It’s 8:30am on Friday, 25 October 2024. I’m having an emotional moment, which I need to capture.
In the bed to my left, here in Harrogate hospital where I’ve spent a few days battling infections, is a chap—poor chap—who must be double my age. He needs 24/7 personal care. He’s faecally incontinent, and much of the night, unbeknownst to himself, he rips his clothes off and soils the bed. He’s compos mentis only half the time.
All the staff who care for him—and there’s been so many—are incredible. The care worker who sits with him through the night has the most gentle, caring manner I’ve ever seen in a male. I couldn’t do what he does.
In the middle of the night, I’ve had time to think: what rate of pay would it take for me to do his job? I couldn’t settle on a number. Ignoring the not-so-iron laws of economics, it’s a messed-up world when a care worker isn’t among the best-paid people in the country.
And I cannot imagine that at the end of a shift that he gets a pat on the back by his line manager for his work.
I don’t want to fall into the US trap of highlighting racial groups, but it needs to be said. All the patients are white, reflecting Harrogate more broadly. Yet nearly all the staff on the night shift are black. But most of the staff on the day shift are white. Noteworthy
The chap to my other side is incontinent in another way. I recognise him from my stay in this ward six years ago. He’s not compos mentis either.
I wish I didn’t know precisely what is wrong with my ward buddies, but in here—as I wrote during previous stays—the laws of privacy don’t seem to apply.
Yesterday, a friendly nurse—I won’t describe them so they don’t get into trouble—introduced themselves to me. They placed a warm hand on my knee and asked if I believed in God. I said that I was a Quaker. They knew what that meant. They said that when it’s time to die, God takes us away as He sees fit, working in mysterious ways. I wasn’t that unwell and took the words in the spirit they were offered, though I doubt the regulator would be happy with it. It was a beautiful, humane moment I’m glad to have experienced.
At 3am, after the latest bed change next door, a nurse sprayed air freshener down the corridor—a small act, but one that somehow preserved a bit of dignity.
A vote on end-of-life choice is coming up in the House of Commons. I wonder how many MPs would vote differently if they spent just one night on a ward like this.
Now, to the God question: I don’t know. But what I can say is that I’ve seen the works of the angels in here.
I really want to go home.
(Since typing this, I’ve been told to stay a third night.)
