Winchester United Nations

At 4.30 am on a Sunday, as the sky was lightening, an ambulance with me on board rocked and bumped from our house en route to the Royal Hampshire County Hospital, Winchester. A sudden fever and collapse caused Madam some alarm, and fortunately for me, her 999 call brought the ambulance within 30 minutes.

‘We’ve got to strap you in, by law,’ explained the ex-soldier paramedic. No need, I thought. But the potholes and ambulance suspension showed it was necessary.

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The RHCH was quiet at dawn on a Sunday, and I was soon in a bed.

‘What’s been happening to you?’ asked Dr Hemeda as he looked me over. I asked him where he qualified. ‘Ein Shams, Cairo. We’ll get you x-rayed.’ We chatted about Ein Shams, as I have lectured there a few times. It is the oldest of Cairo’s Universities and the Centre for Muslim Studies. On my first visit there, I took a bottle of Whisky for my host but thought better of it and kept it in my bag.

Next, a nurse from Warsaw, Poland, tended to me, and I was able to chat about a few weeks I spent working at the Neuro-psychiatric Hospital in Warsaw. A gentle giant of a Ghanaian took down my particulars and wheeled me to x-ray, where I met Jack, as British as they come.

On the admissions ward, more Ghanaians and a Chinese nurse set up my intravenous infusion of antibiotics. I wanted to speak to a Sri Lankan nurse, but she was busy with different beds, and there was no opportunity before the Ghanaians whisked me to Kemp-Welch Ward—my search for who Kemp-Welch might be revealed a Hampshire-born painter specializing in horses. I wonder if it is she who is commemorated.

Phillipinos and another gentle giant who did not look quite like a Ghanaian managed my IV drip.

‘Is that a Nigerian name?’ I asked him once I had seen his name badge.

‘Yes. How did you guess?’ We chatted about Nigerians I have worked with, one of whom became the Professor of Anatomy in Ibadan. Another lost his life in the Biafran war.

I had an interesting time with a timid young psychologist of European extraction who the Ward Sister sent to test my dementia.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ he asked. I looked at my watch and told him. ‘Do you know where you are? Who is the King of Britain?’

‘Rex Charles tertium. That’s the answer in Latin,’ I told him, trying to be a clever dick. ‘Nice chap, Charles. I met him in Salisbury Hospital once.’ The psychologist probably marked me down as delusional for that comment.

‘What year did the war end?’ Good grief, which war did he mean? World War I or II, the Korean War, the Vietnamese, the Russian invasion of Czechoslovakia, Hungary, or the Iran-Iraq war. We settled for WWII in May 1945, but I could not remember the official date (May 8th). It was long before he was born, anyway. And so it went on.

‘But you haven’t asked me who the Prime Minister is,’ I said at the end. ‘For your information, it’s Winston Churchill.’ That got me a black mark. His sense of humour did not stretch so far.

One nurse, an Englishman, was charged with looking after those patients who inhabited a twilight world of confusion and hallucinations. That took real dedication, watchfulness, and skill to keep them calm, tend to their needs, and not confuse them further.

I made steady progress until I almost succumbed to meatloaf poisoning one lunchtime. An Iraqi doctor told me I was not well enough to go home as one of the lab results wasn’t back to normal. ‘Treat the patient, not the lab results,’ I told her. The next doctor to visit was from Mumbai, India. I’ve been there too, and we talked about the city and the old Jeejeebhoy Hospital. The authorities have demolished that enormous colonial edifice from 1843 and rebuilt it elsewhere. Some British were opposed to teaching Indians any medicine at that time. Fortunately, wiser heads prevailed, and we Brits founded several medical schools in India.

I settled back with my Kindle to read Truman Capote, a skilful if rather bloodthirsty author, until interrupted by a true Hampshire woman who rattled into the ward with a tea trolley.

The next morning, the junior doctors were on strike. A Senior doctor, a Pakistani, visited me. ‘You can go home,’ he said.

Before I could digest the good news and phone Madam, the Ghanaians came.

‘Grab your stuff and sit in this chair. We’re taking you to the discharge ward.’ They hurried because another patient in the corridor was waiting for the bed.

“Discharge Ward” did not seem appropriate because of the recent fuss about sewerage discharges. “Departure Lounge” might also be an unfortunate name, “Evacuation Room” is not appropriate either, but I cannot think of an alternative.

It’s good to be home. Had I visited a hospital or the United Nations? All the people had been delightful and good at their jobs. Now, what is all that stuff about too many immigrants?