Prescription sandwiches and sedatives

We spent all day yesterday in Accident and Emergency with our oldest boy, Daniel, after he suffered a scary level five asthma attack. He’s fine now, dosed up on steroids and pills, and thankfully he recovered enough during the day so that we didn’t need to stay in.
The day will probably go down in O’Neill history. Not for the drama element, more for the positive spin we put on what was a totally rubbish experience. There’s a saying in our house – if you don’t laugh, you’d cry. And despite everything yesterday, we all kept our chins up and laughed.
To be honest we were very ill prepared for an eight-hour stay anywhere. We arrived in a big rush, leaving bags and coats behind us at home. When they got Dan’s breathing under control we all got comfortable on the excruciatingly uncomfortable wooden chairs in the waiting room for the long haul.
We waited, we got called, we waited in a different room, we got called and we waited some more. And this process went on for eight hours – waiting in different places for different people. But on the bright side there were a variety of fairly graphic posters on the walls of each place explaining scary diseases and injuries that may or may not kill us.
And as is standard in casualty departments the patients and their carers aren’t allowed to leave their very uncomfortable chairs, for the minute you even pop to the bathroom or avert your gaze away from the treatment room doors your name will be called and you’ll miss your spot.
So five hours in and Dan, who could now breathe, had switched his attention to the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous evening. This started the husband pondering on the fact that he, too, was extremely, extremely hungry. The pictures of greasy chicken burgers and fat chips on the walls, reminding us all of the unhealthy food that we must avoid to keep our hearts in tip top condition did not help matters a jot.
We searched our pockets and threw our findings on the hard wooden chairs for perusal – thinking that at the very least we might be able to muster up the price of a packet of crisps for the boy. We had a grand total of 22 pence, zero bank or credit cards, one mobile phone with a dead battery, a chewed bubble gum from yesterday (Dan) and a set of car keys.
A quick race to the hospital shop revealed the fact that it is not still 1979 and a packet of crisps now costs 45 pence. We could hear the husband’s hollers of despair from the other end of the hospital.
We also discovered that the car park cost 80 pence an hour. We were £4.58 in the red already and were facing the prospect of having to ram raid our way out if we were ever to see a bite of food ever again.
As the two boys got increasingly grumpy and irritable I considered asking one of the passing nurses if roast chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches were available on prescription.
After an hour of listening to the husband whinging about lack of sustenance and the boy pacing constantly and making food-related inquiries with random injured drunk people I considered asking if sedatives were readily available in injection form from reception.
I have to say it was the longest eight hours of my life but we all survived and thanks to a kind old school friend we met in the corridor between waiting rooms we were able to get crisps, get home and get fed.
Sincere thanks to the staff at Altnagelvin Hospital A&E for looking after us.