The day I was reminded that 'Casualty' is not real life

When my Nanna phoned me at the pub last night, I thought I was in trouble for not calling her. I went straight on the defensive: I was sorry, I hadn't had a chance, I'd barely had a lunch break, I'd had meetings all day, then I was at a football match and now I was at the pub. 

And then I let her speak and she asked me to come to hers and stay the night because she was getting chest pains. 

My heart skipped a beat, though not in a medically dangerous way that hers might have been doing. 

Just the day before she'd said she was feeling "permanently under the weather". 

Had she jinxed herself? 

I practically fled the pub, and was storming the wrong way in Bethnal Green when I got a reassuring call from my mum. Don't panic. Yes the doctor said to go to hospital, but she had had these pains before and there are complications with diabetes that we couldn't know for sure that this was a serious heart problem. 

I calmed down. My cantankerous grandmother was refusing to go to hospital but she had good reason not to panic the same way I was. 

After a change of shoes at home (heeled boots are not practical if you need to run around after an invalid) and picking up my stuff I arrived at hers. She was gasping for a cup of tea, and it wasn't long until she hit the wine as usual. So far so normal. 

She was breathless and groaning. I hooked her up to a TENS machine and we watched Silent Witness. We went to bed at midnight and I got a lie in, as I was working from home. 

She'd slept fitfully, and phoned the doctors who sent an ambulance. The pain was still there, and they needed to be sure she wasn't having a "cardiac episode".

The paramedics were great. Cheery, pleasant, accidentally turning on the ECG machine with an automated voice exclaiming they were "starting CPR".

No one outside of my family appreciates the hysterics we go into when explaining how my uncle once tipped my nan out of her wheelchair, giving her a black eye. They transported her very carefully in the wheelchair and subsequently the trolley bed. 

So, we're at hospital. I'm waiting in the relatives room. It can only be described as a roomy broom cupboard with a sink and a sofa. I shared with two women whose parents were in. They were in their 40s or 50s. They discussed Cornwall and how hard these doctors work. They blamed Theresa May for the shortage of doctors. One by one they got called to go into their loved ones. 

I sat in the broom cupboard for an hour before someone asked if I was Joan's granddaughter.

A quick aside: when the paramedics called my nan Joan I thought she'd given them a false name. I had forgotten that's her real name, not Alison (her middle name ) or any variation of Nan I come up with (nan, nanna, nanny, trouble, mischief) 

She was in a gown, on a bed. She has a chest infection (Again? Still?) and she needs to be admitted for intravenous antibiotics. 

This soon became oral antibiotics because her right bundle branch block wasn't too bad, and the chest infection was likely causing the pain. 

Then there might be fluid on the lung. 

An ultrasound revealed there wasn't, not really? 

And finally another blood test revealed that yes it was raised (not sure what, something to do with her heart and her blood?) but not significantly enough to keep her in and we could go merrily on our way. After I'd waited half an hour to pick up her two new medications. 

As I write, dear reader, she's drinking tea and being fussed over by her cats. And granddaughters. 

In Casualty everything is much more dramatic. Because it's a drama. 

But life isn't just a drama. It's a comedy as well. 

Back home I announced Claire would be coming over for dinner. And Nan said "oh, to see you?"

"No Nan! To see you! You've just been in hospital!"