My mother was a great trifle maker. Her sherry trifle contributed to an 'Egon Ronay' rating during her time catering at The Eagle & Child in the 1970s. I still make Mum's recipe once a year and it remains a family secret. There is less sugar in it now of course.
I don't really like puddings. I always had a savoury palate, preferring cheese to chocolate, even as a child. I do indulge a little but gave up sugar for Lent several years ago and now find that most deserts are far too sweet. My mother's generation were starved of sugar during WW2. Perhaps that is why they are so fond of the dessert trolley. When food rationing finally ended, seem to have lost most of their teeth. A new set of false ones gave both her and my father wonderful, everlasting smiles.
Two weeks ago, it seems like an age now, Mum overbalanced and broke her upper left femur. For me 'wheeling in the trolley' has taken on a completely different connotation. What follows is an account of our experience;
The NHS Nightmare before Christmas 2017
Friday 8th December at approximately 3pm my 97
year old mother Dorothy Robinson, fell onto her rump, fracturing her left
femur. I managed to wheel a low chair
around and got her settled, administered two paracetamol and called for an
ambulance. The paramedics were there
within an hour. She was at least warm
and comfortable. They did thorough
checks, administered some morphine wheeled in a trolley with a stretcher and off we
went to Victoria Hospital, Blackpool: Only a five minute journey from her home. We
arrived at 17:05: In the next nine hours, we would both experience first hand, more of
the stress on the NHS than we ever thought possible.
On arrival at the hospital, her trolley was immediately
stopped in the corridor while the attending ambulance crew waited to sign off
her documentation. We waited in a freezing cold draft to hear that they would
transfer her to a different trolley for x-ray, while she was waiting to go
through triage. The automatic doors in
the corridor opened: Then they closed.
They freezing temperatures outside affected every one of the ten people
who were in queued in various stages of distress, some in wheelchairs, elderly
patients on trolleys, others in beds. After her x-ray, Mum was put back into
the same corridor, a little further down but no less draughty.
Paramedics were cluttering the hallway too: At one point
there were so many that I lost count.
There was one team of two overseeing the patients in the corridor, trying
to keep everything tight but not everyone was getting the attention they needed.
At around 7pm, a woman who was in the queue seated on a trolley, started to
vomit into a grey bowl. No-one noticed.
I took the bowl from her walked to a paramedic and asked where the
sluice was, asking also for another bowl for the young lady. I showed him the
nasty brown contents. He said, “That is blood. Where is she?” Over an hour later, I saw her again and
removed a third bowl from her hands, filled with fresh blood. She had been seen
by a doctor by then but was, once again, sitting on a trolley outside the
treatment area: She was not in a cubicle.
Her skin was yellow ochre, probably liver failure.
Mum reached the automatic-door end of the corridor at around
7.30pm and needed to use a bedpan. The
nursing staff were courteous, wheeling her into a cubicle with a curtain to
preserve her dignity. They checked her
admission time and despite having x-rays that showed a severe break in her
femur, we were informed that she had only been at the hospital for 2 hours and
there were others ahead of her in the queue.
Mum had still not been through triage: She was wheeled back into the
corridor. By now she was so cold that I had to put my jacket over her feet.
There were others in the corridor, on wheelchairs and trolleys, complaining
that they were cold only to be told that there were no blankets available. The wind howled through the automatic doors
as they opened and closed every few minutes. Outside the temperature was well
below zero.
Apart from my mother, there were three very elderly people
in that corridor. One was wheeled into
the emergency room with several family members and was wheeled past us at
around 10pm covered by a blue plastic cover, en route to the morgue. I am not
saying that this death was caused by the delays. Elderly people die. I do however believe that they should not
have to die in an Emergency Department at a hospital. My mother has a ‘Do Not
Resuscitate’ in place, ensuring that she can die with dignity in her own home
or during any surgery. She witnessed the "crash team" spend 20 minutes trying to
revive my father after a massive heart attack when he was 83. Her
last moments with him were spoilt by the unnecessary intervention. They should
both have been allowed to let him die with dignity.
By 11pm, Mum was in a cubicle, waiting to see the doctor. I took the initiative and sourced some
nappies, to stop the staff having to bring a bedpan. The corridor was still
filled with new arrivals and very cold people still awaiting treatment. A man
in his fifties, who was sitting in a wheelchair outside the triage cubicle
area, began to vomit into a bowl. I saw
him vomit three times. Nobody noticed
but me. Suddenly he was having a seizure
in the wheelchair. His face was turning
blue and his head knocking on the back of the chair. For a few minutes staff did nothing. After several minutes doctors ran round
shouting and wheeled him into the emergency room. I was grateful that Mum had
nodded off.
Mum was finally admitted to the orthopaedic ward at 2.30 am.
She was scheduled for surgery early the next day and could not have food or
drink. Her blood pressure was very low
and she was severely dehydrated. It had
been very difficult to get an intravenous line into her arm. It was over eleven
hours since her fall. I had a sandwich and cup of tea at 7pm: A gift from a
hospital volunteer. While we were still
in the corridor, I had heard two of the ambulance staff talking. Although one team had been for a break, the
others had not had a break. I saw them
the next day in the hospital café while I waited for Mum to come out of
surgery. They had worked a 12 hour shift
without a break. No one in our NHS should be expected to work without adequate
meal breaks: The wellbeing of their patients depends on high levels of
concentration and clear decision-making.
The surgical team, the nursing staff on Ward 35, the
physiotherapists, occupational therapists and the consultant were all
wonderful. The trauma of the Emergency
Department is disgraceful, for patients, for hospital staff and for ambulance
crews alike. As a Nation we are becoming
complacent with this government and their scathing cuts to our NHS. I appeal as
an NHS user, as a British citizen and as the carer of a woman who built
Wellington bombers in Blackpool during the WW2 to keep our country safe, “For
God’s sake Teresa May – put the NHS emergency services at the top of your
Christmas list and make it a New Year resolution that no-one should have to
experience The NHS Nightmare before
Christmas again!”
I hope I never see a trolley again.
Thanks for reading. Adele
2 comments:
A tragic scene that seems destined to continue..
Having experienced some of your NHS nightmare by extension, I totally sympathise with what you say. If there was a reaction box for 'angry' (in addition to funny, interesting, poetic) I would have ticked it. Your old Mum has come though the experience remarkably well but it could have been so much easier. I am full of admiration for your tenacious care of her - and for the dedication of our NHS staff who do such a tremendous job in scandalously difficult circumstances.
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