Parallel lives

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I am immeasurably proud of the NHS: the most successful model of healthcare the world has ever seen. If anyone within my earshot suggests that privatisation would be a step forward they rapidly regret it. But even I sometimes get a wake up call: a stark reminder of the absolute necessity of the NHS, and the horror we may face if the political right’s dream of marketised healthcare is realised.

On a recent shift as the Medical Registrar I received a call from an A&E doctor who wished to discuss a patient who had suffered a stroke. I was surprised as all patients with strokes are channelled into the acute stroke pathway: assessed and treated by a dedicated team and admitted to a specialised unit for consideration of thrombolysis; specialist investigations; and early physio, speech and language therapy. However the A&E doctor explained the situation and I agreed to admit Maria*.

I sat by Maria’s bed in the Medical Assessment Unit, and listened as she told me her story.

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Lonely this Christmas

I love Christmas. But I occasionally find myself in a moment of loneliness in the midst of all the crowds and music and noise. When I see pictures of friends with their newborns, home just in time for Christmas; hear couples conspiring about the perfect present for each other; or catch the refrain of a song and am reminded that no-one is thinking “all I want for Christmas is you” the sparkle loses it’s shine. Being in the ever diminishing demographic of single 30-somethings can be lonely. But these moments are fleeting. I’m soon reminded of how much love surrounds me as my Mum calls to double check when my train is getting in, my brother texts to ask whether vegetarians eat gravy, and my friends email checking who is bringing the Gin at New Year. I know how lucky I am and how full of people my life is, and I was reminded of this on my last day of work before the Christmas holiday.

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Ron* was a patient I had previously met in clinic. He had severe COPD and lung cancer for which he’d opted not to have treatment. He was admitted the week before Christmas with breathlessness and we were treating him for an infective exacerbation of COPD. We were fully staffed and the team had the ward under control so there was time to do what I wish we could do more often: sit and chat.

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Those who go; those who stay

A large proportion of my life is spent within the walls of the hospitals of North East London. But when I’m not at work, I can often be found in one of London’s fantastic art galleries. Art is essential for my personal wellbeing, and a great way to dissociate myself from the trials and tribulations of being a doctor.

But every so often these two worlds collide.

Those who go

A few years ago I went to an exhibition at the Tate Modern on Futurism. It was a fantastic exhibition, highlighting a brief but incredibly influential period of modern art. I was profoundly struck by a specific piece: a tryptych by Umberto Boccioni entitled “Farewells; Those who go; Those who stay,” now on view at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Not only is it beautiful, but the artist effectively captures the emotions inherent in farewells. It has stayed with me ever since. I was reminded of this piece recently after a particularly emotional on call shift.

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The LCP is dead: long live the LCP

Last weekend I was on call in hospital and cared for George,* a patient who was entering the last stages of life. George was no longer conscious so the Consultant and I spoke to his family, discussing which interventions to continue and which we felt were no longer benefiting him. Later in the day I reviewed George and found that he had developed respiratory secretions and was in some distress. I stopped his intravenous fluids, prescribed medications to treat his symptoms and reached for the Liverpool Care Pathway. And then I stopped. In the context of the recent press coverage and the LCP review what should I do?

hold hands guardian image

Image from The Guardian

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An invitation to An Evening with Death

Where do you want to die? How do you want to be remembered? What is it like to be present when someone dies?

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Death is a subject that it is often difficult to talk about, but is something we all have in common. On this blog I have shared some of my thoughts and experiences as a healthcare professional, having seen death, dying and grief more than most people I know. I have advocated for more open discussions about the fragility of the human body, the limits of medical interventions, and the freedom to live life to the full that might be gained from embracing it’s finite nature.

As a teacher I believe I have a responsibility to prepare medical students to deal with death and grief, and wonder whether we need new ways to do this effectively. Can sharing our experiences with the public be a learning experience for all? Can the arts and humanities help us to cross the ‘us and them’ doctor-public divide?

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Can we find the spirit of ’45 in 2013?

Today marks a defining moment in the history of Britain, but looking around you wouldn’t believe it. Today, April 1st 2013, sees the The Health and Social Care Act (HSCA) come into force.

The death certificate of the NHS, issued by the National Health Action Party

The death certificate of the NHS, issued by the National Health Action Party

Some still believe that those opposed to the HSCA are over-dramatic, reactionary or naive. They will probably dismiss the National Health Action Party as extreme and publicity-seeking as it has issued a death certificate for the NHS, citing the cause of death as the HSCA 2013, with contributing causes including Thatcherism and the failure of New Labour. But it is difficult to see how anything but extreme statements and gestures can capture the attention of the public. Our generation is standing by as the NHS is quietly privatised and I for one am ashamed.

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What’s in a name?

At work recently I felt like a broken record. “What’s their name?” I said again and again with increasing frustration as I received calls about patients who were referred to as “bed 3,” “side room 1,” and “bed 9.”

Of course, at times it is convenient and even desirable to omit a patient’s name in a conversation. It was suggested on Twitter that it may be better to overhear what ‘bed 9’ needs rather than ‘John Doe is ready for his haemorrhoidectomy,’ and in this case I agree! My worry is that in most cases there is no explicit intent to maintain confidentiality. Instead the convenience of referring to people by their bed number slips into routine communication. I have certainly been guilty of this myself. I worry that this is not merely disrespectful, but that it contributes to the dehumanising experience of being a patient, and negatively impacts on the doctor-patient relationship.

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