We Are George

I’m sure after icing and resting, my leg and hip are going to be just fine.

I rise to get to the bathroom. There, you see, that works. Step one. Step two—ouch. The tears. Am I that hormonal? No, that’s pain. I shuffle to get the crutches, but they’re for my daughter, Momo, so not helpful, and I can’t figure out the right size.
NHS says if you can’t bear weight on your leg, call 999. But this house isn’t on fire. It’s just pain. So I call 111.

They send me to hospital. My neighbours take me. I can’t walk to the entrance. I’m grunting and crying. A wheelchair is found. I’m in A&E with about a hundred miserable adults in all shapes, sizes, and conditions. 8h:18 waiting time, it says on the board. My neighbour goes to have breakfast. I’m sitting in pain, crying. Paracetamol doesn’t touch this kind of thing. There’s a guy called Junior limping about. He’s never there when he’s called, always looking around like he’s lost a bit of himself on the way. One guy is stretched out over four seats, snoring. Another man in a wheelchair is throwing up.

Triage.
Waiting. Triage 2.
“Moderate pain,” the nurse writes down. I say, “I’m sorry, but that’s only right now. There are waves, and I’d say severe when the pain hits.” She shrugs, rolls me back. The pain wave hits; I’m in tears. I’m sitting there, very alone in my pain. The elderly lady next to me has a black eye.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“No,” I say, “that’s why I’m here.”
“I know,” she says, and we half laugh. Some things are said just to be said, not because we mean them.

“I have so much pain in my hip and back,” I say. “It comes and goes in waves.”
“I have a black eye,” she says.
“I can see that.”
“I fell down three steps,” she says, holding her side. “My side hurts; they gave me painkillers yesterday, but they aren’t touching it.” I diagnose her with a broken rib. I hope they’ll give her what she needs. Her name is Sally.

They take my bloods. I am brave. I tell the phlebotomist that he did a good job, as it used to take four adults to pin me down to get my bloods. I want some acknowledgement. He doesn’t even listen. Just nods and says, “All done.” I feel alone.

I’m rolled back. My neighbour comes back and moves me from the guy who’s vomiting. Now I’m closer to the pregnant lady who’s coughing wildly.

“George!” they call. He’s not there. One name after the next. Waiting time is now 3:56 on the board. I’m wheeled back to my original position. Vomiting guy is gone. Sally comes back too. I like sitting next to her; I know if they call her name, I can tell her even if she doesn’t hear it. 

“George!”

A friendly-looking Muslim lady leans forward. “I think I can be George,” she says. I smile.
“Yes, I think we’ll all be George in a minute! He ain’t here, but we are…”
The moments of connection bring me to life. Now I’m still in pain but less alone. We are George. Sitting there, waiting.

When they finally call my name, I’m so excited. Though “Evelyne Brink” sounds strange read in a hospital. I think it sounds more like an announcement. You need to say something to preamble it. And the award goes to… Ladies and Gentlemen: Evelyne Brink.

Anyway, they call my name. My inner narcissist is disappointed by the lack of applause. I’m super excited to finally be seen, and someone wheels me around the corner; I am smiling like it’s Christmas. I’ve waited three hours. 

The doctor listens to my story and tells me osteopaths should have been stopped fifty years ago. He’ll give me a cocktail of four muscle relaxants, and then I’ll be good to go. I take the four pills, get transferred into a room with slightly more comfortable chairs—and start tripping. Or, as we call it in my circles, I go on a spiritual medicine journey. Only without the ritual and no destination or windows. My consciousness simply goes somewhere absurd.

Doctor “Jesus” comes back and says, “Now walk!” and I stand up and scream in pain. Turns out he ain’t Jesus, and I ain’t walking.

“OK. Let’s take an X-ray.”

Now I’ve earned the right to an A&E trolley and finally get to lie down. Finally. They bring me morphine. Someone takes me to the X-ray, and the radiologist and I are having a jolly time. He says I’m one of the people he’d actually like to sit next to on a plane. We joke until he asks me to lift my hips. Then I cry.
After, he says, “You’ve been lying on your charger!”
“Yes, I’ve tried to use it as a butt plug to distract me from the pain.” We laugh. It makes things better. 

The porter asks me where I had come from. I don’t know; the ceiling looks the same everywhere. But wait! I’d taken a shameless selfie—the porter is super grateful I captured the bed number. “I wish everyone was like you!” Turns out what’s vanity to some is good brains to another. 

The onset of arthritis in my hip doesn’t explain the agony, so they refer me to the medical team at 4pm. I’m parked in the corner of the room waiting for the ward bed and the doctors. At 5pm, I’m offered a cup of tea, and I’m so excited they have herbal tea. I’ve never, in thirteen years, had herbal tea in hospital. At six, there’s hot food. I choose to break my fast and eat, as the pills are certainly having an effect on my tummy. I’d chosen to fast to lower the inflammation. And I know that there’s no food in hospitals until you’re admitted… choosing your fate is the wisest of choices.

I’m in strong pain again. I can’t even go to the toilet alone. The A&E nurses are so busy. They can’t see me. So I shuffle to the room door, my pain showing in my face and stance. Someone always comes and tells me off. “Why are you not in bed?!”
“I need the toilet, and I can’t walk.”

“You shouldn’t stand here; it’s not safe. You need a wheelchair.” And they’ll get one.

One time, when a nurse was in the room attending to the patient close to the door, I ask for toileting help. She brings a bed pan. I have to lift my hips. I cry out in pain. Now I lie on a bed pan with my weight on a plastic bowl where it hurts most. And I’m left there to do my business. When an A&E nurse says, “I’ll be back,” it’s not a threat. It’s not a promise either.

I take a long urine soak on my buttock, distracted by pain. Until I ask, through the curtain, to the other patient…
“Hey, excuse me.”
The friendly Muslim lady pokes her head round. “Ah, you again!”
“Hello, George!” I say. We laugh.

I explain my predicament. And she gets me a nurse. She’s not the patient; her dad is, so her legs work beautifully. Both of them.

The nurse asks me to lift my hips again, I cry, she wipes me impatiently, and I am lowered, wet, into my clothes. That will be pleasant when it dries… the sheet is wet, my trousers, my underwear. Who needs dignity when you have morphine?

Though that might be wearing off… 

I’m asking for painkillers. There aren’t any on my chart, as I’ve been officially transferred…

It takes several attempts to get my sheets changed. They’re so busy in A&E, and the woman continuously shouting, “NURSE! NURSE! PAIN! PAIN!” probably needs more than me right now. 

The doctor sees me at 23:00 to give me more meds. At 1:30 am, I get a real bed.

The night is full of screams, shuffles of urgency, and buzzing alarms.

Thank God for my incredible noise cancelling headphones.
Product placement incoming.

Every time I need the bathroom, I attempt to get there myself, fail, and then get help. It’s the only way. And I hate having to ask for such trivial help. If their wheelchair let me wheel myself… if I could use a drip stand that has wheels or an office chair… but no. I can’t.

The next morning, the consultant requests an MRI and recommends I stay in a bit to get it done rather than wait for months. I agree. 

By 3pm the next day, I am finally on the ward.

And Oh My Gosh. I am greeted with a smile in a spacious and quiet room, then taken to my own quarters. I have my own room! I couldn’t be happier. Someone brings me herbal tea. I have won the hospital lottery.

I am in a spacious enough private room with a comfortable bed. No window. Daylight is overrated at this time of year.

My daughter and neighbours visit me. I have a shower to restore my dignity. Everything is wonderful. I have drugs and quiet. Hoozzaah. Now it’s just a matter of time.

Getting to the toilet over the other end of the ward is a mission, but when I buzz, a nurse actually comes and wheels me there. 

I get ambitious and try to shuffle, only to get stuck halfway in a cramp. The elderly ladies in the beds have a giggle. I love it. The nurse picks me up in the wheelchair.

From then on, I use the “pee pee taxi.” The next day, I ask for a Zimmer frame upgrade. At least it renders me more independent. From then on, I can race the old dears to their beds—it’s a fair race; they win every time. 

My face falls more and more from the drugs I’m on, but my mood is great unless I’m caught in a pain attack. But that now shifts from back to stomach as all the drugs are giving me the worst stomach upset in a long time. 

My consultant is hilarious. He points out that though my lifestyle of juicing, supplements, and sauna is great for my glowing skin, had I ever considered getting a scan to find out what’s actually up with my back?

“No, of course not!” I told him. “I meditate instead, and for the rest, there are affirmations.”
I don’t mind poking fun at my vitamin-obsessed, yoga-life-coach self. 

So now I have traded back pain for stomach upset with all the drugs. Then they pump me full of laxatives, and my stomach gives a great percussion concert… 

A team of wonderful neighbours has formed around me, looking after Tuffel and Momo. Now with a son on TPN, this takes specialist care. And I am so fortunate now to have friends who are brave enough to tackle the task. 

Thomas, in the meantime, has tried to ask for official help from nurses and has had social services seriously threatening to take Tuffel away from us because he can’t keep him safe. It is the most unhelpful institution. The MP is involved. But rather than spending the money on a nurse, they’re discussing removing our son from his family?! Unbelievable. Well, I’m used to this, so no wonder I’ve been stressed.

Sometimes life strips us down to our rawest selves. Whether we encounter a phlebotomist with the empathy of a potato or a nurse who couldn’t care less, there’s always a chance to awaken the human beneath the role. A smile, a thank you, a moment of honesty—even a cry for help—brings out something real in others. When we dare to connect, even in pain and discomfort, we create little pockets of humanity, moments where invisibility turns into dignity. 

We are George—not a title, not a role, not defined by what we can or can’t do, but simply ourselves. Like the mad King George who wished he could just be George, we are the simple, unadorned version. Sometimes struggling, needing help, wanting to be seen and relieved of duty and pain even if only for a moment. 

In those moments, we find our strength—not in perfection, but in our willingness to show up, laugh, and lean into connection. We are George—waiting, laughing, and finding our way together.

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