Thoughts of a carer

I am a carer. Much of my time, and many of my interactions with officialdom in all forms, relates to the person I care for. That does not mean I don't have my own issues, which often take a lower priority than perhaps they should. + + +  I have had issues with a gastric ulcer in the past; I have been recommended by the GP to take medication, as needed, to keep on top of it. I had quite a stock of the tablets so haven't needed to have a prescription for about a year, but the stock is now running low and I need some more. At our surgery, like many others, the process to speak to a doctor is to phone them at 8am to get an appointment. This results in something of a lottery, for there are limited phone lines to the surgery and you inevitably have to dial many times (I think it was 8 or 9 in my case this morning) before you can get through to a receptionist.  I managed to speak to a receptionist around 8.50 this morning. She said that, because it related to a prescription, I needed

It's nineteen minutes past midnight, and I'm writing a blog entry. There's a reason: two days after her eye op, Viv and I find ourselves in the middle of an unpleasant experience, and it's not made better by NHS bureacracy.  + + +  We all hear that the NHS is under great strain. That there are few empty beds. So why isn't there more focus on getting patients to the right hospital for their treatment? The reason I'm up now, writing this, is that Viv had a bad seizure earlier in the evening. It started when we were lying in bed, watching TV, with familiar sounds, the smacking of her lips. It was then followed by her struggling to speak when I asked her whether she was alright; I then followed my standard routine when this happened, of finding some honey and giving her a quarter of a teaspoon: every time we have faced this problem in the last three years - perhaps thirty or so - this would bring her round within seconds. This time it didn't.  She improved sligh

  Yesterday, Viv and I were on our way out when the postman called out from the other side of the street. 'I've got a parcel for you', he announced. He fetched the parcel and I put it safely in our hall before we continued on our way, for it was a parcel I'd been waiting for. + + +  Around fifty-five years ago Viv, then at primary school, had to travel from her home in Welwyn Garden City to London, for appointments at Moorfields Eye Hospital. Her mother took her on the train, buying her a pack of Toffets at the station from a vending machine on the platform while they waited for the diesel hauled train. She used to enjoy these journeys, for the train was formed of British Railways Mark 1 suburban carriages, with comfortable, if dusty, six-a side sprung, comfortable seats in warm, unconnected compartments. Inside one of these, passengers would talk to each other, and there would be no gust of cold air at stations unless someone within that compartment was getting out, or

  Viv's eye has been a problem ever since the failure of Bedford Hospital to treat her tumour promptly. She has a full right-side facial palsy, meaning she cannot blink or close her right eye. the cornea gets very dry and her vision is at risk if she or I don't drops or gels to the eye quite frequently. We have tried to get an appointment with the NHS to have her looked at for some kind of treatment to reduce the risks to this eye - their are a number of options, from weights (to help it close) to stitches (to reduce the opening) and minor cuts (to alter the shape of the eyelids).  All we could get from the NHS was a phone appointment. How well can a doctor assess your eyes over the phone?  She was put on the lust for a 'f2f' as they call it, but we have heard nothing in three months. A consultant we know said she should treat it as a matter of urgency, so we looked into our options to go private. Moorfields in London gave her an appointment at a couple of week's no

When my mum was in her mid sixties she moved to a small bungalow. My father and stepmother did also at around the same time. My mothers parent's moved to a bungalow when they were around 60. My sister moved to a bungalow before she was fifty. One of the reasons they chose single-storey living was that 'you don't want stairs when you get older'. I'm over sixty now, and I've helped Viv cope with stairs when she was in a wheelchair. I'm not convinced that single-storey living is necessarily a good thing for the older person. + + +  Let me give another example. Viv's Aunty Irene is ninety, and lives alone in a two-bedroom (two-storey) house. There is only one loo, upstairs. Her bedroom is upstairs, she spends most of the day downstairs but goes upstairs when nature calls; she goes up (and down) the flight of stairs perhaps five times a day.  Compared to my mum and stepmum, who are both a couple of years younger, she is far fitter. She can still walk around t