Fading: NHS Patients and Politicians

I reflected today about a photo encased in a gold frame on my Ikea sideboard, nestled beneath the TV. It captures a moment from the early 80s, showcasing my Mum, Dad, and Uncle at a speedway dinner dance. The image freezes my mother in a velvet evening dress, a Laura Ashley sale treasure, with my dapper dad and uncle on either side, donned in black tie. Remarkably, the dress retains its freshness, defying the ageing process that time has imposed upon the individuals in the photo.

As the figures in the photograph gradually fade, so does a repository of lifetime memories. Following my Dad’s passing in 2019, we reflected on his fortune in having missed the onslaught of Covid. Now, as my Uncle also succumbs to the passage of time, another reservoir of memories is poised to disappear.

Visiting him in the hospital becomes a privilege, allowing us to absorb his tales of being a mechanic, coach, and Black Cab driver. His back room is a sanctuary of Speedway memorabilia, featuring a striking painting of him on the track, and his first motorbike remains lovingly stored in the shed—a sentiment akin to my mother's affection for her black velvet dress.

Witnessing my 88-year-old Uncle in Hospital lying on a bed, on the floor to minimise the risk of falls, each visit reveals a gradual fading—eating less, sleeping more. Yet, his joy at seeing visitors and sharing the latest family news is undiminished. His humour persists, as does his ability to discourse on politics and question my chosen travel route, advising me of alternatives to avoid traffic.  Which I’ll not remember, and I will probably continue to use Sat Nav as my travel companion.

Recognising the challenges faced by the NHS in treating every elderly patient as an individual amid the pressures to cut costs, I am grateful for the kind and considerate staff. Despite the geographical distance between family members and his shifting between rehab centres and hospitals, it's apparent that this upheaval contributes to his distress and confusion. As we now wait for a suitable arrangement to be made for him, time is precious, and it is obvious demand outweighs supply. One thing remains clear: he adamantly does not wish to breathe his last in a hospital bed on the floor, yet returning to his lifelong home is not a feasible option.

In the face of the NHS and Social Services grappling with financial constraints while endeavouring to provide care to an increasing number of people, I hold onto hope. Hope that the NHS and Social Services continue to support patients and ensure their enduring vitality.  This should transcend political rhetoric, becoming a collaborative effort amongst politicians for the well-being of future generations—an embodiment of the childhood lesson that actions speak louder than words.

Having experienced hospitals from a visitor's perspective, the reliance on ward staff communication becomes apparent. Their updates not only kept my elderly Uncle informed but also provided solace to us, the family, assuring us of his safety within a less-than-seamless system. As he waits for a place to become available, his frailty increases, and he fades a little more.

As we grapple with the departure of older generations, the unspoken pains and stresses are pervasive.  The slow fade of the older generation, with their memories entrusted to the next, becomes a poignant metaphor as precious as my cherished photo.