Second Helpings

More Hospital Horrors

Sis went home yesterday after almost a week of late nights, snow, booze, more snow, helping out Dad, some laughs, over indulgence and attempting to list our frustrations in order to send out letters of complaint. You know I’m not normally one to complain but…

Sis and her hubby were on their way over on Monday last in very adverse weather conditions, in order to relieve me of hospital visiting for a while. During this time I received two phone calls; one from Social Services informing me Dad had refused any form of help and so the case was closed and a second from the ward notifying me they were about to discharge Dad. There was no way I could contact sis, so just had to continue with things until either they or Dad arrived at his house.

I had specifically requested a face to face meeting with someone from Social Services to discuss the possibilities. I’d also been promised an assessment of his home before he was sent out. But no, they are quite content to close the book after a conversation with a ninety-year-old man who probably misheard or misunderstood everything they asked.

I asked the hospital if we needed to fetch him, but they assured me transport was arranged and it would cause too many problems to cancel it. So when sis arrived, we decided to send her hubby home as he wasn’t too well and we sat at Dad’s house while we waited and waited and waited.

It occurred to us that Dad didn’t actually have any day clothes at the hospital, but no one had bothered to ask about that. Neither had they showed any concern about depositing him back at home in the middle of winter without ensuring the house would be heated and there was food in the fridge.

At 6.00pm he still hadn’t arrived and after several frustrating phone calls to the hospital and being cut off and kept on hold we were still none the wiser. We’d had nothing to eat all day, but could not contemplate leaving until Dad had arrived home and we’d settled him.

At 9.00pm, on the coldest night of the winter, with deep snow on the ground an ambulance finally pulled up outside. The doorbell rang and there sat Dad in a wheelchair wearing a pair of short-sleeved cotton pyjamas, slippers and a small, flimsy blanket haphazardly draped over his shoulders. Two paramedics asked us if he was capable of walking inside. Yes, we replied but he uses his walking stick.

‘Where is his walking stick?’ they asked.

‘At the hospital the last we saw it.’

So, we’ve a 90- year old man in hospital due to falls and they send him home without his walking stick? At this stage I’m afraid my ballistic side kicked in. Hell hath no fury like a Scarlett scorned. Finally we settled Dad in his warm bed and left with jangled nerves and rumbling tums.

The next day we went to check on him and unpack his belongings. There’s a letter from the hospital for Dad’s doctor which informed us the reason he was in hospital was due to pneumonia. Well, who knew? Do they just make it up as they go along?

The promises of Social Service input, home assessment, specialist stockings to aid circulation, daily visits from a community nurse and close assessment of his health have, as usual, come to nothing. There's a lot more to this story, but too much to post in one blog entry.

Today, we’ve had to drive in hazardous conditions to the hospital to retrieve his walking stick. No apologies, no staff available to talk to, no notes left on the ward and no chance of anything changing in the future. Caring, sharing N.H.S. my arse.

I think I may start taking bets as to when the next bout of falls and hospitalisation will occur. It will give me something to do while I wait for the white van to finally carry me off to the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time, and I’ll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats and they’re coming to take me away ha ha…