Second Helpings

Just Another Day

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