... and I wasn’t even the patient.
Poor old Mum wasn’t well Friday afternoon so my sister, who was fortunately staying for the weekend, called 111. While this service has its detractors, we’ve been very impressed over the years, be it for an out-of-hours call-out, or an emergency prescription on a Sunday afternoon. Friday was no exception, and Mum ended the day with a solid diagnosis and a shed load of pills.
So far so good as far as the NHS is concerned.
Early Saturday morning, she developed an alarming new symptom, and Sis called an ambulance that arrived reasonably promptly. The paramedics noted down all Mum’s details, including a full prescription list, and went straight off to A&E sans Sis but, given Covid …
No complaints there either.
When I eventually surfaced and saw all the texts with updates, I phoned Sis (having controlled my freak-out tendencies) and we agreed that for her to get some sleep, I would take over as the contact for A&E. I duly phoned them to give them my details and learned that Mum was having a little breakfast and the doctor would phone me within the next two hours.
Encouraging to say the least.
More like within the hour, the doctor phoned with a list of questions such as why had we called the ambulance, and what meds did she take for which conditions. Taken aback, I wanted to ask why the paramedics hadn’t passed on all the juicy info Sis had given them, and didn’t A&E have access to Mum’s medical history on a newfangled thing called a computer? But I bit my tongue and gave her all the info she needed. Does she have high blood pressure, I was asked. Yes, I answered. Hence one of the drugs I’ve just listed, I wanted to add but didn’t.
And with that, we were on the slippery slope to NHS ineptitude. The time that conversation took could have been spent on another patient.
At lunchtime I got a call to say I could collect Mum and take her home. Yippee! I didn’t have time for anything to eat but didn’t anticipate being out too long. I even found a parking space in the A&E car park and didn’t have to schlep round to the multistorey. The queue at reception was minimal, and I was allowed ‘back stage’ to seek out Mum and the staff nurse.
And that’s when the downward slide accelerated.
The nurse handed me one box of pills and a prescription for another. I stared at the prescription, mighty confused that I couldn’t get all necessary commonplace pills from a hospital. He must have read my mind because he said, “You’ll need to get these from a pharmacy.”
“Isn’t there one at the hospital?” I asked naively.
“It closes Saturday lunchtime,” he replied.
Of course it does. The NHS is infamous for only providing half a service at the weekend; it’s like chopping your leg off and not sewing up the wound.
To rub salt into said wound, I must have been at A&E no more than 15 minutes but still had to pay £2.70 to exit the car park. I should have pleaded car trouble and had the NHS ship Mum home in an ambulance – that would teach them to fleece the suffering, in addition to swallowing most of our taxes down the black hole of politically correct bureaucracy.
Knowing what queues can be like at pharmacists, I decided to first take Mum to Sis and only then deal with the prescription. The first part of the plan went swimmingly. Then the proverbial hit the fan.
I nipped down to the pharmacy next to her GP – closed all day Saturdays. Didn’t used to be. But it is now. I drove to the one next to Sainsbury’s. Shutters were down. Blood pressure began to go up. I decided to give Boots next to Morrisons a miss, because the queues there are legendary, and sped (don’t tell Plod) into Stony Stratford to be confronted by a languid pharmacist who a) was behind a Perspex screen, b) was foreign c) was wearing a mask and d) refused to speak more loudly even when I said three times I’m sorry I can’t hear you.
Eventually I heard, “What is this medication?” You’re asking me? I’m just the messenger. I told her what it was for, she tutted, and said, “Fifteen minutes” – to do what? – but I didn’t argue and started to fill the time buying some essentials no one can live without, such as nail files, lip gloss, and breath spray. Next thing I knew, she was calling me over to tell me (languidly) that the prescription was wrong and it wasn’t dated and it was illegal for her to fill in the date and I had to go back to the doctor to get it done properly.
Have you ever seen those films where someone gets very frustrated and imagines themselves taking it out in a violently stylised manner on the person frustrating them? Well, I pictured myself reaching over the Perspex screen, arm growing ridiculously long, grabbing the back of the pharmacist’s head and bashing it on the counter. Instead, I just plonked the nail files etc. on the nearest shelf and walked out.
Heigh-Ho. Heigh-Ho. It’s back to A&E I go. Found another parking space (for another £2.70). To her credit, the receptionist got the doctor to quickly correct the spelling of the meds and add the date. Dreading another dash up Watling Street to Stony Stratford, I asked where the nearest open pharmacist was.
“Across the roundabout,” she answered, “but it’s rather rough there and I wouldn’t go if I were you.”
“I’m a Northerner,” I retorted – I could have said a “very irate Northerner” but resisted. “I can look after myself.”
As it happened, guess what, this place was also closed so I didn’t have to risk life and limb getting out of the car. But while backing to get out of the car park, I went into the hedge and by the sound of it there might have been an immovable object within the hedge. No way was I getting out to have a look, and I still haven’t had the nerve to examine the car.
Boots at Morrisons was closer than Stony Stratford, and I wouldn’t have to face Languid Lily again, so I braved the queue (it was indeed six-deep), handed over the prescription, and held my breath. The lady nodded, went to a shelf, picked up a box, and came back to the counter. I smiled. But not for long.
“The pharmacist is at lunch. She’ll be about 10 minutes and will then check everything.”
“Lunch!” I squeaked. Lucky bugger.
Would you like to do some shopping while you’re waiting?”
Actually, I thought, I need my blood pressure checking and a fistful of paracetamol for my headache.
After 15, not 10, minutes the pharmacist strolled back from lunch but my prescription was checked first and off I went to Mum’s, who said, “You took your time.”
By the time I got home, not only was my blood pressure off the charts, and my headache pounding into my eyes, but indigestion and stomach ulcers were lining up to finish off the day, if not me.
And all because of a series of ‘minor’ inefficiencies by our sacred Health Service (I’m including commercial pharmacists in that because it’s all part of the same culture).
Tell me – what do people do without their own transport, or who can’t afford expensive car parks and to waste petrol, have no time to run around on wild goose chases, or who don’t know where all the different pharmacists are? Answer – the stress makes them ill and they turn to the NHS to make them better, who end up making someone else ill.
Talk about money for old rope.
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