Mum Gives Us Another Fright (Part 1)

Mum Gives Us Another Fright (Part 1)

Saturday evening, 16 September.

Mum had been up, bright and early - had breakfast, had her usual morning nap, and up again at lunch time.  I made her dinner - her favourite, cauliflower cheese ("With pepper?!" Mum always asks.  "Of course - with pepper!" I reply). We had a little sing afterwards, and then Mum felt ready to rest her leg (as she puts it) and have another lie down.   The carers came back at 7.30 to get her up for supper, but Mum was fast asleep, so we decided it would be best to let her sleep on for another hour or so - and I said, we'd get her up later on.

Well, later on came and went; the carers returned at 10.30 p.m. for what is normally the bed call, and still Mum was fast asleep; she would not - could not? - wake up. By now, we were all concerned, and the carers rang for an ambulance. This arrived swiftly; Mum was stretchered to the ambulance, and presently we set off for the hospital.  It was like a re-run of the 15 July; we got to A& E, Mum woke up and once again, the doctors ran all the tests on Mum.  This time, however, they were concerned about the results of the ECG, and the troponin blood test result was giving cause for concern. One doctor said, "For the moment, we'll treat it like a heart attack."

This really struck a chill of fear into us. I'd already been asked by the ambulance crew about a "Do Not Resuscitate" decision and, from the time when my husband died from a massive heart attack, I know precisely how violent the attempts to get someone back to life can be.  I just prayed we hadn't reached that stage, but knew I'd have to think about it.

More tests were carried out, including X-ray and further blood tests. One member of the family was with Mum all the time - we couldn't leave her alone, and in any case, she wasn't capable of telling the doctors how she was feeling.

In the end, two of us went a total of 25 hours without sleep.  It was really shattering but, at the time, you just keep going somehow, and let your body start asking questions about what you're doing to it, later!

At last the second Troponin blood test result arrived; it showed Mum hadn't had a heart attack, but the other worrying thing was that her iron levels were dangerously low.  She was admitted to a ward called the Medical Receiving Unit, and at last we could all take turns getting a couple of hours sleep.

I got back to the ward early on the Sunday morning; a young male nurse was feeding Mum corn flakes, and they were both doing pretty well - it was good to see Mum wasn't being left to her own devices!  I was happy to take over, and I also made sure Mum took her pills - that had been a step too far for the nurse; and I was also there when the doctor came on his rounds.

Because Mum's iron levels were so low, she needed a blood transfusion; the doctor said they would start off with one unit, delivered very slowly over four hours, and then check her iron levels; if necessary, they would continue with an infusion of iron, but it was a case of seeing how we got on.

With the doctor on one side of the bed, and me on the other, with Mum lying in between us, he then asked me about putting a Do Not Resuscitate instruction on Mum's file. I do understand that with someone of Mum's age, teams may be reluctant to do everything they can, to recover someone from a heart attack; but I did not want to rush Mum into expiring faster than she might do otherwise!

I said, "I understand my mother hasn't had a heart attack? and I certainly want you to do everything you can to help her!"

"Oh, yes," the doctor agreed, "we aren't putting her on an end of life pathway....."!!

I was  horrified.  "I should hope not!" I protested, "We're all going for Tea at the Ritz on Mum's birthday next month!"

Quickly he backtracked. "Oh, no, we are actively treating her......"

That's what worries me about these instructions on patients' files. You might say "yes" to one thing in a particular circumstance, but you do not want someone else in authority taking it upon themselves to make life and death decisions on behalf of your loved ones.

After the doctor had left, Mum looked at me, clearly upset.  She said, "Is this the hospital where they do you in?"

"No, it is not!" I said firmly.  "It's the hospital where you're going to get the best treatment - and then you're coming home."

So the moral of this particular little episode is:  Hospital staff should always remember patients may seem deaf, daft or demented, but they can still take in what is being said about them at their bedside. And it can cause a lot of distress.