Last Sunday night was supposed to be a quiet one. The bar I supervise was pretty dead, so I closed early and was home by 8pm. My plan was to make some dinner and some food for the next day, and get a good night's sleep before my day-long rehearsal leading up to Tuesday's film shoot.
When I got home, though, two of my flatmates, Jerome and Lisa, were about to head out for a Sunday evening pint, and they convinced me (there was very little arm twisting involved) to go along. We had a lovely drink together at the Hackney Pearl, and then I came home to make my pasta for the next day.
The three of us crowded up the kitchen, and when I took my pasta off the stove and over to the sink, I realised someone had moved the colander. I set the pasta down on the edge of the counter, and as I reached for the colander, the pot teetered and then fell onto the floor, boiling water landing all over my foot.
I proceeded to swear and jump up and down as Lisa shouted, "Cold water! Cold water!" I hobbled up the stairs, tearing of my socks and jeans en route, and stuck my foot under the cold tap in the bathtub. My foot looked red and the skin was puckering a little in the middle, but it didn't seem too bad, and as long as it was in the water, it didn't hurt. Still, Lisa thought it was best to look on NHS (that's the National Health Service, for all you Americans) Direct website for advice. She asked me if the burn was bigger than the size of my hand. I said it was the size of my foot, so yes? This response to the symptoms questionnaire prompted her to dial 999 (that's like 911, guys).
So Lisa calls 999, and we're told that for burns, we need to go to casualty, a.k.a. A&E (Accidents and Emergencies, not Arts and Entertainment). I reluctantly agree, as it's now after midnight and I'm supposed to be getting a good night's sleep before my rehearsal, plus my foot looks totally fine... until I take it out of the cold bath.
As I wait for Lisa to pull her car around, my foot really starts to hurt. It feels a little bit like it's on fire. I limp into some shorts, and Jerome insists on carrying me down the stairs, which is a little bit awkward, but very kind of him. He puts his arm around my waist as I protest, but then cave and tuck up my knees like a child being lifted over a fence. I get into the car and resume my string of expletives.
By the time we arrive and Lisa drops me at the entrance to A&E, my foot has started to come out in some pretty gnarly blisters. I limp through what turns out to be the wrong entrance, and a sympathetic security guard, to whom I whimper, "I burned my foot," directs me next door. I get to the reception desk and wince while I wait to be checked in.
Among the information I was asked to provide were my name, my date of birth, what the hell I did to my foot, and my postcode. In what still seems a small miracle to me every time I seek medical care in this country, there was no question of insurance. In all of my vacillating about my trip to the hospital, a consequential £20,000 bill was not one of my concerns. The guy at reception didn't even ask for proof that I live in the UK, which is good, because I was way too busy trying not to cry when I left the house to think about bringing my passport.
I was told that the wait for a doctor was 3 to 4 hours, at which point I nearly did cry. I was assured a nurse would see me within about 20 minutes, though, to assess the damage.
I couldn't sit still in the waiting room. The inside of the hospital felt unbearably warm, and the only way to alleviate some of the throbbing pain in my foot was (strangely) to walk around on it. Lisa stayed in the waiting area while I stepped outside to pace with my one bare foot on the cool pavement. There were three police officers just inside the double doors, and one of them must have taken pity on me in my crazed, wincing patrol of the A&E entrance.
He came out and said, "Jesus, what did you do? Burned your foot pretty badly."
"Yep," I whimpered, "boiling water."
"And they just told you to walk around on it?"
"No, they didn't have anything for it, and this is the only thing that's making it feel slightly better at the moment."
"Just a minute," the blessed man responded, "I might have a burn mask or something in the car."
And so the lovely police officer, my third hero of the night (after Lisa — for advice in the case of an emergency and hospital transportation — and Jerome — for feeding me dinner whilst my foot bathed and then carrying me down the stairs), fetched a burn mask from his car, escorted me back inside to a seat, and wrapped my foot in the gloriously cool, tea tree oil soaked cloth.
My remaining wait time, which came closer to 45 minutes in the end, was much more pleasant as the three kind officers joked with me. When I heard my name called, I shouted "Yes!" and practically leapt out of my seat. I apologised for the mess of oil I had left on the ground, but I was told not to worry about it, and Lisa helped me into the consultation room.
The nurse's reaction to my foot was also something along the lines of "Jesus, that looks like it really hurts," which was simultaneously comforting (as an affirmation of my pain) and worrying (as this woman sees a lot of injuries). I described the incident to her, confirmed that I have no allergies that I know of, and watched her type all of this into her computer. She finished, paused, looked at my foot again and said, "I'll be right back."
I knew this was the moment of truth. Either she would come back and say I'd need to wait three hours to see a doctor, or she'd come back and sort it out herself. I said a small prayer to no one in particular.
The nurse returned a minute or two later with a cart full of dressing. As she wheeled it through the door, she explained, "I'm a Nurse Practioner, so I'm going to dress your foot for you." I don't think I've ever been so grateful.
"I'm going to clean your foot, burst all the blisters, and dress it for you," she said gently. I think she could see my eyes go big and crazy when she said the bit about popping the gigantic, numerous blisters on my sore foot. She assured me, "Don't worry, all of that skin is dead, you won't feel anything."
WARNING, if you're squeamish, I wouldn't read the next few paragraphs. The nurse was right: I didn't feel a thing as she lanced and drained each oversized pustule. It stung a bit as she cleansed the wound with saline solution, but the co-codamol she had given me before going to town on my foot was starting to kick in, at least in its giggle-inducing side effects.
As she explained to me that all of that skin would need to be removed — probably when my foot was schedule to be redressed Tuesday morning — I started telling her how great she was, and how amazing it was that she was doing this for me. I had asked her earlier whether she was just starting or just finishing her shift (it was the latter), so I felt that I had laid the groundwork for a real friendship. Flattery is clearly the best way to make friends, so I carried on asking about her history as an A&E nurse (she's been doing it for 12 years, it's what she always wanted to do), and telling her what a great job she was doing with my foot. As we were leaving, I asked her for her name (Maeve), and I might have asked her for her number if Lisa hadn't escorted me out of the room.
To be fair, Lisa (who was not high on codeine) agreed that Maeve was an especially personable and fun nurse, and also conceded the next day that it would be great to get a drink with her some time.
As we left the room, though, I looked deep into the eyes of my fourth hero of the night and said, "Thank you, Maeve. You were amazing." And I meant it. Maeve is amazing, and so is not having to pay a penny for a late-night emergency hospital visit. I will happily watch my National Insurance contributions reduce the size of my paycheck if it means my foot does not fester into a pile of gout. Or whatever happens to burned feet that go untreated.
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