Well Denia actually but the predictive text on my phone sent a sinister message by mistake.
Mum’s leg had swollen up over night – ‘Don’t panic but I seem to have a lump at the back of my knee’. A quick google and DVT behind the knee came up time and time again. She had one years ago so we weren’t going to hang about. Except we didn’t know where we were going or how to get there.
Sir Nick of Barcelona. I was on his doorstep at 7.45am He was at our door within 10 minutes helping mum into the car. Just a reminder this is a guy who we hadn’t met 3 days ago and has now, sorted out or accommodation, lent us blankets, put on our water and electricity, lent as £500 – yes and as of writing he has not had it back yet due to bank transfer hiccoughs. He was now driving us on a weekday from his home to the local Dr. having had a chat with the emergency service on the phone. We said thank you about 500 times again – it didn’t seem enough to be honest – anyway the Dr had one prod at her and Sir Nick was driving us all off to the hospital in Denia. Or denial as we now know it.
If you are ever in Spain and something untoward happens then relax. The hospital was as shiny as a pin and populated by smiling and delightful people.
An important thing though is always carry a European Health Card E11 which you can get in the uk as this gives you access to their health service so you don’t pay. It worked as they said it would like a treat. Seamless with passport and health card so anyway lets get back to the plot….
Mum was put into a state of the art wheelchair on arrival where they prodded the royal leg and told her it wasn’t a dvd or a dvt so did a blood test and set us outside to wait for the results. So we did. We all sat in wheelchairs and talked for 4 hours. Yes count them in and count them out. Eventually as the sun was beating down outside we decided one person should stay inside waiting for the Dr and the others would sit in the sun. So Mum and Ellie sat outside, Sir Nick of Barcelona headed off to get coffee and a sandwich and I lurked in the waiting room inside.
Within moments a tall blonde man approached Mum and Ellie.
He had the blue cross on this t shirt she assumed he was medical.
‘Hello are you OK’ he asked
‘Yes. Well I have a bad leg but apart from that yes’
‘Are you a Christian?’ her asked looking at the gold cross she wears round her neck which I gave her at Hogmanay in 2000 because it looked nice not because of the religious connotation.
‘No….oh well yes’ she said keen to keep him at bay and now realising he was biblical not medical.
‘Bank of Scotland – I mean Church of Scotland ‘she replied.
‘May I bless your leg?’ he asked
‘May I bless your leg?’
And he did. As Ellie took this photo which he didn’t like. But then people in hospitals probably don’t like being harangued about his beliefs whilst suffering their own personal slings and arrows. So tough luck pal.
So I would like to report the blessed leg is doing well. So is the rest of thebody on which it resides.
The final verdict of our Doctor as opposed to the blesser having heard how we got from Scotland to Spain was the swollen leg is ‘down to the trauma of the journey’
Ah. Here is the start of the major guilt trip at dragging your mother across hill, dale, train station, platform, bar, bus, boat etc…
The trauma of the journey.
Sorry Mum I said seriously.
The trauma of the journey….Oh God.