JAMES was definitely going to be discharged for assessment on Wednesday.
And then again yesterday...and for certain sure today.
Except that it is now mid-afternoon and despite hovering over the phone for most of the day the expected call telling me where he is to be moved to hasn’t come through.
So I call the ward and to my surprise – given that on some days I have waited for an hour to get through – the phone is answered on the first ring.
But the good news ends there.
James has now developed a very slow heart beat so he is no longer deemed fit for medical discharge and instead has been hooked up to a heart monitor which will be in place for the next 24 hours.
Given that nothing happens in hospitals over the weekend, it is clear that it will be Monday at the very earliest before we can hope to have him back locally.
And then another week slips by.
Still I am promised that next Monday the search for a placement close to home will be resumed - although no-one can tell me exactly how James is.
I am a cowardly driver, so I visit very early to avoid traffic and ensure I can find a parking place: but when I arrive I find, three weeks into his stay, that James is having a bed bath – which doesn’t speak well for his mobility given the shower room is not six paces from his bed.
So a phone call from the hospital social worker on Saturday afternoon is a surprise.
“We are arranging James’ transfer into permanent care,” she informs me briskly.
“But that is not what we agreed,” I protest. “He is due to go into temporary care while we establish how he is and what I might need to care for him at home...”
The social worker is surprised but unmoved.
“Sorry,” she says, “We changed the rules two days ago and now the only choice is home or care...”
“But how IS James,” I ask, having seen him only lying in bed or helped into a chair for the past three weeks.
“I’m not an occupational therapist, so I can’t tell you,” she says clearly eager to move the agenda on.
“But how am I to care for him at home if I don’t know if he can still climb stairs, or how he could be helped into a bath?” I ask, suddenly panicked that the goal posts have been moved so very far and so very fast.
“Well we can give you a hospital bed if that will help,” she says, clearly anxious to avoid any more unanswerable questions.
“Or you can get a stair lift – although of course you will have to pay for that yourself.”
“But is James capable of using one safely?” I ask.
She merely repeats, she is “not an occupational therapist” and therefore cannot tell me whether a couple of thousand pounds spent on one would be a wise investment or not.
“But we can discuss all that on Monday...”
We agree to meet at 3.30pm but despite my being adamant that I will be there at any time she cares to name she will not diarise the appointment, simply asking me to ring her when I am on my way.
Nor can she promise to have occupational therapy there at the same time “because they are very busy people...”
Honestly - it is like trying to nail jelly to a wall..
.
I hope you’re keeping a cushion handy to scream into and that you have a plentiful supply of gin to hand!
How you keep your patience I really don't know! It's like finding your way through a fog. Your health is important to James and if you don't get proper rest, taking on the administration of his many needs which are probably accelerating day by day, will not benefit either of you. You have proved your love and devotion many times over. It may be better for you both if you can visit with cheer and understanding and leave the nursing care to others. Please take care of yourself Geraldine.