Eventually I'm allowed into the ambulance. The young ambulance driver is wearing a fawn hat with ears on the top - yes, she says, it's a Christmas present from her Mum. The paramedic who travels inside the ambulance, wiring Peter up and balancing constant checking of his stats with cheery banter, is the image of a young Ben Elton. We arrive some 15 minutes later at Broomfield Hospital.
I'm shown the door to the waiting room while Peter is wheeled in another door. I'm told that they'll fetch me when I can see Peter again. I sit there surrounded by misery...ill children, a wandering elderly lady, a woman moaning and keening in a wheelchair while her husband looks into thin air past her.
Time is starting to lose meaning. In hopital you have to surrender...you have no control as to what is going to happen or when.
Quite a bit later - 30, 40 minutes, maybe more - I'm ushered through the one way doors and taken to Peter who is in a cubicle. People come and go. Peter has to have a monor op so he is wheeled away. Off I go into the 'real world' to find a phone signal and contact some of the family to break the news or update them.
Peter has moved - now he's in the Resuscitation Unit. We are in the new, only open a month, wing of the Broomfiled and everything is sparkling and high tech. Doctor Aziz explains that Peter has a pneumothorax. He has had a drain inserted to remove the air which is in the wrong part of his chest ie outside the left lung. His stats are monitored what seems like every quarter of an hour. His BP varies enormously from somewhat too high to well below 'normal'. He's very uncomfortable and keeps asking for a bed. But finding a bed in a ward and transfering him there will take some time. Besides, it's best that his condition becomes more stable first. I find a seat in another bay and settle in for a long wait.
Now we are on the move. It's 1:30 am, about 5 hours after the impact. Through deserted corridors with me following the bed, holding doors, trying not to get squashed in lifts.
Thw ward is pristine, with amazing beds that look as though they cost a fortune. We are in a little unit with four beds. Peter's settled in and his muddy clothes are removed. The force of his hitting the central reservation has pushed mud through jacket, fleece, jumper, shirt and through to his vest, which is speckled with tiny brown dots.
He's going to be monitored regularly throughout the night. By now it's 2:30 am. I'm offered a bed in another room but I want to stay close to Peter, Yes, I can stay beside him. I make myself a bed beside the wall...I borrow Peter's muddy and bloody - from the large grazes on the back of his hips - vest as I'm baking hot in a cashmere jumper. I fold the jumper and put it onto my knitting bag to make a pillow. I lie on my fluffy jacket and put my new shirt jacket over me. The floor feels very hard but I'm not going anywhere. We both doze, more off than on, through the night.
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