My Grandmother: The Drug Lord
It is not what you do in life, it is how you percieve it. From the NHS to ability, here is how to use perspective to push through your obstacles.
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I don’t think there has been a shorter waiting time in an NHS emergency room since Typhoid. We staggered in, got our proverbial waiting ticket and sat down for only a few minutes before being triaged. Then it was 2 hours and we were in, hooked up, admitted for temporary monitoring, discharged and home in time for tea (short stop for a donut).
This is my 4th visit to the Emergency Room during Dan Pemic. One for an accidental stabbing by a spasmed Stanley knife last year. One for folic acid anemia. One for chest pressure. And the most recent being suspected stroke that turned out to be Acute Onset Flare of MDN. And each time, I’ve been rushed through in less time than it takes to fly abroad. For the NHS, that is good going! Two of these visits have been on a weekend too which usually makes an NHS A&E a bit of a Disneyland attraction…without the luxury of fast-pass or queue-side entertainment. These days there is an aura of a library about it; very hush-hush. Though I would say that the guy with blood gushing from his left hand bemoaning his life choices of day drinking on a Saturday morning, that livened up ward a bit!
This all makes a lot of sense; A&E admissions are averaging at 8% lower than in 2019. Fewer people are attending A&E in general due to an updated plan for care which means your first point of call is home assessment via a call the NHS111, or your GP. Overall people are reluctant to enter the hospital unless expressly instructed to attend. In response, a lot of people have been sitting tight with rather serious symptoms’ hoping that the a numb arm really is because they slept funny. Public Health Scotland can boast that for the first time in 2 decades, near 80% of patients attending A&E are seen within 4 hours! Woohoo? Yes. If this, essentially, had a positive knock-on effect anywhere else in the NHS system.
Receptionists outnumber doctors 2 to 0.1, fewer people are being vaccinated, general practitioners are suffering burnout…I used to laugh heartily at conspiracy theorists but a reshuffling of historic medical data across Scotland means that it is nigh on impossible to find comparative data on practice prior to 2021. It would be highly suspect but we are talking about a country that neglected to acknowledge raging outbreaks of Rona within its care home system due to lack of provision. And embarrassment.
Am I pissed? Of course I’m pissed! The reported figures indicating neglect of long-standing medical problems, interventions, support care and care management may or may not be accurate but I can attest to the individual cases that have been reported to me regarding the NHS and the chronic case of passing the buck that seems endemic amongst services at the moment. And this includes my own. I have been assured that I would have an NHS MRI and EMT to begin monitoring my motor-neuron disease.
On my most recent visit to A&E, a senior medical student came in to take my diagnostic history. After the most thorough interview I have received in the last 18 months by a doctor in the UK, he determined an “Acute Flare of Motor Neuron Symptoms due to compromised immunity” (super fancy). His suggestion would be an MRI and lumbar puncture to confirm lack of evidence of anything else, short term steroids probably ineffective. He then asked if there was anything else the consulting doctor may want to know.
“Yes,” I said slowly (because I have no other tempo than a slow waltz at the moment). “If I hear ‘we are reluctant to diagnose’ one more time I will -somehow- find the ability to throw that sink and someone will leave this room needing an MRI of their brain. Solutions only please, guys.”
The solution was to go home and continue waiting for my emergency neurology appointment in 19 weeks. But twice, now, I have experienced the woebegone wringing hands and awkward, despondent mirth born of frustration of the stressed system. Another Emergency Room doctor confessing to being entirely out of their depth, faced with emergencies spawning from lack of care for long-standing medical issues.
An Emergency Room Doctor may fight for the CT-Scan that randomly finds a tumor but they cannot rush you through the system. Not without a 12 slide presentation, two signed-returned-resigned-underlined second and third opinions, a comprehensive dissertation on your entire medical history, and possibly the leverage of a muffin basket cause, damn it, Doctors gotta eat! So be kind. That CT-Scan they produced a memoire on you for may find the tumor but, if you’re not coughing up a vital organ or uncontrollably leaking juices with the strident force of Niagara from an orifice, you are, more than likely, going home without any more treatment that you would have received from a pharmacist.
I love a pharmacist.
Pharmacists, by and large, are my favourite medical professionals. They have heard every request, they understand a patient at a chemical level, they are the human equivalent of a toxicology machine. More importantly, the local pharmacist is a legitimate regulated legal drug dealer with more knowledge of each patient than the average priest has of their entire congregation. Anonymous confession be damned; this bitch knows your name, address, blood type and the contents of your poop!
My grandmother was a pharmacist. Wonderful woman; wore coral suits to work. Burgundy red hair. Well manicured nails. Her sense of humour was dry, her temper was firm and measured. She loved a cuddle and smelled of cut grass and Poison Dior. When she died, the crematorium was packed all the way out to the hallway.
I sincerely believe there were two reasons for this. Both completely plausible. One, she was a lovely woman who was charming, vivacious, friendly, well-travelled and superb at maintaining long-distance correspondence. Or two, my grandmother, Jean Campbell was the Skelmorlie equivalent to a Columbian Drug Lord. There were definitely two sorts of people at her funeral; those who revered…and those who feared!
I think it makes it sound cool if I just say a little bit of both. However there was no great drama to my Grandmother…that I knew of. Maybe she dealt with her problems swiftly, privately, with no mess. Of perhaps she was simply the kindly beige moccasin, navy gilet gardening Grandma I knew her to be. Further post-humous excavation of her Largs retreat may reveal some treasures!
Why did I start this? Oh yes. NHS is struggling. Chase your treatments. Only go to the emergency room if you need to. Smile as much as you can. Dance till you die. And always treat your pharmacist with reverence because that kindly, well-dressed old bid knows every single STD you’ve had and when!
If this made you chuckle, please consider contributing to our family Just Giving as we raise money for my powerchair; every little helps reduce pressure on services…and my motor neurons! CLICK HERE FOR MORE INFO!
