I'm fed up with having to prove my pain to men
If all women had to worry about was the odd steel conker...
My husband and I spent an afternoon in A&E this week. “Bit different to the last time I was here,” I muttered, as his symptoms were assessed, thankfully taken seriously and he was bestowed with a wristband indicating a higher risk level than most others in the waiting room. So proud. (He’s fine, by the way).
My previous trip to the emergency room came two years ago, after I awoke at 1am with stabbing chest pains that oscillated around my ribcage and was taken there in an ambulance. I haven’t thought too deeply about it, other than what a hugely scary experience it was and how much kindness the paramedics showed.
This week, though, I started to recall it differently.