The NHS fell at the last hurdle

I suppose I should have been more compassionate.

Hubby and I were having lunch one recent afternoon and his mobile rang. He was expecting a call, having been at the opticians about an hour ago to have his eye checked out that “wasn’t quite right.” (He’s not a wordsmith).

“Today at 5pm? Yes that’s fine. Thank you.”

Gosh that was quick! A same-day appointment with the NHS after a same-day referral. Respect!

We synchronised our watches, as it were. I’d drive us both in my car to the garage for 3.15pm for an MOT, the old one having expired two weeks ago because no one had reminded me. Can’t get the staff these days. We’d then drive to my parents’ old bungalow to check for burst pipes and break-ins per the terms of the insurance cover. I’d then drop Hubby off at the hospital and go find a quiet corner to finish off and publish a blog then count the seconds until my sternest critic finished me off. The hospital was out of bounds for me because I was still testing positive for Covid. Heck I shouldn’t really be taking my car to the garage but I figured car mechanics had a pair.

A few minutes later the phone rang again. It was the hospital. Again.

“What? Now?” exclaimed Hubby. “OK we’ll be about 30 minutes.”

“But I haven’t finished my salad,” I complained. 

“Apparently the consultant wants to see me asap.”

Wasn’t 5pm asap enough for the NHS? 

Being the dutiful wife, I left my salad, put on some mascara, scrunched and spritzed my hair, found the right earrings, and we jumped in the car. We got to Kelly’s Kitchen Roundabout and I sped onto the A5. 

“Where are you going?” asked Hubby.

“Doh! To the hospital.”

“Don’t you go on Brickhill Road?”

“No. The A5. I always go on the A5.”

“You can get there via Brickhill Road.”

“Husband. I drove my Dad to Milton Keynes Hospital for years. Then I drove my Mum to Milton Keynes Hospital for years. If you want me to drive you to Milton Keynes Hospital – today – without pushing you out the door, you’ll have to put up with my sense of direction.”

We arrived at Milton Keynes Hospital, from the A5. I pulled into the drop-off zone. As he was getting out of the car, Hubby asked, “Which way are you going to the garage?”

I smiled sweetly and said, “Standing Way. You got a problem with that?”

After about an hour at the garage a mechanic, with a pair, handed me my new MOT certificate and explained that I had two minor defects (the car, not me). Both the track rod end ball joint dust covers were beginning to deteriorate. My previous life flashed before my eyes, that of taking my parents to Milton Keynes Hospital and not only understanding the diagnoses, but actually predicting them and then correcting the doctors as to the best treatment. Like the time I told the hospital Dad couldn’t swallow the morphine so could he please have a patch.

“They don’t do patches that strength,” said the doctor.

“Yes they do,” said I. “It’s called XXXXX,” (Sorry, can’t remember the details).

He played with his phone. “Oh yes. So they do.”

But dust covers? Beyond me.

Hubby texted to say he’d seen the registrar within minutes, then the consultant, and was now waiting to be called in for laser surgery. The NHS is on a roll! 

To kill time, I drove over to the bungalow to check for break-ins and burst pipes but got side-tracked when I found that a magazine had been delivered from Mum’s Scottish clan society. I’d forgotten to tell them about her passing and to provide an obituary.

I fired up the broadband (to cancel it would have cost over £200 so I’ve kept it going and occasionally it comes in use, like today) and emailed the membership secretary a quick obit, me-style, not ya usual born, raised, educated, worked, married, lived, died obit, but one tailored to a Scottish clan society. I told how Mum could trace her clan line through her paternal grandmother, who was a domestic servant at the Laird’s castle and once refused to curtsey to the Laird’s wife because, “She’s no better than I am.” I am my great-grandmother’s great granddaughter! 

Her father (my great-great grandfather) was head gardener at the castle in the late 19th century. This is strange, because a great-great grandfather on Dad’s side was a head gardener at some pile down in Somerset. Me? I can’t tell a dandelion from a burdock. But I refuse to kowtow to people who are “no better than I am”, so I did get some family genes.

I emailed the obit just as Hubby texted to say he’d been called in for the laser thing. I reckoned I had enough time to pop into the local Spar for a bottle of juice and a packet of crisps. (I hadn’t finished my lunch, remember?) Trust my luck there was a long queue at the Spar and one slow check-out girl. Eventually I got in the car, ate my crisps and drank my juice – I was that parched – and set off towards the hospital. Oh, brother. Milton Keynes in the rush hour is not pretty.

I pulled into the pick-up zone (the same as the drop-off zone) and Hubby was waiting.

“Which way did you come from the bungalow?” he asked

Here we go again: “Marlborough Street.”

“Why not Watling Street?”

“I. Know. Milton. Keynes. Better. Than. You. Do. Darling.”

“Which way are you driving home?

If I hadn’t used the broomstick gag recently, I’d use it now.

“How’s the eye by the way?”

“Fine”

“Do you need drops?”

“Doctor didn’t say.”

“Can you drive?”

“He didn’t say not to.”

“Can you wear your contact lenses?”

“He didn’t say but I don’t fancy it.”

“What about lifting or bending?”

“Errrr I think he said no heavy lifting.”

“What did he mean by heavy?”

“Didn’t say.”

And there you have it. Momentary admiration for the NHS for prompt action and faultless surgery is tarnished by a failure of aftercare. Luckily for Hubby, I’m an expert in diagnosis and treatments.

Shame about the lack of compassion.