I've been awake today since 3am, so there's a good chance this post isn't going to be coherent, articulate or free of spelling or other typographic errors. I am, however filled with something of a fury. So I can promise that there is definitely something I intend to say, and with purpose. So grab your listening eyes if, indeed you care to engage, and jump on, particularly if you are up for some mixed metaphors and jumbled imagery. I've got a lot of that going on right now in my delirious and irate brain.
But first, let me set the scene.
This morning I was awoken in the wee small hours by the sounds of my father who was very very unwell. So unwell, in fact that I was prompted on checking him to pretty much call an ambulance within a few minutes. The paramedics arrived promptly and on hooking Dad up to all the blinkers and beepers ascertained that he was, yes, in a very bad state. I'm sure he won't mind my telling you that his blood pressure was hovering around 60 on 40 and his heart rate while they were with him was dropping, and got down to 30.
You can pretty much ask anyone, and they'll tell you that vital signs like this are not bright, although just one look at him could've told you he was in trouble.
It took about half an hour for the paramedics to stabilise him to the point where they were confident they could get him onto a trolley and in transit to hospital, and to their credit, as always, they were great. Big round of applause for the ambos who always do an incredible job and should without a doubt have pay and conditions to reflect the amazing and indispensable work they do - this announcement was not paid for by any political party).
So we arrived at the hospital at about 4.15/4.30ish and Dad was handed over and shunted into a cubicle by around 5am.
It was not a busy morning at the hospital, thankfully. There was a dementia patient who had repeatedly fallen on his head, poor old love, and another man, who I think was drunk, who kept insisting he couldn't breathe, although apparently all the monitors were indicating he was getting plenty of oxygen. And that was all there was on our side of emergency. Sadly, our side of emergency wasn't actually equipped with the monitors necessary to deal with assessing what the suspected was Dad's issue, that is, is his heart. So for two hours we were parked in a cubicle with no equipment.
Oh, but there was blood on the floor, blood from a former occupant. And a few droplets inside one of the stainless steel drawers where they keep the sterile syringes, swabs, etc… Lovely.
Sure, questions were asked of Dad. Bloods taken. X-rays. More questions. People typed into databases. Bla bla bla. More staff came in, more questions were asked.
And then Dad was moved to the other side, where there were monitors. Lots of empty cubicles with monitors and I wondered why the hell we weren't sent over here in the first place. Dad was hooked up to the machines immediately and blip blip blip, you could see and hear what was happening with him straight away.
And then the nurse on the well equipped side commented that Dad was sent over without any paperwork, but that didn't matter. He went on to read some notes (apparently) in prep for hand over to the next shift, and conservatively got thirty percent of what he told the new nurse wrong. But that wouldn't've been his FAULT only because he didn't consult the computer. Instead, you see, in his wisdom, he chose the superior technology of his MEMORY. (!!! ??? !!!)
In the meantime, the doctor had come back and said that she had received the results of dad's blood tests and they'd not found any markers for heart attack so… and this is the kicker… so he was being discharged. See you later.
Just like that.
Don't know what caused you to nearly drop off the perch old timer. But we're crossing one option off the list so you can go now. Turrah. And by the way, get yourself out of that bed. We won't even be bothered putting the sides down for you. Help yourself. Hoof it.
I cannot tell you how cross I was. How cross I am. He's so unwell still. Not like he was this morning, but still terribly sick, and they don't even care to investigate. Or even to put anything in place to begin investigations. Or even to write up a comprehensive set of notes of what actually occurred so that the GP or anyone could actually refer to it in the future. The discharge notes are so brief and inaccurate it's a joke. (But not funny.)
So this is the care my dad received in the ED at the Royal Melbourne Hospital, folks. Shabby it was. Shit, in fact. Really truly not good enough.
And so endeth my rant.
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