Last night started pleasantly- a film, baileys, sitting around chatting listening to music. Little did I know then that it would end… well… not so good.
The first hint of disaster was the phonecall from my friend’s mother, asking if he could pick her up. Now this was awkward, as she didn’t know I was there, and lets just say I have reason to believe that I may not be her favourite person in the world. Still, we laughed, got in the car, and headed over there. Once in the dingy carpark somewhere in the wilds of London, I said hello, and had a nice little awkward conversation before setting about transfering boxes from one car to the other.
Enter Mr Parcel-rack, deciding to fall down just as I lent forwards. Initially I was in pain, but more concerned that my glasses may have been damaged (This always happens- I’ll probably eventually go, exsanquinating on the road somewhere, panicking that my glasses might have been scratched), but when my friend goes “Oh my god, you’re bleeding!” I realise I have blood all over my hands. Nice.
We slap tissue on my face which I clamp to the bleeding, and head home so I can get ice on it, and have a better look in the mirror. It is also at this point that my mother, about 300 miles away and therefore unable to do anything, gets a tearful little phonecall from her daughter asking if she should go to A+E. If I’d been in the company of other medics, I would have got them to look at it, clean it, and steri-strip it, but alas I was not. So off we trot to spend the rest of the evening in the hospital.
Once there we could not for the life of us work out how to get to A+E (bare in mind we are one-post grad, and one medical student). It didn’t help that all the signs point out into a deserted lot! However, a physio came striding by, kindly took pity on us and ushered us in the back way before depositing us at reception where I answer such questions as “Who is your next of kin?” You know, just incase my teeny cut turns out to be life threatening.
My friend also got a filthy look from one of the receptionists, which he was convinced meant she thought he did it. I reassured him that it was probably more likely that she didn’t like his face.
We then sat in the waiting room, ice still clamped to my face, and waited. The place was pretty busy, and given that I have friends in high places, I thought to ring one of them.
LMG: Hey, it’s LMG, I’m in A+E with a cut on my nose.
Paramedicboy: Which one?
Paramedicboy: Weird, I was there 10 minutes ago.
LMG: Anyway, I was wondering if I should stay and get it checked or bin it off… *describes cut*
Paramedicboy: Open it up, have a look how deep it is, clean it out, steristrip it.
LMG: I don’t have any of that stuff though…
Paramedicboy: I thought you said you were in A+E?
LMG: Yeah, but as a normal person.
Given we had no idea how deep the cut was, he advised us to stay. Luckily, facial cuts seem to be the way to queue-jump and we’d beaten the Saturday night drunken crowd, so we were seen very quickly. I was cleaned, steristripped, and sent on my way with a surly “You’ll live.”
And I did.