth in the United States and Speed in Britain. If you take Meth or Speed you are more likely to end up in ER or Casualty than if you participate in other risky behaviors such as excessive cup cake eating.

There was no icing on the cake for me that Friday night. Just a severe pain in my stomach and chest, a soaring temperature  and violent convulsions that caused me to hit a police officer as much, as  for attention as anything else. When they told me the charges had been dropped as I was wheeled through the ward I didn’t care much. There was a pain behind my eyes from three nights without sleep and a feeling of guilt. I had cheated on my beloved brown powder for Speed and it was taunting me. I had a rush of love at that moment for Dr. K.

The faces of my family were indistinct. I read concern and also something more unpleasant. I had a vision of the egg shell blue skies above a Scottish castle and the soft lines on my mother’s face as she led me by the hand down the stairs of the clock tower.  It felt so long ago.

That failure had been eclipsed by this one. Now the crowd of people around my bedside parted like the Red Sea and a substantial figure in a trench coat filled the space under the arc lights. I noted the familiar features of Monty but they had hardened and matured in the six months since I had last seen him.

Monty adjusted his cravat and addressed me in a formal manner that seemed to indicate he was speaking for the whole family.

“We are very saddened to see you like this Campbell,” he said in a voice that sounded far too old and gravelly for his 18 years on earth. “Drug abuse is not something we like to talk about or to confront in this family and perhaps it was our inability to face this issue that has led you to this very sad juncture. I was very relieved to hear from the doctors that you will survive this episode but if you carry on with this reckless life, we cannot vouch for your future safety. I know I speak for the family as a whole when I say we cannot just stand by and watch you wreck your life in this manner.”

There was a general hubbub around the room and my mother finally piped up.“Please Campbell. Listen to him. Monty has just secured an apprenticeship from one of the top city banks. You are lucky not to be in jail. You can learn a lot from him. Please Campbell.”

A sickness was rising in my throat that was not entirely due to the drugs I had ingested. I nodded and muttered and looked through my family to a scene beyond where a drunk was being pinned down by four nurses.

I finally managed to spit out a few words. “If that’s all, I think I need to sleep now.”

“Very well,” continued Monty, his hand firmly inside his heavy coat like Napoleon directing his armies. “But we do need you to do something for us, although perhaps it has passed the phase when your permission or otherwise is important. We have secured you a place at a rehabilitation facility in France. We think it’s for the best all round.”

He continued in a long-winded manner that he had made his own, but I was no longer listening. I could sense the family around me was splintering up into small, nervous huddles, two fifths concern and the rest disapproval at my condition. The sickness rose in my throat. I felt dizzy like I was going to relapse. I grabbed the emergency cord and pulled it hard three times. I’m not sure whether it was because I really wanted nurses to come running to my bedside or I wanted the curtain drawn around me to shut out the small, jittery cabal at my bedside.

Chapters from my novella Transitions are entirely fictitious and no resemblance is intended to real people or events.

E is for Emergency Room

The Emergency Room is the place I may find myself at soon after I dive out of the window to escape from the A-Z challenge.

It's an onerous kind of thing to blog every day because there are days when quite frankly I don't feel like blogging. Like today, tomorrow and the next.

Still the emergency room is a no brainer because I've made too many visits; even though it was called Casualty back home. There was even a show of the same name, although it wasn't the sort of drama that would attract George Clooney of ER. George Formby, more like.

I made my first visit to casualty when I was about two-years-old after my parents rather kindly left some shards from a broken bottle in the bath. They swear it was an oversight and social services were not called on. Still I never pass up the opportunity to remind them.

Although the cuts weren't severe I still remember a night of terror under artificial lights and butcherous figures milling around wearing green masks.

The second incident was during my adolscence when my Superman-style dive onto a bed ended in a good deal of Lois Lane. I don't want to elaborate on this one much given its embarrassing nature.

Incident three was during my first term at university. I had the advantage of a top floor room directly above my 'friend' Andy. This was particuarly handy because it meant every time he stuck his head out of the window, I could tip water from my plant jug on his head.

On one occasion, his head disappeared as if he had been shot shortly after I soaked him and there was a pounding on the stairs. Suddenly Andy was in my room, throwing a bucket of water at me. Expecting such a dirty trick I had refilled the jug. I chased him down the corridor. He closed the glass fire door. I went through it.

Bleeding profusely from the head and chest I retreated to the bathroom. Surinder, a medical student, saw my plight, laughed loudly and ran outside chuckling. He later landed a top job on Harley Street. I still bear the scars.

A good five years later I had my next brush with the emergency room. The scene was Wales on a windy day and we decided to tackle the mountain Snowdon the hard way along a narrow ridge.

We had sneakers and our belongings in a plastic supermarket bag. Our waterproof jackets cost about $10 each and we had no map. The only thing we were lacking was T-shirts reading: "I want to be a statistic."

Things went downhill fast, although not literally. Literally things went uphill and up a craggy peak called Crib Goch which apparently is a "knife edged" Arete; although I'd describe it more accurately as a big rocky pain in the backside.

After hanging over a sheer side as we inched over the rocks, we made it to a narrow and slippery ledge. The peak of Snowdon appeared to be miles away in the mist.

"This first part of the ridge is very exposed and serious, having resulted in several fatalities, even of experienced mountaineers," says Wikipedia, which wasn't much good because it wasn't around in those days.

Martin's cheap sneakers slipped at one point and an experienced climber with all the appropriate gear came across the ridge bemoaning the treacherous weather conditions. "Oh my God. I'm going to die," Martin said in a thick Scottish brogue, looking ruefully at his mildew encrusted sandwiches in a Tescos bag.

The thought of those sandwiches outliving Martin was too much.

Galvanized into a panic we decided to head down a steep slope to knee aching, backside scraping safety. After numerous cuts and scrapes we reached a path. Unfortunately at this point a huge gust of wind picked up my backpack and propelled me off the path. I saw a rock heading towards my face and tasted blood. I had enough time to think: "This is the end."

When I tried to get up I knew something was wrong. My left wrist had ballooned up and was clearly broken. We sat on the path in the driving rain wondering what way to return back. After about two minutes a man appeared, who turned out to be a ranger.

Salvation had shown up out of the mist but the walk to a van and the jolting drive in a vehicle full of climbers groaning about their fractures is something I will never forget. I resolved to take up less dangerous hobbies in future such as checking out tea rooms.

But every fracture has it's recompense. While Martin spent a windy night in a freezing campsite and saw the tent literally blown away I was in a warm hospital bed surrounded by nurses.

And when I was released for the rest of the trip with a plaster cast on my arm, my plight endured maximum sympathy from every Welsh person I met including ladies in lacy hats. And let's face it Welsh people, and ladies in lacy bonnets in particular, are not normally known for their kindness to the English.

I even had the satisfaction of getting Martin to tie my shoe laces. I made sure as many people as possible were watching.

Notwithstanding these few perks I'd rather keep up my record of no admissions to ER for the last 20 years, unless you include a badminton-related sprain. For one thing it invariably tends to hurt.