This morning I found dad slumped in his chair, still with his pyjamas on, the curtain semi-drawn and washbowls, nappies and funny cardboard round frilled bowls on his bed (I think they're for people to puke in).
My dad had told the nurses that he didn't want to be washed until after he'd been to the loo. He described the nurses as very xiong, which roughly translates into, erm, 'ferocious'. They'd just left him there. For how long? Well, they wash the patients around 9.30 and I got in around 11.30, so hours really. I tried to tidy up his area.
The ward nurse came in - all the nurses are on madcap rotas that make not sense to me. I'd never seen this one before and she marched in with a mean scowl. She did indeed look xiong. So I had to ask very loudly, "What's going on with my dad?" She marched over, hands on hips. "He refused to wash." "So you just left him there?" "Who put the bowls on the floor?" she countered. "I did!" I snapped.
Honestly, I know they're busy. And changing adult nappies, feeding people and clearing up puke all day is lousy. But the patients are still human beings!
My dad's bowels were still bothering him. He told everybody about it, be they occupational therapists, physiotherapists, nurses, doctors, cleaners... it's a bit of an obsession.
Furthermore, dad's hearing aid is kaput. It makes everything doubly difficult.
After lunch, a lady came in to test my dad's hand ability for the experiment - whoops! sorry, survey. She made him pick up small objects, first with his right hand, then with his left. After the second object, we were soon all getting the idea - right hand good, left hand no go.
My brother came over and we wheeled my dad out of the hospital grounds. Freedom! Well we had to wheel him back of course, but just for 20 minutes, we were out of the hospital and visiting a very nice London landmark with tourists and office workers returning home. Mind you, these pavements aren't made for wheelchairs at all.
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