I woke up on the hard, cold, damp school yard with an uncontrollable, sharp stabbing pain in my right jaw. Above me Liam’s great round face peered down, reality returned slowly. Liam helped me up and I screamed with pain. Instinctively I ran, in a state of blind panic, towards the teacher on duty. There was blood pouring from my mouth.
Mrs Abbott, a motherly shaped woman spoke reassuringly and calmly while walking me towards the school. We went inside by which time I was bawling my eyes out. The teacher asked me pointless questions such as ‘How did you do it?’ and ‘Where does it hurt?’ She sat me down next to a sink, soaked a paper towel in cold water and told me to hold it next to my jaw, she also gave me a dry one to stop the bleeding from my chin. It was almost as if the murky green paper towels were the ultimate cure for all ills in Mrs Abbott’s mind.
I sat at the sink, on my own, in extreme pain, for what seemed like hours. I remember how silent it was. The only sounds I could hear were the dripping of the tap and a slight murmur from the surrounding classrooms. When Mrs Abbott finally came back I told her to get my mother. Although, by the look on her face, she thought I was exaggerating she walked towards the office. Mrs Abbott returned within minutes and told me that my mum would get to school as soon as possible. I started to sob. This was not only because of the dreadful pain but because I wanted someone to care for me. Mrs Abbott patted me on the back patronisingly and smugly commented, ‘Worse things happen at sea!’
When my mum eventually arrived she walked over and hugged me. For those few moments the pain ceased and everything seemed better. The teacher told my mum that I was ‘making a meal of it’. My mum disagreed with this comment as I remember she looked disgusted.
I was taken to the Bradford Royal Infirmary. I hated hospitals mainly because of the distinctive antiseptic smell that hung in the air like mist on a damp morning in December. I was very frightened when we entered. I remember feeling an unruly shot of pain penetrating through my jaw as I spoke to the receptionist.
Immediately ‘Patrick Brosnan’ was called out over the loud speaker. I was directed into a small room and was told to sit on the bed. A few seconds later a male doctor came in; he looked in a state of routine boredom and peered over the top of his spectacles. He was wearing a long, white coat and had a stethoscope hanging round his neck. He had a grey beard and said ‘Hello’ in a foreign accent. Through my mother’s inquisitiveness he proceeded to tell us he was Russian.
He examined my jaw, my chin and the inside of my mouth, with what seemed like no regard to my pain. He told me that I had a small incision under my chin, one of my canines was loose and would probably need removing and that my jaw needed x-raying. I was very scared at this point and kept glancing at my mum nervously.
He sent me away to be x-rayed. The radiologist showed no compassion. She saw me as yet another specimen. She told me in a very dreary voice that I was going to have to bite a little plastic entity with my front teeth and explained how the procedure would work. I found biting the plastic object on the machine very hard. The x-ray only took a matter of seconds and I was sent back to the room where I had met the Russian doctor.
After approximately ten minutes he returned with his entourage and my negatives in his hand. He put them up on the lighted screen. I was very tense and kept catching odd words such as ‘fracture’. Being the child I was I was very anxious and worried at hearing such words. The nerve just above my left eye kept jumping. After a few minutes of deliberation the Russian doctor turned and I remember it sounded as if he was about to deliver me a death sentence. He said that I had shattered the right hand side of my jaw and that it would need some manipulation before it could heal properly. He told my mother that the procedure would require an anaesthetic. We were also then informed that I would need to be transferred to St. Luke’s Hospital, as there had been a bad accident and there was no longer a bed available for me. I remember thinking, how could anything could me more urgent and pressing than my plight?
Whilst in the ambulance there were a million thoughts going through my head mainly about the chance of my surviving this general anaesthetic. I was absolutely terrified and even comforting words from my mother were no consolation to me at this stage. I wanted the journey to last forever but it took no more than five minutes.
I was wheeled slowly towards the hospital with my head down like a condemned man being taken to his execution. With great efficiency the well oiled machinery of the N.H.S. went into action and I was whisked away on a trolley by two porters with their usual merriness . The journey again flew by. At this stage I just wanted to get off the trolley and run away. The porters pushed the trolley through another set of doors and we were in the operating theatre. The Russian doctor was there, now dressed all in green with a mask covering up his beard. He had a tray next to him with some syringes on it. I tried to stay as calm as possible. He put an injection into my arm. Could I count to five?
On regaining consciousness I was relieved to see my mother but the pain had not diminished. My mum looked at me and said, “Making a meal of it… I don’t think you’ll be eating a meal for a while with that jaw!
