All I Want for Christmas is Two Kidney Stones, Covid and a Severe Head Trauma

Ben Drinkwater

I’ve always taken pride in my first class constitution.

And I haven’t half gone on about it. Two drinks down and all within a five mile radius would know how I’d waltzed past swine flu, skipped over foot and mouth, never broken a bone, had stitches, or even visited A&E. The only glamorous exception to this rule was a brief flirtation with shingles, which I contracted because I was so stressed planning my 18th birthday party.

But don’t fret, my delusions have been swiftly cast aside with a medical escapade that, quite literally, dragged my behind firmly back down to the cold, hard, ground. Settle in, because this tale plays our like a filler episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

It was a Friday evening and I was due to go to a party. Not feeling too great, I sent my friends on their way and settled in for a night with The Real Housewives. It was an unremarkable few hours that culminated in me popping a Night Nurse to enter a dribble-filled 12 hour coma. At least, that’s what it was supposed to do, as the next thing I remember is waking up bolt upright at 3.00am covered in my own sweat. Doesn’t mention that in the potential side effects does it.

Disorientated, nauseous, yet weirdly still stunning, the next thirty seconds was giving ‘resentful maid’s slipped a cyanide in my herbal tea”’ energy. Stumbling out of bed, I fumbled my way to the door, and eventually found myself in the bathroom. The next thing I know I look in the mirror and I see blood gushing out of my head. Then everything goes dark.

I come to on the floor. Slightly shellshocked, I feel a bit like dead Harry Potter in the heavenly version of Kings Cross. Except there’s no ghost of Dumbledore and Harry didn’t have blood pouring out of his perfectly moisturised forehead. More to the point, for some bizarre reason I have my phone with me, presumably just in case someone slides into my dm’s as I’m bleeding out? Either way, I manage to get hold of my housemates and whisper the words ‘I’ve hit my head, there’s blood’. Because even as I’m losing gallons of the stuff, I still manage to deliver a performance worthy of a best supporting actress Oscar nomination. 

My housemates arrive to a precarious situation so reminiscent of a crime scene, the BBC wouldn’t be allowed to air it before the watershed. I’m huddled in the foetal position, lying in a pool of my own blood, barely able string a sentence together. I immediately vomit, which is a reaction I usually reserve for my dearest friends. They swiftly call an ambulance.

The next few hours went by in a warm fuzzy blur, principally because my friends did a remarkable job of shielding me from the disturbing scene unfurling before their eyes. But nevertheless, a few moments stand out amidst the blur. I remember lots of retching, someone doing a wee above my lifeless body, and sarcastically telling a Doctor through the phone that I had an OBE.

And then finally, as the winter sun rose above London, reflecting a warm, morning glow on our bathroom mirror, my saviours materialised in the form of New Zealand’s answer to Destiny’s Child. An all female paramedic team who walk up the spiral stairs and exclaim ‘Crikey Ben, what the hell’s happened here mate?’.  

And after a slightly baffling conversation that veered into house plant care territory, I finally lost my ambulance virginity, which was, of course, smack bang in the middle of the aforementioned sunrise - the striking beauty of which the capital has never seen. You know what they say - red sky at night, shepherds delight, red sky in the morning, Ben’s drifting in and out of consciousness. So beautiful the sunrise was in fact, that we all got out and took pictures of the ambulance parked outside A&E. Picture me and Kiwi Kelly Rowland smiling at each other, the last drop of blood clotting over my head, saying ‘ah isn’t that beautiful’.

After being swiftly stitched up by a talented trauma nurse who, without much tact, kept reminding me again how “gaping” my hole was, I made by way back to the ranch.

Naturally, the question on our lips is what could have possibly caused the devastating damage to my (occasionally) beautiful face. What horrifying instrument of torture could have mauled and deformed me with such disregard. Could it be the sink? No, too blunt. What about the bath? Let’s keep it plausible. Then it dawns on us that what caused my injuries was in fact, a NEXT catalogue elephant trunk toilet roll holder.

I suppose it’s a good time to mention that I then got COVID. In this tale, COVID a mere foot note on the dedications page. But it is important however, as it posed a teensy weensy challenge to the delicate issue of getting my ten stitches out. I was under strict orders that this was to be done no later than five days after the fall, and when I got my positive result we were pushing day four. As you can imagine, my main concern was the after effects of my stitches, but fortunately for me a nurse at The Royal London hospital agreed to don full PPE to ensure that my wound landed on the sexy side of scarring.

So there I am walking to the hospital, masked-up and full of plague, when all of a sudden I experience a sharp, shooting pain up my side that, quite literally, took my breath away. Doubled over and sweating, I mouth ‘are you fucking kidding me’ to the camera on my right. What is happening? Am I on an episode of House? Frantically trying to answer these questions whilst keeping it together, I serendipitously happen upon my local GP and, as I don’t like to make a big scene, burst into the waiting room crying out for help.

I pass out at a puzzling slow pace a la Gillian Mckeith, and for the next hour or so I’m back in my happy place - on a freezing cold tiled floor. This time though, I’m not comatose and I’m experiencing the worst pain of my life, holding the hand of a beautiful, yet total stranger, Nurse Chrissie, who informed me this was the most excitement the surgery had seen in months. Another ambulance was called but it was decided it would be quicker for me to crawl so off I went to Homerton on my hands and knees.

“Frantically trying to answer these questions whilst simulatenously keeping it together, I serendipitously happen upon my local GP and, as I don’t like to make a big scene, burst into the waiting room crying out for help.”

I kid of course, as my guardian angel housemates miraculously reappear once again. Loz took one look at me and said ‘someone doesn’t want you going back to Hogwarts Mr Potter’, and I’m carried out of the surgery to an Uber XL - the size of which makes me laugh. Like we needed a larger car just in case I gave birth en route to the hospital. 15 minutes later and I’m back at with my friends at A&E. I’m really glad I signed up to their loyalty scheme. If I visit twice more before Easter I get a free CT scan!

While the doctors run every test imaginable, I put the time to great use by befriending a Mancunian nurse who told me about her cosmetic boob reduction, why her boyfriend had just broken up with her in Australia and how the doctor we had both been drooling over is both single and ready to mingle… but not with her… because he’s gay. (she knows this because she vomited all over herself, and him, on an A&E night out at All Bar One.) 

“After all that excitement I receive my prognosis which, in a slightly bizarre turn, was that I actually am in the process of giving birth - to two rock hard kidney stones, who are swiftly named Joss and Sharon. ”

After all that excitement I receive my prognosis which, in a slightly bizarre turn, was that I actually am in the process of giving birth - to two rock hard kidney stones, who are swiftly named Joss and Sharon. I’m prescribed some hardcore painkillers and told that the first should pass soon and the second could stay in my kidney for up to ten years (!) putting it firmly in the running for most committed relationship I’ve ever had.

Writing my magnum opus I sit, lying in bed on Christmas Day, recovering at my sister’s, who, alongside her partner, always come to my rescue when I need them most. Sharon’s still giving me gyp, but on the plus side I’ve been told the scars are leaning more on the mysterious side of rugged and, crucially, my immaculate palette is returning to form - thank god.

I think I probably make light of the situation to distract from the fact that it has been both a frightening and sobering reminder of my own fragility. You really can be bobbing along kidding yourself that you’re invincible, but it only takes a couple of slip ups - both literally and figuratively - to remind you that you are only as strong as the people that love you, but ultimately far more resilient than you probably give yourself credit for.

I was going to say that recovery is slow and sometimes difficult but that makes it sound like I was in a life-threatening car crash. The reality is I massage my scars for twenty minutes a day and spend an inordinate amount of money on medical grade silicon gel. Either way, if I am going to impart some sage wisdom, these are the three reflections I want to finish on. 

“It only takes a couple of slip ups - both literally and figuratively - to remind you that you are only as strong as the people that love you, but ultimately far more resilient than you probably give yourself credit for.”

The first is about chosen family. I love my family, and my housemates have long been assimilated into the Drinkwater/Mendoza clan - who, in no surprise to anyone, definitely prefer them to me anyway. Regardless, I struggle to find the words to explain the impact their presence has had on me during this whole debacle. They nursed me back to health, both physically and emotionally, made me cry with laughter, and also just made me cry from their never ending fountain of sarcastic, but true, love. The thing that has stayed with me was seeing their reactions to me on the floor in the bathroom. It’s only when you see the people you love react to you at your most vulnerable, that you realise how you would feel if you ever saw them in a similar situation. They’re my sisters, and I can’t wrap my head around the fact that they literally scrubbed my blood off our bathroom floor. Kinda cool. Anyway, I think I should buy us a new bath mat. And toilet roll holder.

The second is a cliched, but wholly necessary thank you to the NHS. Look, I was banging my Le Creuset first lockdown as much as everyone else, but truthfully, aside from a couple of health anxiety induced trips to the GP, my interactions with our health service have been limited. I was blown away and, embarrassingly, a little shocked, at how efficient, personal and exceptional my care was - which probably tells you a little bit about how our hospitals are portrayed in the media. It makes me angry to see how the NHS is bandied around in public discourse, like it’s a commodity that is expendable. It’s not. I came into contact with a plethora of health workers, some hotter than others, but all of whom were a testament to our country’s finest asset.

My final piece of advice would be to not take Night Nurse, and avoid safari-based toilet products at all costs. That includes elephant trunks, rhino tusks and giraffe necks. I might start a go fund me to sue Night Nurse and NEXT if anyone’s down? If we win I’ll take you all to The Maldives where we can plan who is going to play me in the Broadway production of All I Want for Christmas is Two Kidney Stones, Covid and a Severe Head Trauma.