Death on the NHS

I’ve never understood the phrase ‘died peacefully’. Two weeks ago I watched my mother die, in the very same NHS hospital where I watched my father die almost ten years earlier.

There was nothing peaceful about it, at least from my unwanted ringside seat. The end — acute pneumonia providing the final nail in a soon-to-be purchased coffin — was painfully slow. It dragged on and on and on. She struggled for her last breaths and appeared distressed, confused and frightened to the end.

The last time I had been to St Helier hospital in south London was September 2005, as my father slowly slipped away. Naturally the memories came flooding back. And so did confusion. Ten years is a long time, especially in the NHS. A lot has changed, and none of it, from what I saw, has been for the better.

Medically, their endings were similar. Both in their early eighties, both with a history of cardiac problems and gradually weakening bodies that could no longer stomach (literally) or respond to more medication.