For reasons which are purely personal, I was forced to place my wife of some forty-seven years, ill now for many years, invalid herself and unable to move without assistance, into a ‘Care Facility’ about a week ago; and to leave her there in the possibly-tender clutches of others until I get my own medical priorities sorted and hopefully cleared up. I am now faced with appointments and schedules dictated by a faceless and careless NHS bureaucracy, running as we all know and have to accept as ‘the best in the world’ Health Service: which means that I have to be at a certain hospital at that time, and no other; I have to be at the surgery for more ‘tests’, I have to be a ‘free agent’, with the ability to travel or stay without having to arrange competent help for my wife.
So allow me to shed a bright light on how we treat the elderly memories of our lives, those people who gave unstintingly of their own lives so that we might relax on a Sunday, care free and without a worry in the sky. I have three tales to tell, three places which might explain my annoyance, my anger,
and yes, the futile hope that; by writing these few lines: I just might make a change in the way and manner with which the true discards of our ‘ever-so-caring’ society are treated.
I was working down in London some fifteen years ago, when a friend of mine asked me to do him a favour, and visit an old-aged-home, and to do an electrical upgrade tender, as he wasn’t able to leave his own project in Wales. I agreed, he sent me the documents, and I set off to a Council-run ‘home’ in Hackney, or Islington; I forget which, but that is unimportant. The scenes which greeted my eyes will never be forgotten as I walked through the doors of what, in truth, is probably waiting for us all, or at least those of us who haven’t got a small liquid trust fund tucked away in the tax-haven named Jersey. Read the rest of this entry »