London Calling is an excerpt from my medical memoir. This is a work in progress. The genre is creative nonfiction. It is based on real-life events. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the individuals involved.

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Chapter Four

February, 2014

London was calling. I was on the cusp of crisis. It was a mockery going to see the Loose Cannon’s colleague at the NHS Trust that he sent me to. His colleague followed his predecessors’ cause and wrote to my GP, ordering that my antibiotics be stopped. He did no blood tests either to see if my infection markers had normalised. ‘That’s your lot. No more medication. No more referrals,’ my GP said. I tried to move GP practice, but I was out of the ‘catchment area’ of neighbouring surgeries. I was screwed.

After the week-long prescription of oral Linezolid (600mg) and Ciprofloxacin (500mg) that Professor Wong had given me, I quickly deteriorated. The Linezolid had eradicated that feeling of worms wriggling inside my lower eyelid, but I still had persistent pain around my upper eyelid. My cheek was burning. I felt weak and fatigued. Chills washed up and down my jaw area, and my neck became stiff. It was impossible to carry through on any task reliably.

I was into my second term of the second year of my Master’s Degree (MA) in Writing at Sheffield Hallam University, where I was writing my first book. I knew that I could not complete this course in my weakened state, so I negotiated with the university, who kindly granted me one term off. The countdown was on. I had 16 weeks to find a doctor who could get me well enough to resume my studies.

Fight or Flight

The pressure was on. I had to act quickly. On a misty morning in late February, 2014, I headed for the capital. I took an early morning train from Mytholmroyd to Kings Cross in the hope of finding a doctor who could help me. I knew that this was not going to be easy; two high-calibre oculoplastic surgeons in the north of England had both said that there was nothing wrong with me. It was unlikely that a new medic would undermine their opinion, but at least I was going down to London with my eyes wide open.

It was strange exiting Kings Cross station. This was my first time back in London since 2004. The busyness felt foreign, but the familiarity of my adolescent stomping ground quickly came alive as the number 46 and C11 buses whizzed by. These were routes that I used to take to and from home – a home that was no longer there. Mum died in 2012, so my childhood home had been emptied. I had severed ties with my family in 2004, so I was now a visitor in my hometown. There was a cocktail of both sadness and liberation in my heart. I had no reference point anymore in London, yet I was free of the pain of those family relationships and could explore London on my own terms. I could only wish them all well and put my best foot forward. Which is what I did.

Harley Street

I checked into a hotel near Baker Street, not far from where my auntie Alexa had lived. Memories of eating smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches at her and Uncle Isidor’s on Saturday afternoon’s hit me in a wave of nostalgia. I spent two weeks consulting with oculoplastic surgeons on Harley Street. It wasn’t cheap at £250.00 a pop, and I squandered a quarter of my share of my mother’s estate seeing these ageing men in Georgian houses. I got a blood test done privately, and my neutrophil and infection markers were still raised. Why had they terminated my treatment when I clearly still had an infection? The injustice felt hard to carry. I didn’t get anywhere on Harley Street. When these ophthalmologists learnt that I had been under the care of Professor Wong, their interest in looking at the problem with fresh eyes quickly diminished.

My MP

I had written to my MP before I set off for London. He agreed to see me at the Houses of Parliament. Once through the revolving doors, a member of staff handed me a visitor lanyard, and my MP greeted me with a firm handshake and kind manner. He was suited in pristine attire and wore spectacles that were tinted like shades. He bought me a frothy latte in the busy canteen, which was south of the foyer and full of official-looking people chatting. My MP asked me how he could help. I told him that they had stopped my medical treatment up north and that I was in a lot of pain. He said he wanted to phone my GP to get a clearer picture about what exactly was going on, and he asked me to give him a couple of days to do this.

My Father’s Legacy

After leaving The Houses of Parliament, I headed towards Parliament Square. I swerved left onto Little George Street and caught sight of the court where my father used to work. My father was a circuit judge and had sat at Middlesex Guildhall for most of his career. I found myself walking into the courthouse, hungry for familiarity and connection. A security guard with a potent aroma of aftershave asked if he could help. I told him that my father had worked here and that I was curious to see the building. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, and he went over to converse with an older man, who was sitting behind a desk area made of grey stone. This second gentleman wore a pale green shirt with rolled up sleeves. His lips curved upwards in an open, friendly expression as he hobbled towards me.

‘How can I help?’ he asked.

I repeated my cause.

‘Who was your father?’ He gently enquired.

‘Judge Alan Peter Solomon,’ I replied, choking on an unexpected flow of tears.

‘I remember Judge Solomon. He sat in Courtroom Two,’ he said, radiating a warm smile. He proceeded to tell me an anecdote about my father. Often, when security officers would take a quick snooze on the stairs when the building was quiet, my father would give them a gentle kick in the shins as he came down the stairs. Wake up sonny. That made me laugh.

‘May I go and see his courtroom?’ I asked.

‘Certainly, Madam. Courtroom two is empty this afternoon. I’ll take you up. Sorry, I didn’t get your name.’

‘I’m Felicia. Felicia Solomon. My father’s second born.’

‘Follow me,’ he said, and he led me up a spiral staircase.

Courtroom

The kind man left me to sit quietly in my father’s courtroom. It was a beautiful room that had a church like silence about it, with magnificent stained-glass windows steeped in history. The red thronelike seat at the front was where my father would have sat. His power wasn’t something that I had conceived of before. I sat in the courtroom for two hours, drawing on my father’s fortitude. I recalled the things that he used to tell me as a young girl on those Sunday afternoons, when he took me to The Garrick Club for lunch. He would talk to me about justice and the importance of standing up for truth. Never be frightened to speak up to those in authority, he said. They are just people, like you and me.

I left the courthouse feeling strengthened and wondered through Deans Yard, along Tufton Street, back to the house where I spent the first four years of my life. 15 Lord North Street, a four-story Georgian house, with a black door and a brass knocker, just a stone’s throw from Parliament Square. The house hadn’t changed. Nor had St. John’s Smith Square at the end of the street. It was still as majestic as I remember it. I eyed up my childhood home, remembering the creaking stairway and funny basement room where my brothers had slept. The funnel of our destiny is strange. I began my life in wealthy beginnings but was now hotel hopping, pleading with men in power to believe me about my facial pain. Where was the twist in my biography?

A Hostel

My MP called me on my mobile two days later. He had spoken to the manager at my GP practice, who had told him that they would ‘refer me to a consultant if I found one in London, and if they agreed with their diagnosis.’ That was firmly putting the responsibility on my shoulders. It was clear communication that the burden to find medical help was on me.

My budget was fast dwindling, so I checked into a hostel above a pub in Pimlico. It was £12.00 per night, including breakfast, which was a homemade omelette and a cup of coffee. The dormitories had sweeping views of the River Thames but stank of body odour and cheesy feet. I was in a fourteen-bed mixed dorm, which was mainly occupied by 19 year-old Swedish girls who went out on the lash until 2.00 am. It was impossible to get any rest, but I bagged a lower bunk bed by the window, which I insisted was left open for air. At least I had the view of the pretty lights along the Chelsea and Albert Bridges to look at at night.

My face continued to swell and burn, which I nursed with a cold flannel. I became more anxious as the weeks went by with no result. My facial pain was worsening by the day, as was the barricade that I was facing from the medical fraternity. I consulted with an infectious diseases consultant on Wimpole Street, who, despite finding my ESR and infection markers raised, told me to ‘live with the pain.’ He was so vile that I didn’t pay the £250.00 invoice. He must have reflected on his arrogance, as he never pursued me for the money.

Family Estrangement

It was unnerving walking the streets of Pimlico. One of my now estranged siblings only lived meters from where I was staying, though I didn’t know if they lived there anymore. Riding the number 24 bus around the familiar streets of Victoria and Pimlico was strange, constantly reminding me of Christmases been and gone and those pained visits to my father at his nursing home in St George’s Square, where his life ended in 2001. Family estrangement is hard to grapple with. There will always be fond memories of loving moments with estranged relatives, but when one has severed ties for serious reasons, those reasons must not be forgotten.

A Mini Breakthrough

I finally crossed a hurdle in April 2014, when I consulted with an oculoplastic surgeon at a private hospital in St Albans. He was a charming Arabian man who was willing to think more independently than the Harley Street boys. Mr. Badawi wore a pressed navy suit and had tight black curls crowning his head. He had a regal aura and a commanding voice. He did a punch biopsy of my eyelid tissue, which came back chronically inflamed, along with some blood tests, which showed further evidence of infection.

‘You need a physician,’ he said. ‘I think you have a systemic problem.’

I told him how unwell I felt and how bad my periocular pain was, but he said that he couldn’t prescribe medication without knowing what he was treating. He referred me to a physician at a private hospital in South London and to a Professor of Ophthalmology at a London NHS Teaching Hospital, who specialised in inflammatory eye conditions. He advised that my GP would also need to refer me to the professor because I would be seeing him on the NHS. I was grateful for Mr. Badawi’s care, and I was confident that his referrals would lead to some kind of help.

Heading Home

I had not had any medication for three months. I felt malaise and weak. The pain in my cheek and eye was stubborn and penetrating, and I was losing heart about returning to my Master’s Degree. I kept in touch with my MA supervisor by phone, who encouraged me to keep writing and get back to college as soon as I could. Within a week of Mr. Badawi making his referrals, I received an appointment to see this private physician on May 2^nd, 2014, at 11 a.m. I was delighted. I packed up my belongings and said goodbye to my hostel. It had been an exhausting couple of months, and I had racked up a bill, so far, of £5900.

I headed back up north to my home in Calderdale and waited two very long weeks before returning to London to see this new physician.

Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.

Francis of Assisi

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Photo Credits; Ksenia Chernaya, Pixabay and John Carlos Salazar on Pexels. Gordon Johnson and Falco on Pixabay. Martijin Baudoin, Andrei Ianovskii, Mariana Alves, Towfiqu Barbhuiya, Paul Silvan, Chino Rocha, Timo Stern, Who’s Denilo? Gilberto Olimpio and Monika Guzikowska on Unsplash.