Last week was particularly stressful; marked by staff shortages, anguished relatives, conflict over complex discharge processes, and pressure to create beds. The amount of time I spent with each patient on my ward rounds was less that what I, or they, would have wanted but despite coming in early and leaving late there are only so many hours in a day. In weeks like these I often feel guilty as I leave work that I am unable to give more time to those patients and relatives facing the end of life.
More than many other people I know, I am acutely aware of the fragility of life.
Posted in Death
Tagged C. S. Lewis, compassion, death, doctor, empathy, grief, health, life, medicine, patient, sympathy, time
NHS Hospital discharges: thousands claimed to occur overnight
The news this week has been full of horror stories of patients being discharged from hospital in the dead of night. “Where is the compassion?” they cried, “How could they, the supposed caring profession?” The stories began after The Times discovered, via Freedom of Information requests, that 100 NHS trusts sent 239,233 patients home last year between 11pm and 6am
The immediate response of the press was to paint a picture of an army of ambulance drivers booting out frail 90 year olds; dumping them at their front doors, alone in the dead of night. This dramatic depiction fuelled discussions on various forums and news programmes. The callers on Radio 4s “Any answers” actually made me turn the radio off.
Posted in In Between
Tagged Bruce Keogh, Discharge, FOI, Freedom of information, health, Hospital, Media, NHS, patient, public sector, Times
I arrive at work, and quickly check my emails on my phone before I enter the signal black hole that is the hospital where I spend my working life. The SHO is not in yet, so I persuade the ward clerk to briefly give up one of only 3 functional computers on the ward and update the patient list with the details of the 2 new patients, whose names are scrawled onto the whiteboard. I skim through their notes, and cast my eyes over them to make sure nothing urgent is required. I leave a note for the SHO requesting her to arrange some tests, before I go to the secretaries’ office to hunt for a working dictaphone and a spare tape.
I arrive in outpatient clinic 15minutes before the first patient’s appointment and turn on the PC. I find the printed lists of the expected patients and pick up the first set of notes, searching through the years of mis-filing to find the referral letter. I finally find it in between a yellowing letter from Ophthalmology in 1994 and one from General Surgery in 1990 that I’m sure was typed on a typewriter.
This closely resembles my NHS clinic computer
By the time I have read the referral letter the computer has loaded up as far as the login screen. I enter my details, listen to it whir, and watch the egg timer turn over and over. I call in the patient and start the consultation as I wait for the screenprompts to enter separate passwords for the Radiology and Pathology applications. I take a history and perform a physical examination. I finally get access to laboratory tests, but have to filter the results in several different ways to get all the results I need. I can then finally look at some recent imaging, although I can’t compare this to old xrays as they have been archived and I don’t have time to ask the computer system to retrieve them from the data store as this has all taken quite a while and there are many patients waiting in the corridor.
At a party this week I got talking to a friend of a friend who quickly discovered I was a doctor. The conversation changed from which tube lines were running and who had made the delicious chocolate brownies, to the NHS: specifically its failings. I become, not for the first time, an embodiment not only of the medical profession, but of the entire health and social care system. I was charged with defending the lack of care shown by GPs, the apparent willingness of doctors to prescribe pills for anything and everything but never to listen, the lack of a nutritional perspective from NHS practitioners and the poor funding of mental health services.
The NHS is not perfect. I have heard many stories from dissatisfied individuals, and wouldn’t for a moment dismiss their grievances. I have even been known on occasion to spend an entire dinner party lambasting its’ deficiencies. But conversations like this make me wonder about the expectations of the public of this institution of which I am extremely proud. What do they think the NHS is for?