Slartibartfasts Ship

I’m sitting on the edge of an old umbrella to keep from getting wet as I sit on the footpath next to a busy intersection. J has his fists stuffed into his jeans pockets as he stands in the wind. Occasionally, he shudders in a “super shiver”, unable to hold it in. He’s not wearing a jacket. He dances a little on the spot, and the silver rescue blanket he’s standing on lifts a bit. I’m on J’s phone, while trying to figure out the postcode of where we are on my phone, when there are no houses nearby. It’s a bit pointless, it becomes clear that no ambulance is likely to be available for a few hours yet. It’s already been an hour since we first called.  The man on the phone tells me to order a taxi. I try several companies. They too, are booked out for the next three hours. I don’t know anyone in town with a car. We are less than 2k from the hospital. 

Mr. F stirs from under J’s jacket, trying to get up. “I’ll just walk to the hospital!” He mutters. He leans on his bad arm and yells in pain and slumps back against his backpack. People walk past with bagfuls of Christmas stuff. It feels like a bad movie. 

Mr F had bought a second hand deep fryer that morning. His new flat had no oven and he wanted to make some treat for on Christmas Day. His pack was heavy with it and he had slipped on a slick part of the path and fallen hard. The survival blanket had apparently come from a couple of cadets; teenagers who had called an ambulance and rushed onward “we’re going to be late, we’ll get in trouble if we are late.”

I can see the patch of sunlight closing; shadows disappearing on the green Devon hills on the other side of town.

J leans forward a bit. “I’m autistic.”

 I nod, not sure what to say. “Oh, you could tell?” He sounds disappointed. “No”, I replied, “I was just thinking of a friend of mine who only found out this month he’s autistic; it’s not a bad thing. To be honest I think there’s a lot of people I work with who are autistic.” (Internally I think; thank God you’re autistic, it’s clearly overridden your SEP drive*)

“Doctors?”

“Yeah.”

“They all end up together don’t they? They all end up with… people?”

It wasn’t until later I realised what he was trying to ask- “Will I end up with a person?” I thought he was referring to us all working together, how that was. I was distracted trying to figure out how to help Mr F. I had the umbrella up now but couldn’t tell which way the wind was coming from, which side to set it down at, so he wouldn’t be so exposed. Mr F had been chatty before; but now becoming less so. 

Very few people had offered help, but to be fair until that point neither J or I had known what to ask of people. We had thought waiting for the ambulance would be enough. To be fairer, I had almost walked past too. J’s question to himself as I walked past had intrigued me - “what’s the limit?” He had repeated; meaning I think “how long do we wait, what am I supposed to do? What are you supposed to do? What are they supposed to do?” It didn’t come from a place of exasperation; it was a genuine question “what are the rules here?”

The wind was now picking up and spits of rain had the hint of ice forming in them. 

We needed a car. And help mobilising. An unnamed lady paused long enough to gauge what was going on. She later recounted being stuck in the middle of dartmoor with a guy who had broken his leg, but too stable to be a priority. They waited 7hrs to be picked up. 

She told us she would come back with her car. That there was thick traffic because of the market nearby and it would take a while. She did, it did.

She parked by the pedestrian crossing, hazards on. Immediately the person behind her tried to overtake, mounting his car up over the median line. He wound down his window and swore at her; at us. She ignored them and shuffled the front car seat back as far as it would go while J and I tried to get Mr F standing. I wasn’t sure if he had injured his leg too in his fall; wasn’t sure how this would go. People walked around us, ignoring us, bumping into us. The line of thick traffic started honking. More swearing. The driver of the second car was starting to scrape his bumper against the first lady’s car.  I yell at him: “if you want to get somewhere faster you could just stop and help us!” He ignores me.

Another passer-by finally pauses to help lift Mr F by his trouser belt while J and I steady him on his good side. Once up, he’s able to make the few steps into the car. We tuck the blanket round him again and put his pack in the back seat. I turn to thank J but he’s already gone, bouncing on his steps as if the whole thing had been no bother to him at all. 

Driver lady travels slow towards the hospital, to lessen the jolts, lessen the pain. She ignores the honking. We drop him off at ED, the hospital is ragingly hot- usually I hate that: it makes me sweat heaps when I’m working- but today I’m grateful. Neither of us are allowed to stay: covid restrictions. Mr F waves feebly and we tuck his pack up in close to the wheelchair. 

I know he has a long wait ahead. 

I had known vaguely; from within the system, that our hospital was in full crisis mode; that there are ambulances stuck in the ED bay for hours until there is space for people to get inside. That the numbers of people coming in with covid was blocking everything, all the other normal things. That we had had more unintentional home births out in the rural byways of North Devon. But despite this I hadn’t really had the imagination of what this looks like in practise.

A covid overrun health system looks like an old man in the rain on the side of the road for 3hrs; screaming in pain  within 2km of a hospital.

Please get vaccinated.

*SEP = “someone else’s problem” https://hitchhikers.fandom.com/wiki/Somebody_Else%27s_Problem_Field