MY HEALTH EXPERIENCE:Flight home was by air ambulance after holiday accident, writes NIAMH O'DOCHARTAIGH
WE AWOKE TO brilliant sunshine on our first morning in Majorca, having hastily made a late getaway decision from a wet and windy Ireland in the dying days of a soggy May.
When thunder clouds arrived two days later, we were quite happy to forsake the pool and the windy beach to spend time visiting the nearby medieval town of Alcudia in the scenic north of this beautiful island.
An impressively restored walled town with many delightful remnants of its old Roman and Moorish heritage, it is a maze of narrow cobbled streets with quiet courtyard restaurants, all dominated by a richly ornate baroque church whose interior hums with calming music.
We had planned a special excursion to the Hermitage de Lluc, high in the jagged peaks of the Tramuntana range, to hear the boys’ choir, which had been a highlight of a previous visit 20 years earlier.
Having arrived in good time, we joined the throngs visiting the monastery – and then it happened. I took a sideways step in the dimly lit church, that ended in a crashing fall onto a stone floor below. The idyll was abruptly ended and a whole new saga had begun. I knew immediately limbs were smashed. The full story emerged hours later after a winding ambulance ride down the dramatic mountainside with husband Eoin visible at certain angles driving behind in our hired car.
We were taken to the general public hospital at Inca where eventually X-rays were taken and we waited and waited, delayed shock and pain now racking my entire body.
Asked when they might operate, the reply was that this was a Majorcan public hospital and it might be in a week’s time as everyone had to wait their turn.
A kindly doctor explained the situation, suggesting we transfer to a private hospital if we had private insurance and the hip operation would be done immediately there.
With visions of MRSA floating in my mind, we remembered the all- important VHI Assist overseas number. Eoin made the call and immediately the wheels began to turn and doors began to open. Never again would we complain of the high cost of VHI over the past 30 years, it was now all worth it.
A week in the private hospital – with language difficulties – followed. Drips, drains, catheters, Spanish blood transfusions – which I was laughingly assured would have me dancing flamenco all the way home – were the pattern for the next seven days.
I quickly learned the Spanish word for bedpan and passed this vital information on to each new neighbour, all tourists, in the twin-bed room.
Unlike me – the long-term resident – most were one-night stays with gastro-enteritis, food poisoning, or minor accidents. However, one woman had horrendous injuries sustained while cycling at speed along one of the island’s much-promoted cycle lanes, when a collision with a badly-placed bollard threw her onto the road, shattered her helmet, and left her with a blood-matted head wound, a bloodied face and eye, a fractured arm and multiple cuts and bruises.
But it was the spouses who were the eye-opener for me. Ever present, attentive, caring, they could not do enough for their suffering wives. And I always thought my Eoin was the only one like that.
We had fun too amid the pain. Early mornings from 6am were spent swapping life stories and then when husbands arrived there was quite a lot of banter and joking.
My Peruvian surgeon inserted an impressive plate and pins in my left thigh and the nursing care was mostly brilliant, but the number of untrained nurses was sadly apparent. The quality of the food was another sign of cost-cutting, but it too was adequate.
Helen, the resident translator, was a really helpful lady and a major operator in organising our transport home.
VHI Assist arranged everything and all custom and passport matters were sorted in advance. Not only were they efficient but they were kindly and caring too in their telephone calls to us. When I heard that a private plane would take us directly home I was speechless and in tears.
The air-ambulance company CEGA, based in Bournemouth, rang my mobile on the morning of departure and Stuart, the nursing officer on board, told me they would be collecting us at the hospital at 11.30am and we would be leaving Palma airport by 1.30pm.
He said they had a very comfortable stretcher on board and that every seat in their plane has a view. The plane, a turbo jet, seemed tiny and our luggage filled the tail end.
There were only two passenger seats and Eoin occupied one as my doctor, while Stuart, a great carer, gave us a guided tour of the flight path and pointed out locations below.
Space is at a premium in these air ambulances as they take lots of fuel and fly long distances in their work. The two crew members had to bend double to make their way up to the cockpit, yet Stuart had a cool-bag from which he produced tasty sandwiches, fruit and drinks.
He told us he works in the intensive care unit at Southampton Hospital three days a week and spends two days flying in the air ambulance. There is always a long queue of nurses waiting to do these trips.
The company name CEGA comes from the initials of the two founder members, one of whom had a pilot’s licence and small plane in the 1970s which was used to transport a seriously-ill friend home. From this act of kindness developed a valuable service and business.
For me, the flight was “on angels’ wings” and Stuart completed the process by delivering me to my hospital bed in Galway where he handed all X-rays and documents over to the nurses on duty.
Ten days and an arm operation later, I still recall the journey home with pleasure.
