I’ve never
been particularly graceful. I did ballet and tap dancing as a child, but alas,
I had all the footwork skills of a drunk centipede. As I got older I tried
Zumba and aerobics. The women around me soon learned to keep a safe distance.
So it wasn’t a great surprise when I managed to fall down the stairs this week.
I missed my
footing because I had piled up a load of Amazon boxes at the bottom of the
stairs. Damn you Amazon, and your one-click ordering.
As I bounced
butt-first down the last three or four stairs, I had time to reflect that I had
turned into my mother.
Mum came to
stay for the Easter holidays. After precisely one day, she tripped and fell
downstairs. I should
point out, before you start questioning the safety of my staircase, it has not
one but TWO handrails and is a perfectly normal set of steps. It’s just that my
mum was doing what she always does – carrying books, glasses, cup of tea and a
crossword puzzle as she headed to the kitchen. So she couldn’t save herself
when she slipped, because her hands were full. It was not my stairs’ fault, I
promise.
My poor mum
broke her hip and spent Easter in hospital. This was possibly a more
stressful experience for the hospital staff than my mum, who during her long medical career was a Midwife, Nurse, Ward Sister and Nursing Tutor. My mum knows hospitals like
the back of her hand. She knows best practice, hygiene protocols, and ward
systems. And boy, she wasn’t going to let these nurses take any shortcuts.
Mum was out
of hospital within five days of her hip replacement. That has to be some kind
of record. I’m sure it wasn’t because she told them all how to do their jobs.
Well, probably not.
I should say
here how amazing the British health service is. From the paramedics in the
ambulance who took mum to hospital, to the admitting staff in A&E, to the
orthopaedic doctor, to the ward nurses - yes, even the junior nurse who bore
the brunt of mum’s wrath for suggesting she change the dressing on an open
wound in a crowded ward and risk cross-contamination – they all do a fine job
under difficult circumstances and with far fewer resources than they should
have. No wonder Donald Trump keeps making jokes about buying it.
Luckily, I
did not break my hip, though I do have a rather attractive bruise on my thigh
and am now shuffling around like a poor imitation of Marty Feldman’s Igor.
Note to
self: stop ordering Amazon parcels. Or at least, stop piling them up at the
bottom of the stairs.
