In the Casualty Waiting Room of a large and impersonal hospital in Livermore, California, USA, a young man in his early twenties slumps on a chair with his head in the lap of a motherly woman in her late thirties. He is crying continuously and she strokes his scalp and talks soothingly. It is the summer of 1980, and there are presumably several thousand British tourists in this part of America. How this one got to be here in this state, and what happened next is the crux of this tale.

When I decided to travel abroad on holiday with Steve, a friend from work at the time, I was fully aware of his diabetes, and what I learned can so often go with it -- epilepsy. We discussed it beforehand, and as he assured me that he had not suffered an attack for some years, and had taken out additional insurance, I thought no more of it. So we blithely set off on our organised coach tour of California and Nevada (you know the sort of thing -- Jetsave, charted flight to Los Angeles, bus load of British tourists, cheap). For the first week of our trip it meant practically nothing to me, except that he had to vanish to the toilet at regular intervals to shoot up with insulin. However, one of the inconveniences of this disability is that after an injection the sufferer must eat within a fairly short period of time.

As it happened, in San Francisco we left the hotel shortly afterwards and went in search of an attractive looking restaurant, but could not find one that we fancied in sufficient time. We had to return to the hotel, and eat there. Just in time as it turned out, as Steve was beginning to look flushed, and was not feeling at all well. Still, there were no ill-effects the next day, during which we had a look around Golden Gate Park, and the long term results seemed likely to be nil. The day after that we set out for Modesto, a small town closer to the Nevada border.

Some time about eleven o'clock Steve starts to eat an apple, he never finished it. In the Middle Ages it was commonly believed that people afflicted with epilepsy were possessed by demons, I have some idea why. After a few bites Steve goes bright red, begins to choke, and as his head turns towards me his face contorted into an expression of what I can only describe as inconceivable evil. I scream in a combination of fear and panic. I soon realise what is happening, as does Ernie the tour guide who I had informed earlier of Steve's affliction. Luckily it becomes apparent that one of the ladies on the tour has been a Nurse, and while she and I desperately search Steve's pockets for the sugar that diabetics are supposed to carry with them at all times, the driver calls for medical assistance on the CB radio that the bus carries.

For obvious reasons I am out of all this, but for quite some time we barrel around the back roads trying to meet up with the ambulance. We eventually did so outside the prison, which I am later to learn is where they incarcerated Patti Hearst. I agree to accompany Steve to the hospital, while the rest of the party continue on to their destination. The coach will return for us later. A mad dash to hospital, Steve taken I know not where, I sit dejected on a chair in the white cavern until a Nurse comes over to ask me some questions.

"Is he insured?", that is the first. I answer in the affirmative and am subjected to further queries such as the unanswerable, "What is the patient's mother's maiden name?". Eventually she is satisfied and departs, I am on my own for the first time. The full burden of my responsibilities falls on my shoulders. I sit and convince myself of the worst. Steve will die. I will have to curtail my vacation to accompany his corpse back to Britain. I envisage having to explain the circumstances of his death to his grieving parents. It is all my fault! Oh God, I should not have come! I am alone and friendless in a foreign land! Ah, self-pity, there is nothing like it, you know the number, we have all been there.

During all of this, a warm and friendly looking lady, who up to now I have only noticed out of the corner of my eye, rises from her seat and approaches. She inquires in a pleasant manner, "You're not from around here, you are English aren't you?". This is it, this is the first time that I have been treated as human all day, and I am unable to take it. Not pausing to explain, as I have to all previous questions of this nature, that I am in fact Welsh and that people have had their throats cut for lesser aspersions, I burst into a flood of tears. It is only myself that I care about, and I am in fact acting like a lost child. Not apparently much taken aback by this turn of events, she treats me as such and takes me into her arms in an attempt to calm me down.

After some time I recover my composure sufficiently to discover that she is Mrs. Hatton, and is there with her husband who has a broken ankle. He approaches, and after some discussion of the circumstances they offer us a meal, and indeed to drive us on to Modesto. After making absolutely sure that I am going to be O.K.., they both depart telling me to ring them, on the number they supply, as soon as Steve is adjudged to be sufficiently well to leave the hospital. I feel much happier now, due to this display of the essential kindness of the human race.

Later. Ernie rings to discover how we are getting on; I tell him and reveal that it will no longer probably be necessary for the coach to return to pick us up. He is glad that I have met someone to look after us, but gives me the telephone number of his wife in Los Angeles in case of emergencies. Eventually, the 'Powers That Be' let me in to see Steve. He is on a glucose drip, semi-conscious, and not at all well. I explain what is going on, as much as I can get through to him, and he is no position to argue. Somewhat to my surprise, immediate payment is expected for the minimal treatment received, and I get the impression that our departure is dependent on said payment. The sum required is in the region of $50, and not wanting to squander a Traveller's Cheque but noticing the presence of a credit card machine, I pay by 'Barclaycard'. Most odd to one used as I am to the concept of free health care at point of delivery.

Anyway, I ring Mrs Hatton and she comes to collect us. I discover in the car back to their house that they are both members of a Fundamentalist, staunchly Christian, Baptist sect, but am now beyond caring where our Good Samaritans have come from. On arrival it becomes apparent that they have two children, the oldest perhaps eight, but they are kept away from us presumably due to the correct theory that we have had enough already. I sit and talk to Mr. Hatton for the first time, and discover that he is in fact a Vietnam War veteran, but do not get the chance to explore this in as much depth as I would like. This is the first, and only, chance that we get to see how the 'average' American family lives, and the standard seems higher than I would expect for the British equivalent. Steve is very drowsy during all this.

We have dinner, it is by now gone six in the evening. It is strange to say 'grace' before the meal, but I dutifully lower my eyes and utter 'Amen' at the correct time. The meal is of T-bone steak and is delightful. However, Steve is still not well and has to leave the table to be sick. Afterwards he goes to lie down for a little while. They borrow a car from some friends, as theirs is not air-conditioned and Steve is not thought up to a long, hot car journey. The children have to come too, but are soon asleep in the front with their parents. When we arrive at the hotel of our destination I feel like crying all over again to leave these lovely and helpful people. I know that I shall never see them again. Such unexpected kindness can be so moving. I ask Mrs. Hatton for their address, and she gives it me on a piece of paper which I later discover is the same one I had earlier written mine on when I gave it to them. After making me promise that I will ring in the morning, to assure them that Steve is fully recovered, they leave.

On arriving at our room Steve falls on the bed, and is almost immediately sound asleep. After convincing myself that he is going to wake up eventually, I leave in search of a much needed drink. I have a double Scotch alone in the bar, then take a wander around before retiring. I find the rest of the tour sitting around the swimming pool drinking cans of beer, and tell them a brief resume of the events of the day before going to bed shattered.

That is the whole of this story. I did ring the Hattons, the next day, to tell them that Steve appeared to be pretty well fit. The incident did not cast too much of a pall on the rest of our holiday, although it did lead to Steve taking things a bit easier subsequently. Incidentally, due to some obscure means and fact he was insured twice, once with tour company and again on top, Steve made money on the deal.

Fairly obviously, this article if it is to be dedicated to anyone is for Ralph and Cathleen Hatton. Later, both I and Steve's parents wrote to them in thanks, but received no reply. It is the little things in life that mean so much, and it would be a better World if we all remembered that more often.

Alun 9/Dec/1984 & May 1996