A Day In The Life Of Me By Milly Adams

15 June 2017

Last week, as I copy edited my next novel, coffee beckoned. I sprang up, caught my foot, whacked into the kitchen arch. Crash. Came ‘to’ unable to move - one of the dogs was sitting on my back. He was yelled off. That should sort it.

Milly Adams

I still couldn't move and many things hurt. There were now four curious dogs sitting around me. Strangely comforting.

Eventually ‘Him Indoors’ came home. Ambulance was called. ‘Don’t move her.’ If only… First things first: Dick must call a writing friend to take over a talk for me that evening, please. Second, call organisers.

Paramedics arrive, met at the door by Dick: ‘I found her when I arrived.’ Ah, your mother is she? ‘What cheek,’ I said, They came through and realised instantly I was only 50. ho hum.

Probably dislocated shoulder and a break of humerus. Ribs involved, cut eye and a shiner.

Into the ambulance. Two paracetemol didn't hack it, quite frankly. No good veins for morphine. Oral then. ‘Sorry, it takes longer.’ I should say.

Pulse wonky. Muttered concerns. Sirens, flashing lights. Am I boring you, but this is my ‘me, me me’ moment and besides it’s interesting research.

Into Resuscitation. Blouse cut off. Where’s your best bra when you need it? The shame, the pain. Arghhh. Rush, rush. Lots of other lovely people doing things about my person.

Still no well behaved vein for morphine, ‘Try the leg.’ Right leg, knee to ankle, snip, snip. I am now a freemason.

Hand numb The rest of me challenges childbirth pain. Stiff upper lip done a runner. X-ray. Arghhh.

Kids arrive. Was I dying? But I have copy edits to do, features for Frost Magazine to edit, my charity’s writing competition winners to announce, and two more books contracted for Arrow. I’m not ready.

They were laughing and catching up - huh. So just an excuse to dip work?

Still no pain relief. Leg didn’t play ball, but kids heedless. Instead: 'Your eye!!!'

Never mind my eye, I need to get this shoulder re-located.

Nurse sorted out eye. 'Only a scratch.'

'Whaaat? Might only be a scratch to you missus but it's a gouge to me.' Should they gum the 'scratch' or not? Morphine would be nicer.

A different doc. Ears to challenge Prince Charles's but lovely. Called me darling. It was now mid afternoon. Finally whacked in the painkiller and anaesthetic in my poorly arm. Joy profound.

In went the shoulder. Humerus has a fine crack, best left. My ribs will sort themselves. I have a shiner. My hand will probably get better. Exercise it.

We toddled into the car park, me in my hospital gown, wearing one legged tights, looking like an inmate who had escaped from the asylum. People avoided eye contact.

The next day: strong hospital pills, one-handed typing of copy edits – there’s a deadline. This is being a writer. In the next book will there be a woman wearing half a pair of tight?