When I was young, I used to think that no matter what happened to me, I could go to a hospital and everything would be okay. Understanding what a hospital really is, as you get older, is like going back to the state fair at 30. As a kid, the excitement is in conquering the fear of the ride. But “the ride” is an abstract. You’re bracing for an experience that you ultimately trust. As you get older, the ride becomes very concrete. The beams jostle. Paint bubbles over the rust. The carnie running the Zipper took an extra Klonopin and just wants to get home to his polycule. And you begin to understand how little there is between you and the ground.
If you’re not careful as you age, your life is increasingly in the hands of people of impossible shapes who don’t look like you, don’t think like you, who will treat your fate with less interest than the vampire rapemance audiobook they put on during lunch. You have to laugh so you don’t cry. You have to build a body that keeps you far away from such places. When you’re forced in, speak clearly, or have someone speak for you, and do not look away while they work.
- 19yo with disorder that makes him prone to blood clots
- calls an ambulance with symptoms typical of a blood clot in the lungs
- blood test to rule out blood clot not performed
- discharged with antibiotics
- reattended A&E later same day coughing up blood (red flag for blood clot). Discharged again.
- saw GP a week later who sent to A&E as had obvious symptoms of blood clot
- discharged with no investigation for blood clots from A&E again as doctor “forgot” to refer to be admitted for tests
- attended later same day as symptoms worsening. WAS actually admitted but communication so poor and kept in waiting room on a chair after “admission” that he didn’t realise he’d been admitted and went home to sleep.
- died next day at home
His life would have been saved with a simple blood test at any of the FIVE separate encounters with medical professionals.