Hospital life: forty-nine days in NHS care

Ever since I entered my nineties, I have felt ever more appreciation of the kind of service the NHS can provide. First of all, the speed of access to a hospital bed. I dialled 999 in the five cases I needed hospitalisation. The ambulance arrived within 25 minutes. All the relevant examinations were quickly done and my plea to release me as soon as possible was always honoured. The situation changed radically, however, when earlier this year I had a stroke.

Alas, medical science is unable to reverse most of the effects of a stroke. Nonetheless there are many stroke wards all over the country. What do they do? Apparently, their main job is to feed their patients.

I was cared for in three different hospitals: the John Radcliffe in Oxford, the Abingdon Hospital and the City Hospital in Headington.   The food was invariably good. After a friend of mine told me stories about the quality of food his father received in a French hospital, my expectations were low. Britain has never prided herself on gastronomical excellence. I did not think we should compete with the French.

But I was pleasantly surprised. I did not think that we were anywhere behind the French.   I could certainly assert that the meals were immeasurably better than those I cooked for myself when left to my own devices before the stroke. As for the quantity, it was always plentiful. I was never able to finish a full meal. Fortunately, I was discharged before I could complain of obesity.

My medication was always supplied in time. I think the frequency of taking blood was too high. I remember well because I hate sharp implements piercing my skin. I was less hostile to measuring daily, sometime twice daily, my blood pressure, although I did not understand why the cuff, the piece of equipment that tries to crush your arm, should always come from a deep freezer.

I  am not suggesting that rehabilitation was not on the agenda, but it had low priority. The staff were available from 6am to 6pm which for 49 days meant 588 hours. Out of this number of possibilities, I had about four or a maximum of five hours of physiotherapy. The possible hours were limited by the rule that none of the props or instruments could be used by a patient without being supervised by a physiotherapist (sometimes two physiotherapists were needed in the interest of safety). I do not claim to know what the best compromise is between safety and rehabilitation attempts, but I do know that at this rate rehabilitation can hardly succeed. I have now been back at home for three weeks with physiotherapists every second day. I have made some progress, but I have grave doubts that I shall ever be “normal” again.

Hearing: I am increasingly hard of hearing. Some of the nurses tried their best to overcome this difficulty by letting me communicate by writing, but the majority simply abandoned me after realising that we cannot understand each other with ease. That was an additional disadvantage. It was hard to get around being hard of hearing.  I have actually two sets of hearing aids which cost a fortune, but they are of very limited use. The only advantage of having them was the occasion when the ward was too noisy, so switching off the hearing aids offered some relief.

Switching hospitals could offer some advantages because obviously not all hospitals can cater for all specialities. I was told at the  Abingdon Hospital that I needed to be transferred to the City hospital because they had there a specialist I needed. After the transfer my first impressions were very good. Each patient had a separate room equipped with the latest hospital beds and with modern means to call for help. However, I was not there for the room service. Concerning medical doctors It turned out that not only did they have no specialist, but they had no doctors of any kind permanently attached to the hospital. They share doctors with a hospital in Banbury. As a result it took me nearly four days  to see a doctor.

Eventually, I did receive the strong painkiller I needed. In the partial absence of doctors, the hospital was run by nurses and student nurses. They were well trained but were not adequate substitutes for the lack of  doctors. The nurses came  from a wide range of backgrounds from a wide range of countries, some of them even from the UK.

I also saw a few physiotherapists, a few of whom apparently thought they were working in a penal establishment. When I started to walk with a Zimmer frame, they tried to force me into a routine they preferred. When I deviated from that they pushed the frame into their preferred direction with a sudden jerk, making me lose my balance. Then with consummate skill they caught me before I actually fell, thereby managing to assert their superiority and to demonstrate with a terse smile how well they looked after me.

In spite of many good things, I must say that I disliked being in hospital. Many a wit has said this before me, but hospitals really are no place for ill people.

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