I said I'd tell you about the police van.
Les, the friend who saw me looking unwell in the street, phoned for an ambulance, but the emergency services could not predict when one would become available. They told him it would be at least two hours. We both understood that getting quick attention in the case of a suspected stroke was important, so he was going to try and get me to the nearest Accident and Emergency Department as soon as he could. A crowd was beginning to gather. I suppose I'd been recognised by some as that monoband hippy who plays by the bus station. One of the pharmacists from Boots emerged and offered words of advice and help. Then Jody from Holland & Barrett came out and almost burst into tears to see the state I was in. Clearly I was not going to busking outside the shop anytime soon. A group of lads on bikes slowed to take in the scene as they cycled illegally through the precinct. I'd seen them many times over the months when I'd been busking in my usual place. I guess I had come to be on smiling and nodding terms with some of them over that period. One of them, in full view of his mates jumped off his bike and asked if I were okay. It was such a simple act of humanity and concern, but it meant the world to me. Youngsters in Wisbech don't popularly have a good reputation, but this young man was an example to everyone, even though he could do little more than ask after my health.
Then Les saw two policemen. They had received a call out in Wisbech and they recognised Les. He's that kind of man ... He knew the police sometimes had ways through red tape so he asked if they could help. Unfortunately the calls they put through could not get an ambulance to me any faster, so one of the police officers said he could manage the job on his own if the other could take me to hospital in King's Lynn. I was very carefully helped into the back of the van, the bit where they store prisoners or my friends from XR and I was locked in. Off we sped with blues a-blazing and twos a-blaring. It was quite exciting for the first minute and a half. Then I remembered I am a lousy passenger at the best of times and this was pretty awful. There are no seat belts in the cage at the back of a police van and everything was made of easy clean material, so I was slipping, sliding and crashing against the sides of the van with every change of direction. At times I felt sure I was going to be thrown off the seat altogether and for the next fifteen miles it was all I could do to keep that day's food on the inside. I had not experienced anything quite so bad since I'd ridden the corkscrew at Parc Astérix with its six consecutive loop-the-loops (or the trip to play a gig in Brixton in the back of A's car) and by the time we arrived at the hospital I was feeling at lot worse and probably looked it.
I estimate that I probably had the stroke at about 1.30pm and we arrived at A&E at around 4pm. I assume I was still alive, but I was feeling quite rough by this time. The policeman retrieved a wheelchair and carefully helped me into it. He handed me over to the hospital staff. Then he sped off into the fading afternoon to continue with his policemanly duties. He was incredibly kind, helpful and professional. I've had many dealings with the police and not all of them have been happy ones. It would be churlish of me to fail to recognise and to thank this particular officer for his help in February.
Hospital admin took my details and I embarked upon what I found out was a "patient journey". The ironically named "patient journey" is also metaphorical. I didn't actually go anywhere for the first couple of hours and the whole process required a lot of patience. Over the next fourteen hours (the first twelve of those in the same wheelchair into which the policeman had deposited me) in A&E I was interviewed by the triage nurse, given a CT scan, had bloods, temperature and blood pressure taken (several times) and of course given a covid test which was still showing positive. That panicked people for a bit and I don't know if they believed me when I told them the dates of infection and confinement. My illness had been very recent. After each segment of my "journey" I was returned to the waiting area to wait for more hours until the next temporary change of scenery.
More patients came and went. Some were obviously very unwell, some less obviously so. One or two were very loud and their moods were at the mercy of substance indulgence or mental health issues. After twelve hours a nurse pointed out to her colleagues that I had been in the wheelchair for a very long time. She sent out to try and find a bed even though there was nowhere to put it and no bed-space in the stroke ward. Fourteen hours after arriving at the hospital I was wheeled in my bed along corridors to the stroke ward at 6.30 the following morning. I assumed this was to be my home. I was interviewed and inducted into my new surroundings. I tried to sleep after such a long and sleepless night, but I did not have my CPAP machine to hand and it was hard to adjust to the noise of my new surroundings. One man was calling out in great distress and another was attached to a device that set off an ear-shattering alarm every time he turned over and disconnected the device, which was designed to alert staff in case he went a-wandering. No one was well enough to be able to carry out a conversation and some appeared barely conscious. I did feel like a fraud. Every time I needed to use the toilet I was not allowed to attempt the journey unaccompanied. I asked for a stick, but instead had to wait for a nurse or other qualified member of staff to take me across the corridor to the nearest bathroom. I was sure I could have managed with a stick, but the male member of staff who attended me was very conscientious. I guess he was more used to patients who would need him to remove their clothes and sit them on the toilet or wash and shower them. I felt very uncomfortable about the whole undignified procedure. It was definitely an insight into a possible future existence and I'm not looking forward to it. The noise of the shared bay was horrendous and, while I tried to feel compassion towards those very unwell men, I didn't see how I was going to get any sleep at all and my patience was nearing the end of my resources.
When evening came there was a change of staff. A very strict ward sister would not allow me to use my breathing apparatus - which had by now been brought in with some clothes and washing tackle by my daughter - for fear of spreading aerosols. I was preparing for yet another night of trying to sleep sitting up. What I didn't know was that a side room was being carefully cleaned and prepared for me, but what joy when I was moved into my own space with its own toilet and shower and the freedom to use my CPAP device. The heavy duty door kept out the bustle and noises of the the shared bays and I slept really well for the first time in what was probably several months.
