2026-01-09
28 分钟This is The Guardian.
This article contains some strong language.
I wish I could say I kept my cool.
My maddening experience with the NHS Wheelchair Service by Paul Sagar, read by Philippi Pasekou.
I was lying on my back in an East London hospital sometime in August 2023.
I don't know what day it was exactly.
By that point I'd mostly given up carry.
My phone rang.
I managed to answer even though I had largely lost the use of my hands.
Luckily a member of staff had left it lying on my chest.
Also, I wasn't feeling great.
In the early stages of coming to terms with the fact I was paralyzed,
I had just been informed that the doctors wanted to drill a hole directly into my guts,
inserting a plastic tube to drain away my urine, effectively making my penis redundant.
It was proving quite a lot to take in.
Nonetheless, I answered.
The person on the other end said they were calling from my local wheelchair service.
I sort of registered this was important.
By this point, I started to get my head around the fact I was never going to walk again.
Wheelchairs were going to be a big part of my life.