My day started late last night with a call from my sister to say my 89yr old Mum is not going to be discharged from hospital today because there was a cock-up in the care-package assessment by various parties. So we’ve collected my disabled brother so he can have some semblance of a Christmas, and I’ve spent all day on the phone trying to arrange a transfer to a community geriatric ward or even a respite care bed, whilst cataloguing the endless examples to PALS of how to make a frail old lady’s fortnight in hospital as humiliating and degrading as possible while failing to give her even the basic prescribed things like eye-drops or PPI for her reflux, having to console the ward sister who ended up in tears of frustration at the lack of staff on her unit, juggling that with a busy day here at work, and eventually learning that all our efforts are in vain as Mum has managed to dislocate her hip in the wonderful care of the grubby, shabby shithole she’s now stuck in for Christmas.
However, in one hour and thirty five minutes’ time I will be handing over to afternoon cover and making my way to Halifax to watch the Panto, in the company of my elderly MIL, entertained by the fact that she’s so off her tits on Tramadol we rarely notice the clear signs of dementia. My disabled brother has managed to lift the mood of everyone by being so cheerfully upbeat because he’s with my kids, who he adores, and who love him to bits, and if really pressed, I’d have to admit that shouting “he’s behind you” will be a welcome break from dealing with hospitals and dying mothers. Then I have the dubious honour of picking my lad up from the pub where he works and sampling a Copper Dragon in the process, before finally getting round to wrapping Mrs Scape’s pressies before going to bed ( a personal, obstinate tradition!) . My favourite day of the year, and to be honest, nothing is really spoiling it yet!
