Midsummer Madness...

In which common sense prevails - but only just!

ON a blustery afternoon pelting with rain, when any sane person would be holed up indoors in front of a film, I am taking James to the surgery.

We have been summoned for his shingles jab but the small surgery car park is so full we have had to park 150 yards away at the supermarket.

In view of the weather I have bundled James up in his woolly winter coat. He hasn’t worn it recently and has lost so much weight it now hangs off him in sad folds, making him look, under his warm flat cap, like every other poor old man I have ever seen - but not the least bit like James.

I realise, belatedly, that although he is now walking much better at home, the uneven, slightly hilly ground outdoors, is a challenge, and every gust of wind threatens to topple him.

Next time we will bring the zimmer, I promise myself, but for now we are committed so I make encouraging noises as urge him slowly on, and he hangs off my arm.

“Nearly there,” I say brightly.

“Nearly where?” James asks, having already forgotten the reason for this ordeal by wind and weather.

It takes us 15 exhausting minutes but eventually we reach the sanctuary of the surgery, shake off our wet coats and announce our arrival.

We are expected, the nurse ushers us through and I get James to take off his jumper ready for his jab.

She checks James’s birthdate and address - two pieces of information he delivers with practised ease - but as she checks the veracity of his answers something in his notes gives her pause.

“I’m not sure I can give James his jab,” she says uncertainly, “because it says here that he was offered one in 2015 and turned it down.”

“Why ever would he do that,” I wonder out loud, but neither notes  nor nurse can enlighten me.

“I expect it was that man thing,” I venture, “You know where they just can’t be bothered to do the sensible thing where their health is concerned...”

“Yes,” said the nurse. “But eight years ago, he said he didn’t want one.”

I feel my heart sink. The effort of getting James to the surgery for the second time in a week has left us both exhausted.

Yesterday it took an hour to get any blood out of James and now it looks as though we are to be dismissed without the jab they invited him for. 

“Well I’m in charge now,” I say firmly. “I am his registered carer, I have his power of attorney and if you ask James if he would rather have a painful illness or a quick jab I am quite sure he has the capacity to say he would like the jab...”

Before she can argue I put this to James and he comes up trumps - but she is not satisfied and insists she must ask the opinion of our GP.

So we wait for ten long minutes before she back in and reluctantly concedes that the GP says she has met us both and “it is probably okay to go ahead...” while adding that she herself is still not certain if it is the correct thing to do.

As shingles is the last thing either of us needs to add to James’ long list of ailments I am pleased common sense has prevailed.

But I can’t help but wonder as we head back out into the storm how many crying toddlers she has denied jabs because their tears indicated a lack of informed consent?