Hospital 2

The last time Rosemarie was in hospital the ward was quite casual about visiting hours, but when we had left the previous evening I could not avoid seeing a large unfriendly sign stating that visiting hours were STRICTLY between 2 and 8.

I phoned at 11.30 and was told (predictably) that Rosemarie had 'had a good night' and we had a brief discussion about what she liked to eat. The nurse asked about Rosemarie not being able to use her left arm. 

It had never actually occurred to me to mention this to them. Rosemarie was left handed and co-ordination went first on that side. Years ago, before hospitalisation, I used to notice how her cardigan would slip off her left shoulder. In the Care Home, when she was sitting in a wheelchair, her left arm would fall to the side and would be a dead weight for us to lift back onto her lap. She can grip with the fingers of her left hand but she shows no interest in moving the arm.

One of those things that is so part of life that you don't see it any more.

I asked how early we could visit and the nurse reluctantly agreed that we could come 'a little early' but seemed very unenthusiastic. She said the doctor's round was at 3.

We arrived at the hospital just after 1.15 and started negotiating the maze of corridors. There always seems something metaphorical about walking down long, mostly empty, straight or occasionally inexplicably twisting corridors of a large, sprawling hospital like King's. Looking into the distance to see your destination crawling imperceptibly closer, resisting the urge to walk faster and faster, and obsessively reading the colour coded, terse signs.

Maybe just me then.

The translucent ward doors were locked when we arrived. I pressed the buzzer and at the third attempt a voice asked what I wanted. I said I had come to see Rosemarie and the voice said visiting wasn't till two. I said I had phoned earlier and been told it would be ok. The voice snapped off with a crackle but nothing else happened.

Another couple arrived and asked if the doors were locked. I said they were but the woman went through the pantomime of trying them anyway. After a while they pressed the bell with the assumption that they were different people and might get a different result. A crackle from the speaker but nothing else. I tried the door. It opened.

Rosemarie was slumped in the bed and did not appear to recognise us or show any awareness of our presence. On the bedside table was a congealed pureed meal mostly uneaten, a half eaten yoghurt and an unopened pot of unthickened apple juice. 

The Staff Nurse bustled past and said that Rosemarie was scheduled for a CT scan (they still seemed to be fixated on her inability to lift her left arm. However many times I told them otherwise, it had become embedded somewhere that this was a recent change and part of the reason for her admission). 

An hour later a porter arrived and took Rosemarie for her CT scan. We went too, even though we were told we would not be allowed in. On the way back we were told that she had been co-operative and not moved at all. 

The doctor came round at 3.45 and said that they were concerned at the lack of movement on the left side of her body and she was scheduled for a CT scan but it had been cancelled (!).

The X-ray of her chest was completely clear. Her blood showed some signs of bacterial infection (possibly UTI) so they would prescribe antibiotics. She was pretty much fully rehydrated and her oxygen level was OK. They expected to discharge her late afternoon once they had checked she was eating properly and was 'back to normal' (we had mentioned she did not eat her breakfast, had hardly any lunch and did not appear to have drunk anything).

You could hear the machine grinding into action. Nothing short of a seizure was going to stop discharge. 

We spent the rest of the afternoon listening guiltily to the conversation between the patients and the visitors in the beds around us. It is very easy to get sucked into their stories.

Rosemarie slumped in the bed, looking sad and tired, totally unresponsive. Time passed.

At 5.25 the Staff Nurse came by and removed her cannula. She said that the doctor had written the discharge letter and they were just waiting for the medication from the Pharmacy. So no worries about not eating and drinking then.

Just after 6 her food arrived. When I say 'food' I mean  a plate of congealed puree that smelled like compost and tasted revolting. I have no idea what it was meant to be but I had no intention of trying to get Rosemarie to eat it.  

Minutes later the Staff Nurse arrived with a bag of medication and the discharge letter, and she was followed by the transport guys. The said they were happy to wait for Rosemarie to finish her meal. I told them it would not be necessary. 

It was cold and heavy outside and the journey back to the Care Home seemed slow and exhausting. Rosemarie seemed tired and listless and I felt the same. It was good to be out of the hospital and it was great that Rosemarie was rehydrated but I was left with a nagging feeling that it had all somehow been pointless.

The Care Home seemed smaller and very quiet when we arrived. Rosemarie was swiftly put to bed and seemed relieved. We tried to give her some Forticreme (she had barely eaten anything in four days) but her eyes were drooping and her chin falling to her chest. 

We left her in her warm, dimmed room, breathing shallowly and looking like she really didn't want to be anywhere.