I posted yesterday on the different attitude between France and the UK to families being present in a hospital and helping nurse their relatives. I hadn’t appreciated until the comments started coming in – and a couple of e-mails overnight from the continent, that the UK attitude seems to be exclusive to – the UK!

I have done a little Googling and cannot find any other European country that keeps the family so firmly at the outer door of the hospital.  It set me thinking, and about 3am I was hit by a thunderbolt…as you are.

Crikey, but I’m slow on the uptake I thought. As I do frequently.

I have said before that what you get by way of a post each morning is whatever is on my mind when I wake up – so it is today; forgive the personal nature of this post – there is a sound reason for it.

Half a century ago, said Methuselah, for it is I, I had a very useful attribute. If I arranged myself so that my head was lower than my body, my cheek swelled up in a perfect imitation of a gumboil – a fashionable affliction in those days and mighty useful for getting out of PE on a freezing morning. Eventually I was rumbled, and packed off to the Doctor by my Father. I had a tumour in my saliva gland and it was removed – in rather rudimentary fashion. It left me with a hideous scar on the side of my face.

I had never had a ‘relationship’ with my Mother. No one knows why, those who did are long since dead; I suspect post natal depression myself, being some 13lb at birth I don’t suppose it was happy experience for her in those post war days, and she took to her bed and refused to have anything to do with me.

I had gone off to boarding school at 3, the Frobelian residential kindergarten run by the Sisters of the Sacre Coeur in St Peters Port. It solved my Father’s problem of caring for me and maintaining his job, but did nothing for my non-existent relationship with my Mother.

‘Disfigured’ five years later, was the last straw for her, and I was packed off to the John Radcliffe hospital for plastic surgery. (Yes, that photograph of me on the contacts page is post plastic surgery, so let’s get the jokes over and done with!)

I was all of eight years old, and had already spent a month in hospital away from my family – the notion that children might want their parents around when they were sick was light years in the future. Now I was looking forward to months in another hospital – plastic surgery was a long and tortuous process in those days, many months as grafts healed. 50 years later I still remember being tied to the bed to prevent me pulling out the various tubes. Give me a modicum of stress and I can have a decent nightmare about it to this day.

My Mother was only too happy to comply with the restricted visiting, she had no wish to be distressed by witnessing my appearance, and I, too young to have knowledge of the fact that the hospital discouraged visiting, was only too happy to accept that I was just not fit to be seen. Besides, she was busy getting pregnant again, yet another excuse to languish in bed.

By the time I was pronounced ‘cured’ and due for release, it was to the news that she was about to give birth and I was to go to my grand-mothers house in Liverpool. From there I went back and forth to boarding school, interspersed with stays with various friends of my Father’s in the school holidays. Visits ‘home’ were the occasion to have beds made up specially for my appearance, never again was there to be a room known as ‘mine’. I didn’t belong there; I was a ‘visitor’.

It was, you can see, a mightily fractured relationship.  One that I firmly accounted for by my physical ‘appearance’.

When I was 12, another phone call from my Father to my boarding school alerted me to the fact that I had just acquired another brother, and I despaired of ever returning home. So much so, that I am ashamed now to admit, I swallowed a bottle of aspirin to be done with the whole ghastly business.  I could see no future for myself.

It is hard to speak of these things, even now, but this was before the Suicide Act, a time when you were either ‘mad’ or ‘bad’ for such actions. I guess no one had the heart to decide that at 12 I was actually ‘bad’, so ‘mad’ was the only other option. I was packed off to the Long Grove Mental Hospital in Epsom.

There was no such thing as a children’s ward, they didn’t exist. It is hard to put into words how grim it actually was. One day I may get round to writing about it; today is not the day.

It didn’t last long, about two months I think – one day a chink in their security appeared and I legged it – in the company of another patient who was to be my only friend for some years. I did get caught once, and sent off to a children’s home, but that didn’t last long either – a first floor drainpipe held no terrors for me after the experiences I had had so far.

The point of all this is not to detail ‘what a terrible childhood’ I had, but that I realised last night what a huge impact the NHS system of not allowing, not wanting, not encouraging, families to be part and parcel of life in hospital can have on a person. My parents are long since dead, but to this day I have no relationship with my two younger brothers, nor did I ever have again with my parents. It certainly left its mark on me – and turned me into a Libertarian long before I ever knew such a word existed.

Wild horses wouldn’t persuade me to rely on the State to care for me, or support me – and as I thought that, came the blinding flash of insight.

Of course, who brought in the NHS? The Fabians, the Socialists. The exclusion of families from hospitals is nothing more than an early example of the Fabian ideology that wishes to see families torn apart and everyone turning to the State as chief carer, I had never connected ‘visiting times’ with politics before.

Probably because I had never realised before that other countries did it differently.

*No, the picture isn’t me – it was the only one I could find of a similar vintage hospital bed!

robbiethered
October 24, 2011 at 19:11

All the same, I appreciate this article, and believe me, when you see the
local, erm, “community hospital” with its walls plastered with leaflets about
the Public Guardian and how great it is to be under them, you begin to align
yourself, if you are like us, with Anna Raccoon’s stance on things.
You
know, I never actually voted for the last Labour lot, although I USED to be
what I thought was socialist, until they proved finally to me it didn’t work.
Yet, I was rejoicing when they got in, in 1997. I’ve been regretting that ever
since. Ideally Libertarianism would thrive, but it’s so difficult in a country
where authoratarianism is seen as such a virtue by too many. Not all,
thankfully, just too many! I never thought I’d be happier with the Tories in
power. Turns out I am, only slightly, but I am!

Newmark October 13, 2011 at 15:40

I’m not sure that you are right in attributing the visiting restrictions to
our socialised NHS. Older members of my family assure me that at most
hospitals the visiting regime was just the same in pre-NHS days.

Johnnydub October 13, 2011 at 12:40

Let’s face it…. when the nurses no longer want to nurse and nursing
assistants then need to be recruited… something has gone seriously pear
shaped..

Unfortunately the NHS debate is simple one of protecting the vested
interests of the public sector workers.. if it was results / care driven, we’d
have adopted the French model decades ago..

Unfortunately that would result in public sector workers becoming private
sector workers and thus will never happen.

So what, if as Stafford proved, hundreds and thousands of people have to
die unneccesarily, it’s all about the pensions etc….

And the left claim the moral high ground.. it’s fucking laughable…

Mike October 13, 2011 at 10:27

I have just re-read this post in the light of today’s news from the Care
Quality Commission. For those in the health care area (Conflict of interest
statement: I am a retired orthopaedic consultant) the old way used to deliver
proper care even when families were kept at arms length. It wasn’t right (I
can remember sitting outside the ward waiting for visitors to see my sick
brother) but at least it delivered good care to the patient. The modern
‘training’ given to nurses means that family are kept at arms length while the
patients (sorry clients) get second rate care, but at least the paper work is
up to date.

I could give chapter and verse and names etc for the following. At a
seminar in a UK nursing school one degree course nurse student said that she
‘didn’t go into nursing to mop the fevered brow’. To my horror, she was given
the prize as the best student barely two months later. This at a nursing
school that then gave (I think they have stopped) a two week module on
witchcraft. The old system at least cared, this one doesn’t.

Robert Edwards
October 12, 2011 at 12:59

Yet another priceless offering. I cannot be the only one to fear that all
is not well with you.

My only serious hospital experience (tonsils aside) was when I had to have
an emergency inguinal hernia job in 1988. There were no hospital places
available (and I was literally holding my lights in) and so I called my late
father, who was a recently-ish retired Army officer.

He called the (then) Army hospital in Woolwich and they called me. “Can you
be here this evening?”

“Sure…”

So I turned up (driven by a rather confused Wife) and was greeted by a
giant ex-RSM with a steel plate in his skull who, thanks to this head injury,
had to shout all the time. He’d caught a couple of rounds in the Falklands.
They had reassigned him to push trolleys around – he seemed serenley happy,
despite the Tourette’s…

Shortly afterwards, the chief surgeon turned up and explained what they had
in mind. Looking back on it, I must have been nuts.

“We have this new bit of kit – it’s actually for bile duct repair, but we
reckon it’s workable for inguinal hernias; we’ve just unwrapped it. Here’s how
it works…”

“It’ll only take a couple of hours…”

The British Army know more about hernias than just about any organisation
on Earth, so I felt on safe ground. Pre-med – all that…

Nine hours later, I woke up, unable to move.

“WTF?”

I could speak and hear, however, and gradually, it dawned that my
anaesthetic had been -ahem- overdone.

“Sorry, a battlefield dose; old habits die hard…”

Three days later, I was fine, with a bionic repair. Family came and went –
the kids came by, brother came by, Dad on the ‘phone, pulling rank; mates
dropped in, my temptingly pretty cousing changed a dressing, case of beer for
the other patients in the ward, games of cards, etc.

So, if you wnt a model for the NHS, ask the Army.

Ah…

They closed Woolwich a few years later.

tangentreality October 12, 2011 at 10:06

Stunning writing.

London Calling
October 12, 2011 at 08:05

A sad story and I suspect not unique.
“Unlimited Care for Free” has
always been the party politician’s bogus prospectus of the NHS. With the
supplementary “Only Labour promise this.” (Inference: vote Tory and you will
be left to die).
The dishonesty is breathtaking, yet it is served up
routinely, to the point even our current “opposition-in-power” are scared to
suggest there is any other way.

Spiral Architect
October 12, 2011 at 06:53

Nice piece.

Lessons for all;

> parental neglect and cruelty is not just the preserve of the lower
classes

> people can be ‘educated’ without schools

> the human spirit cannot be crushed – without individual consent

> Anna Racoon is a remarkable person

Talwin October 11, 2011 at 20:13

Cringe, Anna, with those terribly sad antecedents/baggage, the fact that
you’re not now a serial killer or something equally ghastly is surely yet
another triumph for the human spirit? Respect.

Caedmon’s
Cat October 11, 2011 at 15:14

It goes to show how anti-human Fabian socialism is, doesn’t it? The more I
discover about it, the more I detest it.

Single Acts of
Tyranny October 11, 2011 at 14:46

Christ-on-a-bike, what an incredible and horrible tale, perhaps the most
compelling blog article I have read this year. Thank you for sharing.

ivan October 11, 2011 at 14:29

We need a way to edit comments.

– it was a 10 mile cycle ride from home –

ivan October 11, 2011 at 14:26

Like you Anna, I have memories of hospitals in those long gone days
although mine are somewhat better.

I was 7, therefore it was before the NHS, when I had to go into hospital to
have my appendix out. I arrive in a rush in the back of the local doctor’s car
with my father that evening and was taken to the children’s ward.

I have vague memories of a birthday party for one of the children there at
the time, I say vague because I was in pain and not paying much attention at
the time but I do remember one of the nurses saying they would save a piece of
cake for me. Once I was in bed several doctors arrived and examined me behind
closed curtains.

From there I was taken to the operating theatre where one of the doctors
told me what was going to happen.

I woke up to find a nurse with me and went back to sleep. My next awakening
was at 6.30 by a nurse to take my temperature and give me a wash, it was then
I found I was not in the children’s ward.

I spent the remaining week in the men’s ward actually having the time of my
life. Those men that could get up came and talked with me and when I could get
up I was invited to join the card playing group round the nurses table in the
centre of the ward.

My father managed to come and see me once – it was a 10 cycle ride from
home to the hospital, my mother couldn’t come because the bus times didn’t fit
visiting hours and she had my brother to look after.

Over the years I have watched the medical system of the UK going backwards
not forwards with ever increasing layers of unproductive management piled on
unproductive management. It used to be that matron ruled and woe betide anyone
if she found anything amiss in ‘her’ hospital, be it a section of floor that
was dirty, files out of place or anything else for that matter. Today that has
change to anything goes if the paperwork is there.

I never did get the promised piece of birthday cake.

Ed P October 11, 2011 at 13:48

I’ve had both extremes of UK hospital experience, both personally as a
patient and with elderly relatives. Big hospitals are the worst for excluding
visits; small cottage (recuperation) hospitals are totally different,
welcoming relatives & visitors at most times and encouraging
involvement.

Dear Susanne, I hope you are writing an autobiography, as you have had such
amazing experiences – the few you’ve releaved would fill two volumes!

Ed P October 11, 2011 at 13:55

er, revealed not releaved!

Anna
Raccoon October 11, 2011 at 14:03

“I hope you are writing an autobiography”

It would appear that I am – but one episode at a time, as it occurs to
me! Someone else can piece it all together one day.

alan scott
October 24, 2011 at 17:47

Yes, please do get on with the writing!

gladiolys October 11, 2011 at 12:56

Anna – thank you for a great piece of personal writing. I like your blog
best when it deals with stuff we all deal with in different ways – health,
getting on a bit, relationships (among ourselves and to the state), the court
of protection material etc.

One thing I wonder though is about the conclusion you draw. I hope I’m not
being insensitive to ask if it was not the NHS/state that tried to become a
barrier between you and your family, but your family that used them to cope
with whatever barrier they felt was between you and them?

Given what you have written here and previously, I understand why “wild
horses wouldn’t persuade me to rely on the State to care for me” as state
institutions can never replace a loving family, which you have now in Mr
G.

But what about those who don’t have such a loving family?

Anna
Raccoon October 11, 2011 at 13:27

gladiolys,
oh, I quite accept that my mother used the situation to her
advantage – but the effect would have been the same if she had been
desperate to be with me – she still couldn’t have been there.
As for the
State stepping in to help those who have no family – nothing wrong with that
in principle, it is to be applauded – but those who have no family are quite
rare, and the State has created a blanket safety net for all. Very much on
topic today – the state is to block internet access for all in order to
protect the few – when the same effect could be had by allowing parents to
opt into the system rather than requiring people to opt out of the
system.

JuliaM October
11, 2011 at 13:48

“…when the same effect could be had by allowing parents to opt into
the system rather than requiring people to opt out of the system.”

Apparently, according to Twitter, that it indeed the plan, and the
early indications that it would be the reverse are wrong.

gladiolys
October 11, 2011 at 14:33

I agree that those with no family are quite rare – but those with no
loving family are, unfortunately, a lot more common (from my own
experience, anyway). Maybe it all comes back to the post about “Back When
We Had Time To Care”… and maybe it’s more to do with the way our Anglo
Saxon relationships have evolved.