The day started innocently enough. Productive, even. I did loads of admin, the smug kind where you briefly believe you’ve got your life together. I sent Christmas cards to customers online. Festive. Organised. Dangerous levels of confidence. I even bought a chicken and cooked it properly. Golden. Crispy. Smelling like a woman who absolutely did not expect to end the day in A&E.

We sat down to eat. Three bites in and my daughter was in pain. Real pain. Not “let’s see how this goes” pain. “Put your shoes on, we’re leaving” pain. And just like that, Sunday swerved violently into A&E.

Once we had checked in at A&E, I got a phone notification: Emergency – A&E. Which sounds terrifying but also oddly reassuring. At least the system knows we exist, it's only been the 16th time this year!

The waiting room is chaos theatre. People in wheelchairs. People chatting like it’s Costa. Babies on shoulders. Entire wardrobes carried in shopping bags. Every language known to man being spoken at once. One bloke sitting with his legs up on a pillar like he’s waiting for a bus, not medical attention. And not one single pair of headphones. Not one.

It’s boiling. I didn’t bring a jumper. Coat off immediately. Mask on. Arthritis thumb screaming as I balance my phone like I’m competing in a contact sport. The room gets louder. Busier. More feral by the minute.

GARLIC 

Then a lady sits next to me. 

Her breath could strip paint. Full-force garlic. No warning. No mercy.

I physically cannot move. So I lean into my daughter for comfort… and oxygen. Unfortunately, the garlic lady is sitting with her legs spread, so I have no choice but to turn my back on her; the pungent smell is making me feel so grossed out. She’s talking very loudly, and every time she breathed out, I got a whiff of Garlic. 

Then my mum rings on Facetime and wonders why I am wearing a mask! She starts talking about the turkey she collected today. A big one. A very big one. But everyone’s ill, so she had to collect it herself.

I nod politely, mask on, breathing shallow, wondering how this is my actual life, worried sick about my child while listening to a festive poultry Talk. I mention that I thought about offering to help, but my arthritis thumb is bad, which is true. Painful. Throbbing. Entirely done. She nods and continues the turkey saga.

We’re still waiting for my daughter to go on a drip. Time stretches. Reality blurs. I get the neck pillow out of my bag. I look like a beetle. A tired beetle. But my neck is wrecked from staring at my phone for hours and dignity clocked out ages ago.

Eventually we’re moved into a drip room. Eight people. Two already on drips. Small space. Coughing. Sniffing. Nose blowing. A premium germ-sharing experience.

My daughter can’t wear a mask because it causes ticcing, which sends my anxiety through the roof. I have to beg to be allowed to sit in the room with her, explaining the autism route and why she needs me there. They agree eventually, but only after I dig deep into my last reserves of polite-but-firm mum energy.

While we’re in there, a girl suddenly starts fainting. Swaying. About to hit the floor. Nurses ask her friend to hold her up, and I tell them to call a doctor. Eventually, they appear and bring her a bed. I am questioning why a woman who is deliriously ill and has a temperature of 38 should be in a room with people who are elderly and sick, but it took me to say something! 

We finally see the doctor. Bloods reviewed. He refers her to the surgeons. Calm voice. Heavy sentence. After a while, the lady Surgeon said she’s staying overnight on a drip. Nil by mouth and is being transferred to a surgical ward. Tomorrow morning, she’s being transferred to another hospital. Because of course she is. Why would anything in my life be simple?

I cancelled dinner with a friend for tomorrow night, gutted, because every time we make plans, something comes up. By now, the adrenaline has completely worn off. I’m wrecked. That bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from sitting on the end of a narrow hospital bed and leaning against the wall, as there are no plastic chairs available, and under fluorescent lights, while sharing a space with every Tom, Dick & Harry, while another doctor examines them, and we can hear every last noise. 

The shortest day of the year. The longest night.

One minute I’m cooking a chicken. The next I’m planning hospital transfers, cancelling social plans, and listening to multiple people passionately discuss turkeys.

At least she’s in the right place. At least there’s a plan.

Even if the plan came wrapped in garlic, gall bladders, and absolute chaos.