On day one ,25th August 2009, of 'The Accident', I opened my eyes and searched around the room for some indication that I was still asleep and therefore having a nightmare. Unfortunately, I was awake and I was waking up in a French hospital in the lovely town of Lisieux, deep within the region of Normandy after about an hours sleep. Next to me was my son, who was drugged up with morphine and looking incredibly ill. He had decided that standing up on a very high slide teasing with the option of jumping, was a good thing to be doing. The startling consequences of this stared back at him when he was laying on the floor crying in torturous pain and were now staring at me.
I lay on a make shift bed shivering with cold desperate for some hot tea, seeking the comfort of it pouring down my throat with an appreciation that can only be felt by the English. The Doctor on duty certainly didn't have any tea nor any comprehension as to why this might be a priority in my ability to cope with the information that was to be given to me. The Eastenders scene all those years ago where Pauline Fowler, upon discovery that her 16 year old daughter was pregnant, suggested calmly that they all have a cup of tea, came flooding back. I'm in a crisis,of course I need a bloody cup of tea! On top of the deprivation of sleep, lack of tea and the vision of my son, was the mental strain of trying to speak fluent 'medical' in French using the only French I had gained at school, the progression of which were lost quickly after the third year after many episodes of bad behaviour in the Languages Department of the girls school! Being able to close the window, order some coffee and say I love you, were just not adequate in these circumstances.
It was while pleading to go to an English hospital that I quickly ascertained that this was not a small injury. He has damaged his liver and ruptured his spleen and he might need surgery to have it removed. They would tell me in the morning. The words echoed around my head and the tears came. We will not be allowed home for one, maybe two, sometimes three weeks. More tears and the constant swimming of jumbled up words that when put together all spelt out 'What the hell am I going to do?'
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Oh Cherry that would be a horrible thing to deal with for anybody in England, but to be on your own in France having to cope ..... unimaginable. Just come home as soon as you can with Zak. Your army of friends is waiting to ply you with hot tea and sympathy until you are happily sick of it.
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