A phone call from Julie. Mid-thirties. Distraught.
She is very worried about her mother. She says that over the last five days mother has deteriorated both mentally and physically. She can barely stand, and when she does she falls over. She has become confused. She is not eating and will not take her medication. Julie thinks her mother is going to die if something is not done quickly. From the sound of it, she may be right.
It is a difficult problem and I do not know where to start.
I sent Julie’s mother into hospital nine days ago. Julie is phoning me on her mobile from outside the ward. The nursing care is appalling. Most of the nurses do not speak English. The ones that do have suggested that Julie speaks to a doctor. She has spent all morning on the ward waiting to see a doctor, but none has come.
I phone the chief executive of the hospital. I speak to his personal assistant. She asks me which consultant the lady is under. I do not know. Nor does her daughter. That is part of the problem. She says she will “get on to it.”
I feel ashamed.
Crippen is one of the finest bloggers writing today; he is a man at the front line and working in a place that I can relate to. He has a conscience and he is aware of the failings of the system. The skill of in his writing and the passion inherent in his simple anecdotes allows me to forgive him for ever voting Labour. He is, and has been since inception, complusive reading. Read him.
There is absolutely no excuse for the nursing care in this country and I want to make it absolutely fucking clear that I blame the registered nurses and the auxiliaries as much as I blame the politicians.
And in the meantime, are you listening, any of you politicians? Are you?
And you nurses and auxiliaries: stop playing with people's lives, you desperate, awful, lazy bastards. Yes, I said "lazy". You know who you are.
Fuck you all, you venal cunts.