This is The Guardian.

This article contains some strong language.

Welcome to The Guardian Long Read,

showcasing the best long-form journalism covering culture, politics and new thinking.

For the text version of this and all our long reads,

go to the Guardian.com forward slash long read.

I wish I could say I kept my cool,

my maddening experience with the NHS Wheelchair Service

by Paul Sagar, read by Philippi Pacheco.

I was lying on my back in an East London hospital sometime in August 23.

I don't know what day it was exactly.

By that point I'd mostly given up caring.

My phone rang.

I managed to answer even though I had largely lost the use of my hands.

Luckily, a member of staff had left it lying on my chest.

Also, I wasn't feeling great.

In the early stages of coming to terms with the fact I was paralyzed,

I had just been informed that the doctors wanted to drill a hole directly into my guts,

inserting a plastic tube to drain away my urine, effectively making my penis redundant. It was proving quite a lot

to take in. Nonetheless, I answered.

The person on the other end said they were calling from my local wheelchair service.

I sort of registered this was important.

...