Skip to main content

Tales from the NHS frontline

Let's name and shame. We're talking here about St Helier Hospital in south London - an eyesore of a building and a place you certainly wouldn't want to go if you had a sore eye.

My father-in-law was there this week for a painful procedure on a tear duct, which is done under local anaesthetic. His situation is complicated by the fact that he's profoundly deaf and has a cochlear implant -a kind of bionic ear that costs twenty or thirty grand to purchase and fit. It's sensitive equipment which can be easily upset by the use of certain surgical implements.

Dad-in-law arrives on the operating table and asks the surgeon whether he's read any of the blurb that's been supplied about the rather expensive cochlear device. It turns out he hasn't, so he disappears for a few minutes, leaving his patient somewhat bewildered and annoyed. On his return, the doc says he can't foresee any particular problems but it's agreed that it's probably best to cover up the implant with a bandage.

At the end of the op, a nurse comes along and removes the bandage and chucks it in the surgical waste. Suddenly my father-in-law's world goes eerily quiet and there's a realisation that this medical professional has just thrown the equivalent of her annual salary in the bin along with a load of swabs and assorted detritus. If I'm being completely fair, I suppose that most of the money is actually related to the electrodes implanted inside the head. But she has managed to chuck away the part which allows that technology to work. There follows a lot of rummaging. One cochlear receiver is retrieved and handed directly back to the patient. It's not even given a clean, although the hospital's PR machine is keen to trumpet its success at cutting MRSA and prioritising infection control.

Believe me, I am not someone who believes in bashing the NHS. I have an excellent local surgery in south-west London, where the standard of care and professionalism is first-class. But I do believe in speaking out when something's not right. Particularly when elderly or disabled people are involved, along with a big wedge of taxpayers' money.

My only previous experience of St Helier was taking my younger daughter there a couple of years ago with painful foot after some amateur dance show at my in-laws' house. The casualty doctors said she'd broken a bone and plastered her up. Two days later, we saw a specialist who said the cast could come off because there was actually no break shown on the x-ray at all.

Doctors in A&E who are plastering unbroken legs? If I exhibited a similar level of incompetence in my own world of self-employment, I wouldn't get any work. My clients would go elsewhere. This is a luxury that many clients of the NHS unfortunately don't have.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Captain Birdseye and other people of rank

Regular readers may recall that I once doubted the existence of Yeo Valley. I'd never heard of the Yeo mountain range and I therefore rated the likelihood of there being a valley at somewhere between 0 and 5%. Of course, I had yoghurt all over my face when I discovered that the place really does exist. Somewhere in Somerset, I seem to recall. Today, having read an article in the latest edition of The Marketer magazine, I'm astonished to discover that there really was a Captain Birdseye. Well, I need to qualify that just a little. There was a Mister Clarence Birdseye who invented the fish finger back in 1955. The avuncular, uniformed figure who dominated our TV screens for about thirty years may have been an invention of over-eager advertising creatives, but he didn't blow in on a trawler during a squall. There was actually some connection to a real human being. These revelations about fish and yoghurt are causing me considerable disquiet, because I'm wondering h...

Special Constable update

I've now studied the Special Constable poster in more detail (see blogs passim ) and can reveal the idea is even more complex and bizarre than I first thought. You'll recall that a Special is on some seedy looking street corner, just yards away from where a drug deal is in progress. He's keenly observing events and looks ready to take some kind of action. The copy says that Specials wear uniform and always have back-up. But this guy is on his own in plain clothes. Worrying. Perhaps he's off duty but just can't leave the policing thing alone? Once a part-time copper, always a part-time copper. But wait. There is back up. It comes in the form of the constable's own reflection in a puddle. If he took his eyes off the criminal activity for just a second and took the trouble to look down at his feet, he'd see that in Puddle Land, he is wearing a uniform and carrying a radio. There's enough material here to fill a semiotics seminar for a day. If I disco...

When one name isn't enough

You may have heard the news reports about the turmoil in Kingston, Jamaica, resulting from the government's attempts to pin down a notorious drug lord on behalf of the US. I was struck by the number of self-styled monikers this guy has given himself. He is, depending on the channel you listen to, known on the street as 'Dudas', 'The Big Man' and 'The President' - worshipped by many impoverished Kingston residents as a benefactor to slum dwellers. It's his real name that seems most appropriate, however. If you were a drug baron called Christopher Coke, wouldn't you leave it at that? It's certainly not a name to be sniffed at.