If it's not too much trouble

The old man propped up on pillows is suddenly overcome by the all too familiar griping pains.

He needs a bedpan and he needs it quickly. He presses his buzzer for a nurse but he is not optimistic. He presses it again and again with increasing urgency. He hangs on: no nurse.

Tears roll down his cheeks as he feels the warm familiar softness oozing underneath him and the malodorous stench reaches his nostrils. The old man hangs his head in shame. He presses again and again. After ten minutes a nurse appears, with a what’s-all-the-fuss-about expression; she makes her assessment, sighs, draws the curtains around the old man and scurries away, promising to be back. Three quarters of an hour passes before two nurses appear. They chatter to each other as they do what has to be done. He says he is very sorry. They tell him not to worry. But he does. They tell him it is all right. But it certainly is not from where he is sitting.

Fumbling fingers

On the other side of the ward another old man stares disconsolately at the food which has been deposited on his table by a woman in an overall. The woman spoke no English which is possibly why she failed to comprehend that his fingers are not sufficiently strong or nimble to open the cellophane packet enclosing the rectangle of cheese, nor can they insert his drinking straw into the carton of orange juice. He hopes a kindly visitor will come to help him access his meal. But visitors are a rare sight in this ward. The old man is defeated. And hungry.

The hoist

Across the town in a flat, which estate agents would describe as spacious and commodious with views of the park and handy for public transport, a social services occupational therapist is making her assessment. She has just trained an elderly woman, her son and daughter-in-law in the use of the hoist, a contraption resembling goalposts, which has been fitted over the double bed in the master bedroom. The goalposts support a removable sling into which an unlucky punter can be placed, raised and transferred from bed to commode and back. The training procedure is one she has delivered frequently; it is scripted for idiots and delivered at a pace for the intellectually challenged.

The class of three have listened meekly and patiently. They have allowed themselves to be hoisted and to hoist to the unsmiling satisfaction of the OT. It is not rocket science but she wants these rank amateurs to realise just how highly skilled she is. So she gives her professional opinion of the flat which is soon to receive home an elderly man suffering from Parkinson’s disease, peripheral neuropathy and a collection of other problems which emanate from time spent 60 years ago as a Japanese prisoner-of-war. Plus MRSA.

The OT spots the old man’s walking frame.

‘He won’t be needing that’, she says.

This is not a diagnosis any of the three has heard from a hospital doctor. They are still reeling from that pronouncement, when the OT adds, ‘And of course, this is a ** flat’. (The word actually used is described in the dictionary as vulgar, so I will spare the reader’s eyes.)

Common scenes

I suppose it was the words and attitude of the occupational therapist that put fire in my belly. We had been visiting my father-in-law in hospital for eight months. We had seen him deteriorate and become intensely desperate and depressed.

The scenes recorded above were common. He was no longer receiving any treatment and the hospital wanted to be rid of him. But he refused to go into residential care and my mother-in-law was equally determined to have him home. In theory, care in the community is supposed to be ‘a good thing’, ‘the way forward’. In practice, getting the support my father-in-law needed presented a huge problem. We will never know how hard the hospital department concerned worked at it, but after three ineffectual months they admitted they were stumped and were still, with increasing pressure, suggesting residential care, even on a temporary basis in order to free up the hospital bed.

For a rainy day

My parents-in-law had lived the typical careful and unselfish lives of their generation. Throughout their working lives they had quietly and regularly saved for a rainy day. These modest savings prevented them from receiving state help for the care which my father-in-law needed. So social services, apart from making their rather snotty assessment of my mother-in-law’s arrangements, had nothing to offer us, not even constructive support or advice. The agencies who supply carers to self-funding clients were unable to come up with the requisite two carers three times a day. In an area where housing is so expensive, there are never enough people to do low-paid work. Meanwhile all my father-in-law could say to us was:

‘Get me out of here, son.’ ‘I’m doing my best, Dad.’ ‘Do more than your best. Get me out of here.’

Escape from hospital

So we did. We sprang him. It was a long, hard road convincing the very particular, but not particularly encouraging, discharge people at the hospital that I would supply the lack of carers and take responsibility for Dad’s care at home. They had found an agency which could supply one morning and one evening carer. I committed myself to assisting morning and evening and in the afternoon bringing along a friend to help me. They did not trust my amateur status or believe that I could have such willing friends. It did not tick their boxes. Hence the hoist training. Fair enough. But after all the phone calls and hassle with people at the hospital and social services, the one thing I knew I wanted to do was get Dad out of the hands of professional ‘carers’. Bring on the Christians.

This is an extract from Ann’s new book on caring for aged parents. The book is entitled If it’s not too much trouble and is published by Christian Focus (£5.99, ISBN 978-1-84550-302-4).