Me, Mr. Jack, And The NHS
Meh. Just gone 6pm and I'm feeling like an oxymoron.
Yeah...exhausted and angry make for strange bedfellows. I'm pissed off, but I can't actually summon up the necessary energy to work myself into a proper rage. So I'm having a drink instead. Presenting Mr. Jack, the solution to all of life's problems.
Back to the saga of my grandfather, if I may. He's still alive, though the old bastard appears to be running on little more than rage at this point. That isn't as inspiring as it may sound...
I'll explain: On Monday night, we were told that grandad was going to die, that it was just a matter of time. At the hospital, they asked my mother if she'd prefer that this happen at the hospital or the nursing home. She chose the hospital, believing that they'd offer the best in palliative care.
This was before the sick realities of the NHS were brought home to us.
My grandad's problems are numerous and make for pretty uncomfortable reading. Aside from the three strokes that have destroyed his physical and mental capability, he has bedsores that have been so neglected by the staff of the nursing home that they have become huge and infected. He also has a urinary infection. He cannot eat or drink. He isn't at all coherent. I have a sneaking suspicion that he may not be able to see either. When you talk to him, his eyes don't focus on you. He always seems to be looking in your general direction rather than straight at you.
All of these things, combined with his age and his various ailments, should have killed him by now. They should have killed him on Monday. Yet, for some reason, the hospital took it upon themselves to keep him alive via a drip and a course of antibiotics. I am not totally against this, as I appreciate the fact that they're legally obliged to try and keep him alive if the means are there.
What bothers me is this: The treatment he has received has marginally improved his condition. He is no longer critical. Still in pain, still close to death, yet no longer critical. When the course of antibiotics ends early next week, they intend to send him back to the nursing home. Drips are not allowed in a nursing home and he will no longer be on any medication. They will neglect him again and he will not eat or drink. It'll be a matter of time before he collapses again, becomes critical, and they send him back to the hospital...and so on, and so on...
And there you have the reality of the NHS. An eighty-nine year old man on the verge of death and clearly suffering is being treated like a collection of symptoms instead of a person. The NHS has no human reality. It's all about freeing up beds and treating illnesses rather than people.
What a genuinely fucked-up and tragic state of affairs.
Yeah...exhausted and angry make for strange bedfellows. I'm pissed off, but I can't actually summon up the necessary energy to work myself into a proper rage. So I'm having a drink instead. Presenting Mr. Jack, the solution to all of life's problems.
Back to the saga of my grandfather, if I may. He's still alive, though the old bastard appears to be running on little more than rage at this point. That isn't as inspiring as it may sound...
I'll explain: On Monday night, we were told that grandad was going to die, that it was just a matter of time. At the hospital, they asked my mother if she'd prefer that this happen at the hospital or the nursing home. She chose the hospital, believing that they'd offer the best in palliative care.
This was before the sick realities of the NHS were brought home to us.
My grandad's problems are numerous and make for pretty uncomfortable reading. Aside from the three strokes that have destroyed his physical and mental capability, he has bedsores that have been so neglected by the staff of the nursing home that they have become huge and infected. He also has a urinary infection. He cannot eat or drink. He isn't at all coherent. I have a sneaking suspicion that he may not be able to see either. When you talk to him, his eyes don't focus on you. He always seems to be looking in your general direction rather than straight at you.
All of these things, combined with his age and his various ailments, should have killed him by now. They should have killed him on Monday. Yet, for some reason, the hospital took it upon themselves to keep him alive via a drip and a course of antibiotics. I am not totally against this, as I appreciate the fact that they're legally obliged to try and keep him alive if the means are there.
What bothers me is this: The treatment he has received has marginally improved his condition. He is no longer critical. Still in pain, still close to death, yet no longer critical. When the course of antibiotics ends early next week, they intend to send him back to the nursing home. Drips are not allowed in a nursing home and he will no longer be on any medication. They will neglect him again and he will not eat or drink. It'll be a matter of time before he collapses again, becomes critical, and they send him back to the hospital...and so on, and so on...
And there you have the reality of the NHS. An eighty-nine year old man on the verge of death and clearly suffering is being treated like a collection of symptoms instead of a person. The NHS has no human reality. It's all about freeing up beds and treating illnesses rather than people.
What a genuinely fucked-up and tragic state of affairs.
posted by Michael at 12:59 PM
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