Forgive a personal tale.
I learned a lot last Friday.
When I was first diagnosed, I remember being amazed by the kindness and empathy – in addition to their professional skill – of all the medics I came into contact with: consultants, specialist nurses, OTs, PTs and so on. As time has gone on, I’ve rather got used to it. Perhaps taken it for granted, though it’s no less appreciated.
Friends and colleagues are very supportive too, of course. But having lived a rather self-contained, self-sufficient life, I don’t have much contact with people I don’t know.
Many months ago I signed up to attend a seminar in London put on by our publishers, Wiley, at the BMA headquarters in Tavistock Square. At the time I didn’t consider the logistics of getting there. I suppose I thought I’d just catch a train, then a tube to the nearest station and walk the last bit.
Of course, when the time came, I realised that was impossible. So Plan-B was to use taxis. I also decided to treat myself to a first class ticket on the assumption first class would be at the front of the train and therefore nearest the exit at Paddington. Not far to walk I thought, so I won’t take my walker on crowded London streets but rely on my stick. Bad decision!
To start with, first class ended up at the rear of the train, furthest from the barrier. The hike along the platform past ten carriages was exhausting enough. And then I discovered that the taxi rank was no longer where I remembered it, but several hundred yards and an escalator away.
As I was leaning against a pillar in the middle of the concourse, hardly able to stand by this time, a young woman stopped and asked: “Are you OK, would you like some help?” I explained I wanted to get to the taxis. She gave me her arm to lean on and, very slowly, we walked to the escalator and then the last bit to the taxi rank. I was apologising all the time for being so slow and worrying I was making her late. She brushed it off and waited to see me safely in a cab. I never got her name.
I made it to the seminar, only about 15 minutes late and slowly recovered during the morning session. At lunchtime, in the buffet queue, one of the chefs realised there was no way I could hold a plate of food and walk, so he carried my plate to an empty table and got me settled with cutlery and a drink. Within moments a woman, a complete stranger, asked if she could sit with me. We had a terrific conversation over lunch and she helped me to the lift back to the seminar.
Things got better. On the way home, I took the advice of the outbound taxi driver and asked to be dropped at a completely different entrance rather than the cab rank, which made it only a short hobble to the train.
So, what did I learn? That I’ll never take a tube again. That my mobility is now seriously compromised. That perhaps I should stop saying: “No thanks, I’m fine” when people offer help.
Perhaps an old Doug can learn new tricks!
I learned a lot last Friday.
When I was first diagnosed, I remember being amazed by the kindness and empathy – in addition to their professional skill – of all the medics I came into contact with: consultants, specialist nurses, OTs, PTs and so on. As time has gone on, I’ve rather got used to it. Perhaps taken it for granted, though it’s no less appreciated.
Friends and colleagues are very supportive too, of course. But having lived a rather self-contained, self-sufficient life, I don’t have much contact with people I don’t know.
Many months ago I signed up to attend a seminar in London put on by our publishers, Wiley, at the BMA headquarters in Tavistock Square. At the time I didn’t consider the logistics of getting there. I suppose I thought I’d just catch a train, then a tube to the nearest station and walk the last bit.
Of course, when the time came, I realised that was impossible. So Plan-B was to use taxis. I also decided to treat myself to a first class ticket on the assumption first class would be at the front of the train and therefore nearest the exit at Paddington. Not far to walk I thought, so I won’t take my walker on crowded London streets but rely on my stick. Bad decision!
To start with, first class ended up at the rear of the train, furthest from the barrier. The hike along the platform past ten carriages was exhausting enough. And then I discovered that the taxi rank was no longer where I remembered it, but several hundred yards and an escalator away.
As I was leaning against a pillar in the middle of the concourse, hardly able to stand by this time, a young woman stopped and asked: “Are you OK, would you like some help?” I explained I wanted to get to the taxis. She gave me her arm to lean on and, very slowly, we walked to the escalator and then the last bit to the taxi rank. I was apologising all the time for being so slow and worrying I was making her late. She brushed it off and waited to see me safely in a cab. I never got her name.
I made it to the seminar, only about 15 minutes late and slowly recovered during the morning session. At lunchtime, in the buffet queue, one of the chefs realised there was no way I could hold a plate of food and walk, so he carried my plate to an empty table and got me settled with cutlery and a drink. Within moments a woman, a complete stranger, asked if she could sit with me. We had a terrific conversation over lunch and she helped me to the lift back to the seminar.
Things got better. On the way home, I took the advice of the outbound taxi driver and asked to be dropped at a completely different entrance rather than the cab rank, which made it only a short hobble to the train.
So, what did I learn? That I’ll never take a tube again. That my mobility is now seriously compromised. That perhaps I should stop saying: “No thanks, I’m fine” when people offer help.
Perhaps an old Doug can learn new tricks!
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