The British Response to a Foreign Crisis (Part 3 of The Majorcan Disaster)
Following on from my last blogs about this, (read them first please if you haven't) I've made it back Blighty. I am about to be handed over to the care of the NHS from Luxembourg Air Rescue. I had also previously stated that this would be a chance for me to see first hand a direct comparison from the care I got in Majorca and here.
Before I get into that there are a couple of points I want to make.
Before I get into that there are a couple of points I want to make.
- I am and always have been very pro NHS. I do think it's a great institution but you only ever hear the negatives re waiting times or ops that have gone wrong etc. But those are the things that make headlines. Unfortunately we are quick to complain and slow to praise. After all, why should you say "well done" to anyone treating you. "They're just doing their job". Well, to some extent maybe that's true. But caring, as a profession, is so personal, there are many degrees of good and "bad" that can be distinguished by the patient, you know if someone is doing a good job or just their job.
- I realise there is no straight comparison between private healthcare and what the NHS can do in terms of resources. It's just not fair. An analogy I'd like to use and which fits in with the point of writing this is: Imagine you have had two dinner party invites and have to judge which is best. The first is from a millionaire in a fantastic mansion with caterers from the finest restaurant around. The second is from a guy who lives under a railway bridge in a cardboard box who gets his food from a food bank. Yes there is no comparison in the cuisine, but the hospitality could be more welcoming in either setting. It's down to the host. Ok a bit extreme but you get my drift.
Back to the story. We were told in Majorca that the flight took so long to organise as they were organising a bed for me at Arrowe Park Hospital (APH). The ambulance backs up to the doors and flight doctor tells the person meeting us that she has the name of a doctor receiving us and the ward.
We are then told that we need to go to ITU. It takes 2 different people to guide us, that's me on a stretcher, the ambulance driver, my flight doctor and nurse and my wife. We all troop up and down corridors to the ITU. On arrival at ITU its obvious its the wrong place. Everyone in there are on ventilators and seriously unwell (not just a bit of gravel rash and bit of a bang to the back). We are then herded to another ward with the same "computer says no" answer. In the end after a mini tour of the ground floor we end up at A&E reception, like a walk in. So much for forward planning.
After a bit of haggling by the flight doc, we go through to the triage area. Notes are handed over and I'm formally booked into the NHS system. It's then an emotional farewell to Dr Schmit and Nurse Louis, as they jet off to rescue another poor displaced unfortunate.
So now I'm waiting for a bed. The time ticks on, and after being shuffled round a few times, almost 5 hours later I'm taken up to the Acute Assessment Ward. This ward is special, it has doctors on duty round the clock, so its good for new patients who haven't been tested as yet and are unknown as to their requirements.
I'm put in a bed in the corner of a bay. A quick few questions are asked then a blood pressure and temp taken. It's nearly 3am now, and a ask for a bottle to slash in as I'm busting. The care assistant gives me it and then draws the curtain round my bed. I fill the bottle but now think its too full to put down on its flat surface. I think, ok I'll hold it a minute until she comes back. As I said it's 3am and there are 4 other blokes asleep in beds in the same bay. 30 minutes go by and still no sign of anyone coming. I realise I can't reach the buzzer. (I was never told I had a buzzer or where it was) Another 20 minutes and I thinking if I fall asleep I'll get a wave of piss over me. So I risk putting it down. It's ok, just, thanks to a particularly thick meniscus.
Now I'm lying there on the Acute Assessment Ward, thinking, I'm behind a curtain, I have no monitoring on me (I was constantly monitored in Majorca) and no buzzer. I could shout, but I'm way too polite to wake anyone. I could slip off in my sleep here and no one would know. The irony of it on an assessment ward.
At 6am the ward is moving again and someone opens my curtains and it's an emotional farewell to the pint of piss I had lovingly kept by me all night.
Drugs round comes by and I get topped up with something heavy. This is quickly followed by breakfast and toast is placed just out of reach with a cup of tea. I haven't eaten for 14 hours by then so was feeling a bit empty. However, with the drug swimming in my system and the lack of sleep, it takes me a while to compute that there is food but I can't reach it. Not to worry though, the same breakfast lady comes back and I'm thinking, ah yes, she'll help me sort it now. Wrong. "Finished" (not sure whether an exclamation or question mark is more appropriate here) was her opening (and closing) gambit and off she waltzes with my untouched toast and now luke warm tea.
I lie in a state of shock (and hunger) as it sinks in what just happened. I'm now thinking I should have stayed in Majorca and had the three week wait to fly commercial. No, give her the benefit of doubt, perhaps she is just too busy to waste time with people who aren't eating, and there must be loads. After all, she probably still had to deliver a brief synopsis of last nights soaps and what her uncles friends cousins sons girlfriends sister in law did with some guy from Birko last Saturday to the other staff on the ward.
One of the main reasons I was in discomfort on this ward was that I didn't have a reclining bed. In Majorca I had a few buttons that could adjust the angle of the bed to make it easier to get up and down. Here it was fixed, so if I wanted to change position or sit upright I had to use my own diminished strength to do it. I put unnecessary strain on my fractured ribs and vertebra trying to keep comfortable. When I asked if I could swap, I was told there weren't enough of those "posh" beds to go round. Even though the guy opposite me had one, kept permanently flat as he was dressed and waiting to be discharged.
An old guy across the ward from me is in discomfort and very confused. A care assistant settles him and he asks for his dressing gown. She hands it to him and walks off. He's in pain, not very mobile and so can't manage. He's shouting again for help. The care assistant is now with another patient and says to herself (and most of the ward because I could hear 2 beds away) "Oh for gods sake not again" She back to him with a "what now?" attitude. He tries to explain he can't get it on and she helps him get one hand in then leaves. He's now stuck again and shouting again. Same retort from the care assistant and she's back to him after a few minutes. Now I don't what this care assistant has to deal with on a daily basis, but I would have thought that caring for people who can't help themselves is quite high on the list. To me, if she had really been interested in this gent's comfort she would have stayed with him and finished seeing to his requirements until he was properly comfortable. It maybe would have taken a couple of minutes longer but overall probably less time than she spent anyway. (like a "proper host") Plus the patient would have felt like she cared, which is, I think, just as important. There were a few other incidents similar to this but I'm not going to labour the point.
What I got from this experience was that this is a lot of people first experience of NHS care. Incredible, it can't be a true reflection of what really happens?
The day shift came on and I have to say, thankfully that things improved. The staff were more attentive and actually registered that I wasn't very mobile and needed a bit more help moving things within reach.
Early in the evening I'm moved up to the Lung Support Unit. It's like a different hospital. I'm settled in a nice "posh" bed and offered some dinner as I missed it on the other ward. The staff are brilliant. So attentive and caring and the ones I saw did their often difficult tasks with a happy smile and a kind, encouraging word. I'm in a bay of six beds and there are some really poorly blokes here. Such complex needs with most of them being immobile and all with breathing issues that make my injuries look like I have a paper cut.
All my levels are checked regularly and I'm asked about my pain level often to make sure they can keep me comfortable. The food is actually not bad (insert gasp here). There is a lot of choice and it gets delivered hot, which I'm sure is no mean feat in such a big operation.
Until you have sat in a ward like this you don't really appreciate how many people it takes to keep a place like this running and offer the high standard of care it does. There are so many auxiliary tasks that constantly need doing that no body thinks about. Cleaning is a massive task. I know there have been horror stories about people catching these super bugs whilst in hospital, but until you see how stretched they are, I just think they do well not to get more. With all beds full most of the time and tonnes of equipment everywhere that patients are plugged into, how can you expect to be 100% successful?
In the following three days here, I improve steadily and get my chest drain taken out on the second day. This was the real start of recovery for me. I'm now free to move about more and my body, in turn, is starting to get back to functioning more normally.
Morning on day three I am told that all respiratory tests are good and they are happy to discharge me from their service. I just need the nod from orthopaedics and I'm good to go home. I'm buzzing. My wife arrives at visiting time and helps me have a shower, a shave and get dressed. I feel like a new man. Just got to wait a bit longer. And a bit longer.
And a bit longer.
Now it's after 7pm and looking unlikely that I will get the nod to go home today. You could say that this is the sort of situation in which the NHS service lets itself down. After all it seems a simple task of getting an expert to look at the scans and either say ye or nay. That decision (and let us say for the sake of my sanity is an all clear) will then allow me to go home. I'm freeing up a bed, and that has got to be a high priority, no?
Unbelievably ANOTHER day passes, still waiting on the scans to be seen. I feel like a fraud on this ward (ooh that rhymes) as my lung problems have been resolved.
The next day (number six) see the experts deciding I need a spinal brace for the next 10 weeks. Super.
In summary, you can't compare levels of care when it's measured by monetary resource. Care is the human element, the attitude to the job. Both hospitals I visited had both showed this to be true. Overall, I am very lucky to be on the road to recovery, and very very lucky to be getting the greatest care now from my family and friends.
I'm put in a bed in the corner of a bay. A quick few questions are asked then a blood pressure and temp taken. It's nearly 3am now, and a ask for a bottle to slash in as I'm busting. The care assistant gives me it and then draws the curtain round my bed. I fill the bottle but now think its too full to put down on its flat surface. I think, ok I'll hold it a minute until she comes back. As I said it's 3am and there are 4 other blokes asleep in beds in the same bay. 30 minutes go by and still no sign of anyone coming. I realise I can't reach the buzzer. (I was never told I had a buzzer or where it was) Another 20 minutes and I thinking if I fall asleep I'll get a wave of piss over me. So I risk putting it down. It's ok, just, thanks to a particularly thick meniscus.
Now I'm lying there on the Acute Assessment Ward, thinking, I'm behind a curtain, I have no monitoring on me (I was constantly monitored in Majorca) and no buzzer. I could shout, but I'm way too polite to wake anyone. I could slip off in my sleep here and no one would know. The irony of it on an assessment ward.
At 6am the ward is moving again and someone opens my curtains and it's an emotional farewell to the pint of piss I had lovingly kept by me all night.
Drugs round comes by and I get topped up with something heavy. This is quickly followed by breakfast and toast is placed just out of reach with a cup of tea. I haven't eaten for 14 hours by then so was feeling a bit empty. However, with the drug swimming in my system and the lack of sleep, it takes me a while to compute that there is food but I can't reach it. Not to worry though, the same breakfast lady comes back and I'm thinking, ah yes, she'll help me sort it now. Wrong. "Finished" (not sure whether an exclamation or question mark is more appropriate here) was her opening (and closing) gambit and off she waltzes with my untouched toast and now luke warm tea.
I lie in a state of shock (and hunger) as it sinks in what just happened. I'm now thinking I should have stayed in Majorca and had the three week wait to fly commercial. No, give her the benefit of doubt, perhaps she is just too busy to waste time with people who aren't eating, and there must be loads. After all, she probably still had to deliver a brief synopsis of last nights soaps and what her uncles friends cousins sons girlfriends sister in law did with some guy from Birko last Saturday to the other staff on the ward.
One of the main reasons I was in discomfort on this ward was that I didn't have a reclining bed. In Majorca I had a few buttons that could adjust the angle of the bed to make it easier to get up and down. Here it was fixed, so if I wanted to change position or sit upright I had to use my own diminished strength to do it. I put unnecessary strain on my fractured ribs and vertebra trying to keep comfortable. When I asked if I could swap, I was told there weren't enough of those "posh" beds to go round. Even though the guy opposite me had one, kept permanently flat as he was dressed and waiting to be discharged.
An old guy across the ward from me is in discomfort and very confused. A care assistant settles him and he asks for his dressing gown. She hands it to him and walks off. He's in pain, not very mobile and so can't manage. He's shouting again for help. The care assistant is now with another patient and says to herself (and most of the ward because I could hear 2 beds away) "Oh for gods sake not again" She back to him with a "what now?" attitude. He tries to explain he can't get it on and she helps him get one hand in then leaves. He's now stuck again and shouting again. Same retort from the care assistant and she's back to him after a few minutes. Now I don't what this care assistant has to deal with on a daily basis, but I would have thought that caring for people who can't help themselves is quite high on the list. To me, if she had really been interested in this gent's comfort she would have stayed with him and finished seeing to his requirements until he was properly comfortable. It maybe would have taken a couple of minutes longer but overall probably less time than she spent anyway. (like a "proper host") Plus the patient would have felt like she cared, which is, I think, just as important. There were a few other incidents similar to this but I'm not going to labour the point.
What I got from this experience was that this is a lot of people first experience of NHS care. Incredible, it can't be a true reflection of what really happens?
The day shift came on and I have to say, thankfully that things improved. The staff were more attentive and actually registered that I wasn't very mobile and needed a bit more help moving things within reach.
Early in the evening I'm moved up to the Lung Support Unit. It's like a different hospital. I'm settled in a nice "posh" bed and offered some dinner as I missed it on the other ward. The staff are brilliant. So attentive and caring and the ones I saw did their often difficult tasks with a happy smile and a kind, encouraging word. I'm in a bay of six beds and there are some really poorly blokes here. Such complex needs with most of them being immobile and all with breathing issues that make my injuries look like I have a paper cut.
All my levels are checked regularly and I'm asked about my pain level often to make sure they can keep me comfortable. The food is actually not bad (insert gasp here). There is a lot of choice and it gets delivered hot, which I'm sure is no mean feat in such a big operation.
Until you have sat in a ward like this you don't really appreciate how many people it takes to keep a place like this running and offer the high standard of care it does. There are so many auxiliary tasks that constantly need doing that no body thinks about. Cleaning is a massive task. I know there have been horror stories about people catching these super bugs whilst in hospital, but until you see how stretched they are, I just think they do well not to get more. With all beds full most of the time and tonnes of equipment everywhere that patients are plugged into, how can you expect to be 100% successful?
In the following three days here, I improve steadily and get my chest drain taken out on the second day. This was the real start of recovery for me. I'm now free to move about more and my body, in turn, is starting to get back to functioning more normally.
Morning on day three I am told that all respiratory tests are good and they are happy to discharge me from their service. I just need the nod from orthopaedics and I'm good to go home. I'm buzzing. My wife arrives at visiting time and helps me have a shower, a shave and get dressed. I feel like a new man. Just got to wait a bit longer. And a bit longer.
And a bit longer.
Now it's after 7pm and looking unlikely that I will get the nod to go home today. You could say that this is the sort of situation in which the NHS service lets itself down. After all it seems a simple task of getting an expert to look at the scans and either say ye or nay. That decision (and let us say for the sake of my sanity is an all clear) will then allow me to go home. I'm freeing up a bed, and that has got to be a high priority, no?
Unbelievably ANOTHER day passes, still waiting on the scans to be seen. I feel like a fraud on this ward (ooh that rhymes) as my lung problems have been resolved.
The next day (number six) see the experts deciding I need a spinal brace for the next 10 weeks. Super.
In summary, you can't compare levels of care when it's measured by monetary resource. Care is the human element, the attitude to the job. Both hospitals I visited had both showed this to be true. Overall, I am very lucky to be on the road to recovery, and very very lucky to be getting the greatest care now from my family and friends.
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