CHATTER

After my X-ray I was taken to a waiting area. It was about 7 am 🕖. I asked if it was possible to lie down somewhere, anywhere, but they told me there were no beds and they were trying to find one. They set up an IV line of fluids in the waiting area and checked my vital signs. I was beyond tired. Gordon phoned the kids to let them know what was happening.

I mentioned a lady who came in with the police earlier. She arrived in the waiting area cursing and swearing and sat opposite. Every so often she would call for a nurse and tell her to call her a taxi.
“What newspaper do you read ” she asked. Do you read the Sunday Life ? Cause I’m going to tell them how some bastard on Sandy Row jumped me and gave me this head injury. It’ll be all over the papers”

We tried to ignore her but the fact that she sounded like a female version of Billy Connolly made the whole situation funny.

She eventually said she had had enough and refused to wait for treatment and went off to find a taxi.

A few minutes later a young man came into the area. Threw himself on the floor, rolled into the foetal position and started crying. Numerous staff passed by and ignored him. Being a mother I asked him what was wrong. Apparently a muscle in his side kept popping out and he was in agony. About 20 minutes later he was called in and came back with an IV drip with painkillers. When I left he was fast asleep on the floor. 😪

Gordon went home to get me some necessities and shortly after Paul arrived.

About 9am the nurse came and said they had found me a chair. Wasn’t sure what that was but followed her through what seemed like a lot of patients into a room where there were reclining chairs, so one step up from an ordinary chair.
I dozed on and off and Paul sat beside me. A suicide patient was being sick and it was upsetting to listen to.

A lovely young doctor arrived. I was in considerable pain so she put up a paracetamol drip. She also said they would have to empty my stomach by putting a tube down my nose to my stomach. ‘Don’t like the sound of that.‘I thought . I won’t go into details but it wasn’t pleasant and I should have guessed when the doctor and the nurse arrived with aprons on. Lol Reader it didn’t work my gag reflex was so strong. Result ugh!
They tried three times and then said they would leave it until after my CT scan.

Scan was done and I was taken to a ward with a bed and I couldn’t have been happier. I was out of A&E. I’ll finish there as the next couple of days weren’t great but the staff, the new wards and the food

( although I was only allowed to eat on the last day there ) were excellent. They don’t pay them enough for what they do.

I’m home now and making a good recovery and they did get the tube in eventually. 😮‍💨

I walked up to the reception desk and when asked what was the problem, I uttered the words that I had hoped never to say ‘I think I’m having a heart attack’
Mind you that could have just been the result of trying to find the new A&E department at the Ulster Hospital at 12-30 on a dark Sunday morning.
Took my details asked me to take a seat. Where were all the consultants and equipment that usually dash out on Greys Anatomy, count to three and lift you on to a gurney?
Had a quick look round at my fellow patients. Some were trying to sleep, someone nearby was complaining that they had been waiting 8 hours for blood results. My fate wasn’t looking good.
Within a few minutes however, I was called into triage and my vital signs checked. Asked to go back out and sit in the waiting room but was almost immediately called into a cubicle. After an ECG it was established I wasn’t having a heart attack. Phew. However something was wrong. I was given anti-sickness medication and lots of blood tests were taken. I have really deep veins and it’s really hard to get blood. I’m like a human pin cushion. They put a cannula in and I was warned it could be a long wait. Not because of the blood tests but because I’d have to wait until a Doctor was available to see me.

Back to the waiting room were Gordon was patiently ( see what I did there) waiting.
The drinks machine wasn’t working and neither was the water cooler. I had to ask the receptionist for some water from behind the desk.
We sat there for the next four hours or more.
Now if you’ve ever wondered why there is a shortage of police in Belfast on a Saturday night, check the casualty department of the local hospitals. A revolving door ( well actually automatic doors, but you get the picture ) of two constables with their arrestees seemed to appear on a constant basis.
They were mostly women, high on drink or drugs and appeared to have minor injuries. In one sad case a young women had been beaten up by a partner.
They were mostly loud and in some cases disruptive. One lady ( who we encountered later on that morning) swore at the nurse calling her into triage because she thought she was berating her. Funny if it wasn’t so sad.
A baby was crying and coughing possibly with seasonal bronchiolitis. The parents were distracted trying to pacify it. Eventually a nurse came out with blankets and a bed was made so that the baby could sleep.
Another baby slept quietly in his young mother’s arms while her husband paced the floor unable to settle.
At one stage I was so tired and feeling so awful that I went into the treatment area and asked them to remove the cannula put in when I arrived told them I would go home and if I was still unwell I would return in the morning. It was pointed out it WAS the morning and they were concerned about my potassium levels and I would need an X-ray.
The X-ray was quick. I remember thinking how cold it was and noted that the radiographer was sitting with a blanket round her.
Shortly after the Doctor called me back in to say blood tests were back and there were some indications that all was not well. My small intestine was blocked and my stomach was full of bile. This would have to be removed and I would need a CT scan. I would also need to be admitted. ( To be continued)

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so heartbreaking as the recent vote in the Assembly not to elect a speaker.  Failure by the DUP to approve the election of a speaker will possibly mean that some of the 200 plus on the donor register could die or miss the opportunity of  receiving a life saving organ should one become available. 

How could the female members of the DUP not have the courage to say to their male colleagues, ‘it’s the right thing to do. The outcome of negotiations regarding the protocol are out of our hands so what is the point in voting no? ‘ 

I hope when it comes to voting in a new Assembly ( if that ever happens again)  voters remember that their party chose not to vote on saving lives but to put the lives of their constituents in jeopardy.  It would appear that there are over 200 on waiting lists for transplants and the law of averages would suggest there is probably a DUP family included in those numbers. A family knowing that time is running out for a loved one but the protocol was considered by their representatives to be more important.  

The DUP tell us that they are pro life. Their vote yesterday would suggest otherwise.

I sincerely hope that none of those who voted no,  including the permanently angry TUV leader, will be faced with circumstances where a loved one needs support and they can’t get that support because of the state of politics in Northern Ireland.

It looks like life is less important than having an allegiance to a British way of life and a government that really has no great interest in NI and would gladly get rid of it tomorrow if they had the chance.

I hope young Dáithí and his lovely family get this bill through next week and I hope the people of NI don’t forget the callousness and cruelty of those they voted to represent  them.

https://www.organdonationni.info/

See more at twitter @apallan

Back in the good old days we may not have had mobile phones but we managed without them. Social media was unheard of. We managed to communicate by other means. Mostly face to face or a phone call. This meant we didn’t have to read nasty comments, racial slurs, homophobic slurs or tweets written to stir up hate, incite violence or even war.

Back in the good old days we didn’t have central heating and didn’t miss it. We had open fires which we huddled around on a cold night. But we could afford the coal for the fire. Now we have a choice, heat or food, but in many houses not both.

We have become a dystopian society because of corruption and the ego of some powerful figures intent on world domination. Don’t think Putin will stop if he succeeds in his domination of Ukraine.

Back in the good old days, the local doctor visited and called at the house when you were ill and kept calling until you were better. Hospitals were well staffed and there was no queuing for a bed. No exhausted nurses and doctors. No ambulances lining up outside hospitals and we did have flu epidemics the past. The NHS was well funded and well run back in the day.

I’m not saying everything was wonderful and I’m not one of those who voted for Brexit who see the past as being halcyon days. We seem as a society to have taken 10 steps forward and 9 steps back. There are more homeless on the streets, more suicides, more hungry, more wars, more threats of wars, not sure about more corruption as it’s always been around. But this is 2022 not 1950 and we should have progressed as a society not regressed.

I accept it’s not all bad but I think we have reached a crossroads and we need to pick the right road if society is to survive. Climate change is a huge challenge. If we don’t act now it will be too late. More needs to be done about Covid and the variants which will inevitably contribute to the toll on the NHS.

I hate that I’m writing this as it’s not the way it should be. George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1949. I wonder what he would think if he were alive today and see that the dystopian world he envisaged is becoming a reality in 2022.

I was always a bright intelligent child even if I say so myself. Precocious might even be a more appropriate description. As the oldest of six children there was possibly more responsibility put on me and I became pretty good at looking after the children and helping out in the house. I also learned to cook and iron at an early age.

When I was eleven I became seriously ill and needed an emergency operation. An earlier operation had resulted in adhesions developing and it was now a life or death situation.

I was lucky and survived but I was advised not to take my eleven plus as I wasn’t sufficiently recovered. I was adamant that I would go ahead and refused to wait for the sick exam as I believe it was called in those days. I passed with flying colours. I know it was flying colours because I checked when I started working in the examinations branch of the Ministry of Education.

I started grammar school and my family had great plans for me. My dad was a university graduate and it was expected that I would follow in his footsteps.

However, it didn’t work out that way. I wasn’t a good scholar, got mediocre results in my exams and hated studying. Many nights saw me ‘studying ‘ at the kitchen table with Jackie ( a pop magazine ) under my books.

I was more interested in what was top of the pops or what novels I could read under the covers with a flashlight. Brighton Rock by Graham Green was the first adult novel I had ever read. Newspapers with all the scandals were sneaked into the bathroom and I read with awe what was happening in the outside world.

I scraped through my junior and senior certificates. My headmistresses
comment on my results were ‘Ah bien, ma chère’ ( Ah well , my dear. ) My geography teacher send me a picture of St.Jude, the patron of hopeless cases.

By this time I had met Gordon. This added a further complication to my education. I had gone back to do A levels and repeat some O levels but the romance was frowned upon by our families due to our religious backgrounds. He was one of them and I was one of us, so any further education was abandoned, I applied for a post as Clerk in the Civil Service and left home at 16 to live in Belfast.

You can read my exploits over the years in my memories on YouTube or in this blog under memories but fast forward to 1994 when I made the decision to do a degree. Gordon had finished his PH.D and I thought it’s my time now. If I’d don’t do it now it will be too late.

I remember my first day walking into the university for our induction day. I’m here after all these years , I thought, fulfilling what my dad wanted for me and he’s no longer here to see it. The grandeur of the great hall, the quadrangle, the common rooms, things I never thought I would be part of. Pictures of Educating Rita flashed in front of me. Although I never came across a Michael Caine I did meet some lovely lecturers. The late Rick Wilford was one of those.

Fast forward again to the summer of 1999 and it was my turn to walk across the stage in my gown and receive the award of B .A.( Hons) in Humanities. I was so proud. My husband , my daughter and my son were there to witness it. It was also the last graduation where Senator George Mitchell presented the awards.

It wasn’t easy. My mother had a stroke, my mother in law developed dementia and I had to drop out for a term but I persevered and I got there and that moment walking across that stage made the late nights finishing essays worthwhile and made it one of my proudest moments.

I listened to a high achiever ( don’t remember her name) talk to a audience of children recently. She told them that they could achieve anything they wanted just like she had done.

Is this right? Does it give expectation and hope to those who for whatever reason will never attain their goals.

What a sense of disappointment and failure when little Jonney works hard to be an astronaut only to find out that this is for the elite few and he is not one. Or Mary who wants to be a model like the beautifully digitised models she sees on social media. Mary is gorgeous but she’s not model material as you need to be 5ft 8 inches and Mary is nowhere near that.

But she has been given expectations that she can be whatever she wants and in this world where only a few actually achieve what they want to be is this false hope?

Why not be honest. Explain that we are all destined for different paths in our future. We should try to do our best, study, have an open mind and pursue your dream but with the realisation that you may not make it and that’s ok.

Most of us settle for a happy family, a decent job with a decent salary and even that is not always possible and that is life. That is not to say that some will attain that goal and achieve what they wanted to be.

No wonder we have depression and anxiety and suicide.  Being told you can be anything you want to be and it doesn’t happen. The sense of failure, the self loathing.  

We need to be careful when talking to our young people.  I was sitting with my 17 year old granddaughter watching the piece on TV . ‘That’s rubbish ‘ she said. ‘Not everyone can be whatever they want to be’  So glad she is self aware!