No To an Ambulance

(Beware of self-harm triggers in the following please.)

She couldn't wait until I was better from the operation I had last week.  School staff sent me emails during the day warning that Julie was brewing up something.  I could see it myself when she came home, but she still stoutly denied that she was planning to hurt herself.  Desperately needing to rest, there was nothing I could do but wait and see, somewhat sceptically, and sure enough about thirty minutes later there was the all too familiar wail from the bathroom.

"For Pete’s sake, Julie, what do you think you're going to do?" I asked her, wearily hauling my battered box of dressings and steri-strips upstairs. "This needs stitching, and I can't drive."  It was pretty much all I could do to get down on the floor to attend to her at all. 

"We can phone for an ambulance." said Julie, with all the bright confidence of youth.  She had had a ride in an ambulance a couple of weeks ago when she needed to be retrieved from a remote shopping centre. 

I thought about this, as I made my usual attempts to dress the wound, attempts that were more ineffectual than usual, given my inability to move my head with complete freedom after last week's thyroid operation.  Then I gave Julie instructions on how to mop the blood off the floor while I sat on the toilet lid like the Queen of Sheba.

"Do you have any idea how much it costs to run an ambulance?" I asked, "They're meant for emergencies. This isn't life threatening.  I can't let you phone for an ambulance."  Memories from my own teenage surfaced at this point, when my mother was rather regularly stretchered off in an ambulance after yet another massive heart attack.  Ambulances for me are associated with dashes through the night, bringing someone on the brink of death a precious chance of survival.  No, I could not let her phone for an ambulance.  The NHS is a service free at the point of use, but I think this would be an abuse.  If I had a choice, I would not use A&E either.  But I do not have a choice.

Downstairs, I phoned my GP as usual, just to see if there was some miraculous chance of support.  But also as usual, I didn't get past the receptionist: "Oh we don't do stitches here, she'll have to go to A&E."  "Actually you do do stitches sometimes, but I will send her to A&E this time." I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.  Once in a blue moon one of the older GPs will intervene, dig out his suture kit and help me out, saving us a trip to hospital. 

Given my stubborn refusal to call an ambulance, and my inconvenient inability to drive, there was no help for it but to call a taxi to the hospital.   Only then did I realise that it was already late in the afternoon: scant chance of Julie catching the last bus back.  I had to dig deep in my purse to find enough money for the return trip; it is a cool £50 for the round trip to the hospital.  I blinked a little at this.  Rural life has hidden costs.  "So much for saving for the holiday." I blurted out as I handed it over.  Julie burst into tears.  "I'll pay it back."  "Just pay me back by not doing it next time." I said, unable to stop myself.