I received a phone call from the hospital yesterday morning to inform me they intend discharging my Dad on Monday and could we pick him up? Yes, it will lighten the load to have this latest hospital stay done and dusted, but I have to question what exactly has been achieved and supress my anger at the lack of care and planning.

Social Services have not visited my Dad, contacted me or carried out any examination of his property to check for safety. It has left me with twenty-four hours to set up a downstairs bedroom at his home with no one to advise or help. They do not ask or care if there is anyone to help me move heavy furniture or arrange for necessary electrical alterations. For all they know I could pick up my Dad and dump him in the reservoir or lock him in a cellar. In fact, how can they be sure he is my Dad? I might be a deranged mad axe murderer for all they know.

Apart from moving him around wards, bagging up his laundry, keeping various uneccessary charts of his blood pressure, pulse, temperature and bowel movements, I've seen little evidence of any action. There appears to be plenty of ever-changing staff on the wards who seem to have a lot of time on their hands to stand around corridors in groups discussing the price of carrots. Caring, sharing health service my arse.

Only one person has done anything practical in the last three weeks. The occupational therapist, a lovely Australian lady by the name of Cassandra arranged for the Red Cross Charity to deliver various aids to my Dad's home which hopefully will help him get around better and prevent so many falls. Yesterday I waited patiently at the ward nurse's station, while they all ignored me and carried on filling out their various files and ticking boxes. Eventually one of them managed to find the time to ask if she could help me.

'Yes,' I replied. 'I'd like to thank Cassandra for her help and input. Is she around?'

Her reply? 'Who's Cassandra?'

No wonder England trembles as someone once said. So here we go again. We'll be taking Dad back to his house tomorrow and I may start taking bets as to how long it will be before he has another fall and we're summoned out to call ambulances...visit hospitals...attempt to get some help...and probably fail. It's a great life if you don't weaken as someone else once said.
 

We discovered my Dad in what is now referred to as the Community Ward in the only part of the original hospital to remain open. Maybe it makes me an old fuddy duddy if I admit to preferring old-fashioned rooms within walking distance that actually have a name instead of a number. I'm pretty sure 'Community Ward' is a fancy title for 'we're not quite sure what to do with these patients so we'll hide them in here until someone else makes a decision.'

More new doctors and consultants, different nurses, another set of files, charts and notes, but still absolutely nothing from Social Services. I'm informed they've been sent a Referral 2 form whatever that is, and now a Referral 5 which basically informs them the hospital are no longer prepared to fund my Dad's stay and if they don't pull their fingers out, they'll now be responsible for the bill. Scary or what? They're obviously shaking in their little Social Service's boots as three days later we've still heard zilch.

Dad's fine; in fact he's probably in better health than I am at the moment. He has his own small room with a television, a bathroom, three meals a day and plenty of attention from staff. If they'd allow him some beer and a tot of whisky in his morning tea, I think I'd be prepared to foot the bill for him to stay there permanently. At least I'd know he was safe and wouldn't be called out in the middle of the night after he's pressed his alarm button. I'm quite happy to continue bringing his laundry home to wash and iron, although I wasn't too thrilled to discover someone else's slippers, pyjamas and a pair of England boxer shorts mixed in with the last bag. The mind boggles.

Anyway, our plan is to turn one of his downstairs rooms at home into a bedroom, hopefully reducing some of the risks of falling. The downstairs toilet door is no more, so he can't get trapped behind that again. It's going to be a very busy and expensive week as we purchase new bedding, install safety rails and perching chairs, fit new electrical and shaving points and generally do the best we can to prevent further topples. I'm not convinced it will work, but there's no easy or perfect solution to old age problems.

One thing I do know however, is if you want anything doing in this country, you either wait until it's probably too late or you bloody well do it yourself.


 

Two weeks after the dramatic fall behind the bog door, my father still lies in a bed somewhere in the dark recesses of the hospital's maze of corridors. He spent the first week on ward 33, but was then moved to ward 22 without explanation. This morning I received a phone call from the hospital informing me he's been moved again. Vague reasons were given, but I woke up with my cynical head on and have my own theory.

I believe our hospitals are supposedly fined and penalised when treatment, follow up services and discharge are not carried out in a given time. My Dad was ready for discharging last weekend, but due to the inefficiency of Social Services and referrals could not be allowed home. Consequently, moving him to another ward was a crafty way of turning him into a different number in a different box. Another week passes by, Social Services are still dragging their heels , so it's deemed necessary to transfer him yet again to avoid it being noticed he's taking up a bed on one specific ward for no medical reason. It looks like we'll be starting another week with another marathon hunt the daddy adventure.

I'm not sure what else they do with him in hospital but I reckon they must change his clothes at least five times a day. This morning I tackled the massive bag of laundry I'd dragged around miles of hospital corridors to bring home. Washed, dried, ironed and placed in bags either to go back to his house or the hospital, I put them in our hallway before Paul and family arrived for a short visit. I spent a happy hour reading to Angel, dragging Dylan out of the video recorder slot and helping Mey Ling with her maths homework, while the men watched football on television.

Off they went for their weekend with friends in Manchester, clutching various bits and pieces and bags of goodies that have been awaiting collection since their last visit. It wasn't until I went to put the last of my Dad's laundry in the appropriate bag I realised it wasn't there. So it looks like my Dad's pyjamas and underpants will be spending the weekend in Manchester and Dylan can always borrow a string vest and a pair of tartan socks if he runs out of clean clothing. Families. Who'd have 'em?

Dad isn't one for splashing out and I'm sure he hasn't purchased new clothing for himself since I was in nappies. I sneak him the odd new vest or pair of jim jams each time he's in hospital, but was hoping to get away with it this time. But with clothing gone AWOL I had to nip into town to find some cheap replacements to tide him over. So that was my day done and dusted.

I'm not sure I'd know what to do if I ever got some time of my own. Mind you, I did manage to fit in a painful trip to the dentist last week and with a bit of luck may squeeze in a visit to the doctors next week seeing as the bug I picked up on the plane seems intent on sticking around and probably needs aunty biotics. But you know me - never one to complain.

But, I apparently had a holiday a couple of weeks ago, so leave you with the link to yet another Picasa photo album.


http://picasaweb.google.com/Eyupmeduck/Zykanthos?feat=directlink

 

Excuse my absence yet again, but this week has been spent almost totally at the new hospital where my Dad is a patient.

Monday, we spent the day driving round in circles in the miniscule car park trying to find an empty space. It was after midnight when we found one, so we decided to stay the night for fear of losing it.

Tuesday, we entered the new building and spent the rest of the day wandering around mazes of massive, empty corridors looking for the lifts. We walked over our recommended ten thousand steps and burnt over five thousand calories. By the time we found them we were so exhausted we slept outside them.

Wednesday, we spent waiting for a lift to actually arrive on our level, then pressing various buttons trying to decide if we needed to go up or down, whether the doors were opening or closing and what actual floor my Dad's ward was situated on. By the time we found it, it was dark and we were so tired we slept in the laundry bins.

Today, we've completed a second half marathon trying to locate ward 22, then attempting to find an actual member of staff, or God forbid a nurse or doctor to ask where they've put my father and what they intend to do with him.

Who knows? Tomorrow we might even get to find his bed.

Okay, so I exaggerate a wee bit. I avoid doctors and hospitals like the plague, if you'll excuse the pun. I don't know what my blood pressure, cholesterol levels, BMI index, liver function or one remaining brain cell conditions are. I suffer from ostrich syndrome and would rather remain ignorant and prescription-free as long as I'm able. But, over the years I've lost count how many hospital visits I've made to see members of my family. It must run into hundreds and that isn't an exaggeration.

It's a good job I'm not a hospital phobic, although I'm sure no one actually likes the places. Yes, I'm lucky to live in a country with a National Health Service and appreciate our emergency services and health care workers. There is however, still a three tier system and a lot of problems and inefficiency, but that's a topic for another time maybe. My problem at the moment is why new hospitals are designed in such a way, they are totally patient and visitor unfriendly and bloody impractical to boot.

Signs are so small and infrequent, no one without a degree in geography or with any visual impairment would be able to see or understand them. Space is so wasted with corridors the size of the great wall of China and open areas big enough to accommodate all the competitors plus the whole audience of Strictly Come Dancing. There's a shortage of hospital beds however.

Lifts are slow to arrive and enjoy being perverse, rooms are impersonal with little privacy and all the nurse's station desks are placed well outside the rooms, where staff cannot see into them. My dad has a scenic view from the wndow of a plain white, plastic domed roof from the corridor below to stare at all day. The building is still being worked on and the car parks will be added later. I'm not a planner or an expert but that seems rather unworkable. I guess it's what we call progress.

There's actually nothing wrong with my Dad apart from his propensity to falls. But after almost a fortnight in hospital we are still awaiting a visit from Social Services to assess his condition and whether a referral for sheltered accommodation is needed. I suspect this may take a few years, by which time my Dad will be a centenarian and I'll have walked off so much weight roaming around hospital corridors, I'll either be displayed in one of them as a human skeleton or need a new wardrobe of clothes five sizes smaller. I have to live in hope something good will come out of this chaotic and frustrating thing I call my life.


 

I’m having to remind myself I’ve actually been away on holiday, as things have been so hectic on return it’s easy to forget we ever went away. It wasn’t the best of breaks although the sunshine and change of scenery were a welcome diversion. I’m not going to wax lyrical about it however, so here’s a quick summary.

There were no problems with the flight out to Zakynthos apart from a large germ, disguised as a child, in the opposite aisle coughing and hacking all the way there. We landed in the afternoon and sat in hot sunshine by the sea, contemplating a week of relaxation. It was not to be.

The following day I discovered my Dad was in hospital after another fall. Sis had to abandon plans and keep coming over and keeping me informed. He’s not suffered any serious damage and has no severe medical problems, but everyone is in agreement the time has come for him to move into sheltered accommodation. My parents may not have had a marriage made in heaven, but I think it’s finally dawning on him that after living with someone for 63 years, the ability to cope alone at his age is much diminished.

So, here we go again. Phone calls, social service meetings, form filling and setting up arrangements for his safety will start as soon as possible. He’s still in hospital and there’s a possibility he may need residential care until a place of his own can be found, then there’ll be the house to clear and all that goes with it, but no good projecting too far into the future as we well know.

Anyway, back to the holiday. I woke up on the Monday and told hubby I thought I was starting with a cold. He told me not to be silly and it was all in my imagination. I wish I had a ten pound note for every time he’s called me silly and I wish even more I had the ability to make things happen just by imagining them. We’d certainly live in a different world if I did, although there may be a few dead bodies scattered around it. By Tuesday it was pretty clear my infection was not a figment of fancy and I spent the rest of the week clutching tissues, swallowing medication, sneezing, coughing and generally feeling lousy.

It was also around then we had a call from our son to say his car had broken down on the motorway. To ensure the car was towed back to Paul’s house and in the hope of a swift repair, hubby had to make many phone calls to various companies and mechanics he’s familiar with, as a working vehicle is essential in Paul’s circumstances. I sometimes wish mobile phones had never been invented.

So, I arrived back on Friday with a stonking cold, a dad in hospital, a sister to put up for the night and a son with no car. Suitcases were dumped, unpacking and laundry have had to wait and we had to take the grandkids off their hands yesterday, so they could get to shops and appointments on public transport. Is it any wonder I’m saying ‘What holiday?’

But these things are trivial irritations comparatively. I was deeply saddened to read yet more bad news in Blogville and my love, thoughts and prayers go out to CCstring , his family and friends at this time. If there was a way to banish other people’s heartaches in this harsh world I’d be first in the queue to find out how.

It’s only words, but words are all I have…

 

It’s a few years since I visited a Greek island and I’d forgotten just how hot and beautiful they are. Being reunited with the glorious climate, the clear aqua Aegean waters, the vibrant flora and fauna, the sound of balalaikas and cicadas and the very friendly, chilled attitude of the locals is a pleasure indeed.

But, it seems I’m never allowed to forget reality. We hadn’t been here 24 hours before receiving the news my Dad had decided to perform his falling in the loo act yet again. This time it necessitated sending for the fire service to saw through the door as well as an ambulance at 1.30am. He’s now in hospital and sis is backing and forthing and relaying progress to us. It’s a good thing he has helpful neighbours, but this situation can’t continue much longer. Needless to say the holiday is not the relaxing experience I imagined.

Anyway, the holiday brochure we found in our room tells us there are FIVE things we have to do while we are herebr />
SNAP
HIT
SPLASH
SPOT
CHILL

I think I might just manage them all, but not necessarily in that order or with the same interpretation as the booklet intended. Be good and I look forward to catching up with you on return, Murphy and Sod permitting.
 

Apologies yet again for not getting around everyone's blogs, but time is of the essence once more. So much to do and most of it not what I'd want to do, but que sera.

There have been good moments during the last week however; these are the things we hang onto in times of adversity.

The medieval wedding last weekend was brilliant and almost perfect conditions in setting and weather for the occasion.

I'll skip over the boring, crowded supermarket on Monday, the price of carrots and the earbashing from various friends on Tuesday.

Today I've had a lovely day in my favourite town of Newark doing something I did last year and the year before. I didn't tell you what it was then and I'm not going to tell you now. I just hope I can do it again next year and the next and so on.

On Friday we'll be flying out to Zante, a Greek island, for a boost of sunshine, vino, ouzo and relaxation before the English winter sets in. If my dad presses his emergency alarm I hope one of you will be available to deal with it.

You can look after my Facebook farms too, but please don't send me any more gifts while I'm away. I don't wish to return to a forest of trees and a yard full of starving animals.

But my thoughts tonight are with Nada as I'm sure many of yours are too. We had no glorious sunset, just typical rain and cloud, but it did not prevent me from raising my glass to celebrate the life of a wonderful man. I'm very honoured to have spent some time with Lance during the last year and will always remember those special days. A life ended far too soon, but he gave so much in the time he was here.

Please remember to leave a message for Sheila in the forum if you haven't done so already.

ID: 1595334   (Rated: E) For Nada  A place to leave support for Sheila. by Nada