A twist, a snap and a pin in my leg

I broke my leg and encountered the best of humanity

The break has put my gardening career on hold, so if you can spare a couple of quid for a coffee, that would be amazing

I can’t go back over it. Every time I do the pain is too exquisite, too present. I can say that when I got to the hospital in Chesterfield, the service tapped into every cliche imaginable. Every cliche about what makes our health service so special, despite its flaws.

An orderly called Hamed wheeling over an appropriate chair and giving me grief as I arrived, asking if I’d done it playing rugby and launching into a jokey rant about England’s hopeless showing against Italy in the Six Nations.

A tired and friendly radiographer who apologised as she twisted my deformed leg into the correct position for an essential X Ray.

A registrar called Tafiq who showed me the extent of the damage in a bay in A&E, walked me through the operation that would occur the next morning and refused to cut off my trousers ‘because they look nice and new’. He wasn’t wrong. I wriggled out of them before a series of nurses came in and took bloods, blood pressure and pulse, handed me morphine and the magic ‘green pen’ which, by all accounts turned me into a gymnast as I writhed and giggled as they lathered on a temporary cast.

Amyla, a nurse on the ward who gently called every patient sweetheart and with whom I parked my dignity as she helped me stand up and go to the loo in a cardboard pot. She administered pain relief, hooking up drips and tending to cannulas in the small hours.

A student nurse called Craig, a Zimbabwean who loved cricket and had a good laugh with me about my inability to transfer my weight to a commode. By his account his country’s T20 performances have been excellent and the place itself is on the mend. He wants to work in mental health. He made me feel calm, assured. He will be perfect in his new job.

A surgical orderly called Andy with a Royal Marines cap badge tattooed on his inner arm. A nod to his late father’s service and who, he laughed, hated people getting inked. His colleague Kerry, who immediately saw my blabbering and joking as a masking mechanism and asked me to tell her how I had ended up living up north.

A pair of anaesthetists, making me feel simultaneously old and extremely relaxed. Handing me oxygen, explaining what would put me out. Blackness all around me before they finished talking.

Nurses with names I can’t remember. A young woman doing Ramadan, sipping water as her night shift ended, talking to me, keeping me sane. A man called Adam easing out my catheter and sharing horror stories of their bubbles being left inflated as they are removed.

A consultant with a swift handshake and a smile as he tells me it’s all fine, it’s gone ok. The metal will be there for life and you’ll walk out of here this morning.

A pair of physios, Charlotte and Laurie. Sliding my trainers on, ordering me up, showing me how to go about walking again. Crutches forwards, bad leg next, left leg after. Up the stairs. Down the stairs.

A registrar with discharge papers. Emily the nurse on hand to remove the pressure bandage. Dianne the auxiliary handing over my meds. A wave goodbye. A thumbs up. A handshake and a cheer from Craig.

There is only now in here. And the people who make now happen. From all over the world. To help everyone here. Whenever they need. Whatever their problem.