My mother was about to be taken to a care home called Willow Trees, and the first thing my instincts told me about that was that willow trees would not be the prevailing feature there. When I looked it up, my suspicions were confirmed. Not only could I not see willow trees, it also had a low rating for infection and safety.
I phoned a private company to be quoted a mind-blowing fee for a live-in carer for a week or two, until I can get there, so she can be discharged from the hospital ward where they are holding her – there is no other word for it – while my father is recovering from a stroke.
‘One thing leads to another. If we let the NHS send her to that home, we don’t know what will go wrong next,’ I told my father on the phone, as he lay in his hospital bed.
He agreed. One thing has led to another relentlessly for four years. My mother has had a tumour, various bleeds and sudden onset dementia. My father has had a heart attack from a blood clot and now a stroke, also caused by a blood clot, in the back of his brain, the doctors rang me eventually to say.
‘Righto,’ I told the doctor. ‘Well, we are where we are, and I have my theories.’
The doctor let out a strangled, embarrassed cough of a laugh. I wasn’t sure I understood what was funny.
‘I take it you’re discharging him with anticoagulants?’ I said. ‘And will you please impress on him the importance of taking his blood thinners, because he’s so determined to prove that his blood cannot be clotting, because there is nothing in his system that could possibly make it clot, that I’m not convinced he took his pills when they discharged him after the heart attack.
Magazine articles are subscriber-only. Keep reading for just £1 a month
SUBSCRIBE TODAY- Free delivery of the magazine
- Unlimited website and app access
- Subscriber-only newsletters
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in