Update

Feb. 14th, 2006 10:05 pm
dc: (Doctor)
My mother is looking better than she was, although still somewhat breathless. She still hasn’t had the EchoCG, she is responding to treatment; she is, though,feelineg a bit worse today than a couple of days ago. Thanks for the good wishes, by the way, to those who sent them/posted them/whatever. It is appreciated.

My father is completely shattered from going to the hospital, even though he often gets a taxi. Being so high, it gets a very cold wind, and his being left waiting for over 40 minutes for a taxi one night did him no good whatever.
dc: (Doctor)
Stobhill continues to puzzle me. Most hospitals give some thought to provision of facilities for relatives and visitors, but from the design of Stobhill you would think it was extremely unusual for there to be visitors:
  • In the whole of the main part of the hospital, there are only two small toilets provided for visitors, one in the middle of the surgical corridor, the other in the middle of the medical corridor (there is also a toilet in Casualty — but you can’t get to the waiting room there without going outside);

  • there is a (fairly uncomfortable) WRVS cafĂ©, which is quite a distance from either of those toilets and has no toilet provision of its own (this is a hospital of long corridors);

  • disabled toilet provision is even worse: there is a disabled toilet in that Casualty waiting room, but you have to go outside (and I would not like to leave via the main entrance in a wheel chair — there is a very short, quite steep ramp to pavement level; come to that, the road and pavement surfaces in the hospital are very poor); there are two other disabled toilets, but it was not at all clear from the notice giving that information where exactly they are or how to get there;

  • it would be pretty awful being a wheelchair-bound visitor: there are lifts on the surgical corridor to the upper level, at each end of the (long) corridor, but as far as I can see, the main provision of lifts on the medical corridor are old lifts at each ward, which have long, heavy, manually operated double doors — actually, I think that quite a few elderly people would struggle with them, too;

  • at least some of the wards have no waiting area for visitors, so that before the ward opens to visitors there is a crush of people waiting in corridors and on staircases because there is literally nowhere else for them to wait;

  • despite that, there is a fairly rigid “two visitors only per bed” policy, which means that some people have to stand around outside the ward — no, there are no seats for them;

  • I had thought that most hospitals were recognising that there needed to be a bit of flexibility with visiting hours, given that people do things like work, but visiting hours here are a rigid one hour in the afternoon (14:30–15:30) and one hour at night (19:00–20:00);

  • given the poor transport provision to the place, you would think there would be some information provided about transport — but, no: the most there is seems to be a set of bus and train timetables (why train? — the nearest station is not exactly within walking distance); that’s be something, I suppose, except that you really need to know exactly where you are to make sense of them (if you go to a hospital in a part of town you don’t know, how likely are you to know all the street names nearby?), and that isn’t helped by the provision of timetables for buses that don’t seem to come all that close to the hospital.
It is striking (but probably shouldn’t be surprising) that many visitors are themselves either elderly and frail or not in the best of health. Stobhill may be a good hospital when it comes to the quality of its medical and surgical care, but its treatment of visitors is a disgrace. It is clear that no one in charge of the place has a weak bladder or the slightest problem with their legs.

I gather, too, that the quality of the food leaves something to be desired. According to my mother, everything is a bit watery, and items ordered don’t necessarily arrive. As for what does arrive, well, you would think that a steak pie would come with at least some pastry.

Wouldn’t you?
dc: (Doctor)
I have managed to make it to Stobhill by way of the bus now, [livejournal.com profile] janimoon’s info was very helpful; I don’t think I would have got the right stop without it. However, there is a substantial bit of hill between there and the hospital, and as I thought my father wouldn’t really be able to cope with it. (This must be one of the highest hills in Glasgow, possibly the highest; today, the tops of the four high blocks of flats [livejournal.com profile] janimoon mentioned were hidden by cloud today.)

The buses which actually go into the hospital though: as I have said before, there are only two and they stop just after 5pm; I discovered today that one of them does not run at all on a Sunday. How bloody stupid is that? Do SPT think no one needs to visit hospitals on a Sunday? Or that everyone who does is young and fit enough to walk up that hill? They certainly can’t assume everyone has a car: the last time I saw the statistics, Glasgow had the lowest per capita car ownership of any UK city — not surprising, really, because it is quite a compact city with very good transport on the whole. This, though, is very poorly thought out.
dc: (Doctor)
My mother has not been too well, lately, and despite my and my father’s efforts to persuade her to see a doctor see was intransigent in her refusal to do so. Yesterday he insisted, though, and within a few hours my mother had been admitted to hospital. We don’t know precisely what the problem is, as we haven’t been able to talk to the medical staff yet, but the likeliest problem seems to be some cardiac difficulty given her condition; there are other possibilities, though. We should know more later this morning. I am confident that she’ll get treatment which will help her a lot.

This is exactly what I didn’t need, quite apart from the obvious fact I don’t want my mother to be ill. The problem is that she has been admitted to Stobhill. There’s nothing wrong with it as a hospital — it’s rather good, in fact — but it is a fucking awful place to get to. As far as I can see (which might not be too far, given how bad the route map is) it is served by two buses, neither of which it is easy to see where you might get it, neither of which runs more frequently than every half hour, and neither of which runs at night (probably). Yesterday, I tried to make sense of the bus route map, failed, and got a taxi from the city centre as I could not waste more time — but I can’t afford to do that too often. The nearest railway station is still far away enough to require a taxi from it to the hospital. Getting there from here takes quite some time, I need to allow at least an hour and a half. Once there, it is one of those sprawling hospitals where you have to walk for ages along long, long corridors to get anywhere.

A while ago — was it two years? I’m not sure — my father was in there for major surgery (which went well), and even though he was not in for long, going out there with my mother led to my having a serious relapse for the best part of two months; I was pretty much not up to anything. As I am coming out of a bit of a relapse at the moment, this doesn’t bode well... In fact, last night I had more extensive fasciculation in my legs than I have ever had (it made getting to sleep difficult), and I was very shaky on my feet this morning. I am going to have to really pay attention to the organisation of my rest, which hasn’t been necessary for several years. Bugger.



On the good side of things, Trout last night was pleasant, with some faces I haven’t seen for a while, a good turnout, and the prospect of a Trout trip to the Paisley Beer Festival. Also good was the discovery that the “poetry reading” which was apparently going to take place in the Ingram on the same night as the pre-Eastercon Trout is in fact a readings session organised by the local SF writing group, in fact by one of the Trouts! All simple, and we will have most of the pub that night by the looks of it.

January 2016

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