Our Hospitals

Something that has haunted me for some time now is the callous treatment that some of our old people are subjected to in hospital. This is still something of a taboo subject because the orthodoxy is that medical staff, especially nurses, are angels, and as such are beyond criticism. Most nurses are hard-working, professional and kind, but a few are not, and these individuals can make life difficult for their colleagues and utterly miserable for the vulnerable people in their care.

It is generally accepted by people of my generation that the standard of nursing care in our NHS hospitals is lower than it used to be. I don't like the term The Good Old Days. Daily life is immeasurably better for most people today. However, there were Good Old Days for hospital patients. I know, because I experienced them. I was in hospital for various illnesses in my youth. And for those of you who are young today, let me describe how things used to be run on a typical NHS ward.

The ward itself was usually a long room lined with beds. It had large windows, giving natural daylight and an outside view. Those patients too ill to read or amuse themselves could lie in bed and watch the weather or the light change. They could also watch the never-ending traffic of the ward: the cleaners at work, the consultants' rounds, the drinks and drugs and meal trolleys, the comings and goings of the nurses… It was possible to see and hear everything.

Once patients were mobile they were encouraged to help dispense the beverages and help out in the ward kitchen, which freed the nurses for the job they'd trained for nursing.

There was a rigid hierarchy of nursing staff on the ward. At the top was Sister. These formidable women wore a distinctive uniform and a frilly white cap, which was particular to the hospital and needed to be laundered and refolded daily. These Sisters were most definitely in charge. Their wards ran to a strict timetable, and followed a rigid routine of nursing care. Every morning each patient was given a bed bath and had talcum powder applied to pressure points. Our teeth were cleaned, our hair was brushed and we were helped into a clean nightdress. After our bed linen was changed we lay back on our snowy pillows like pampered kings and queens.

The Sisters were constantly on the prowl for bedsores, post-operative infections, and dirt. All were regarded as shameful occurrences. Elderly patients were propped up and fed at meal times, and would not be allowed home until they were eating well. It was a safe, open environment. Any unkindness from a nurse to a patient would have been noticed immediately and just as quickly stopped.

The last time I was in hospital was a deeply depressing and distressing experience. The ward was lit mostly by artificial light and was split into bays, which gave a feeling of isolation. There was a shortage of bed linen and not enough pillows. Nobody appeared to be in charge and there was often confusion about the correct prescription of drugs. Sometimes there was a multiplication of treatment. Several times it happened that patients would be nil-by-mouth all night, prepared for theatre, then told their operation had been cancelled.

Most distressing, though, was how some of the elderly on the ward were treated. I watched one very frail old lady who had been brought in to hospital from a local-authority retirement home, having broken her hip after a fall. I'll call her Mrs Young. She lay on her back, unable to see anything but the gloomy ceiling. She occasionally called out her long-dead husband's name. Meals were placed next to her on the bedside locker, where they stayed until the food grew cold and was taken away. Drinks were similarly placed out of her reach. She had to ask repeatedly for a bedpan. Many times it arrived too late and she had to lie in her own mess. Her face went unwashed and her hair went unbrushed. Nobody came to visit her. She, and others like her, were talked to disrespectfully and unkindly by her ‘assigned nurse’.

I intervened on Mrs Young's behalf a few times but, trapped in my own bed, was unable to help her practically. There were many Mrs Youngs on that ward, and I'm still ashamed that I didn't complain officially.

After I left hospital I went back to the ward to pick up a discharge letter to give my GP. It couldn't be found. Neither could the prescription for the drugs I'd been prescribed. Mrs Young was still there, staring at the ceiling with her wild hair sticking up. I'd like to report that I went back and cared for her, but sadly I didn't.