Hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy . . .

Barry is the Fire Master in our house. I can light a fire – I can even keep it going but his method is infinitely superior, naturally. He settles to the stove with a will – cleaning and polishing the glass (which isn't actually glass but ceramic) with newspaper, scouring pad and a solution of water and washing-up liquid. The fire is carefully laid – scrunched-up paper, kindling, coal and finally, when the monster is roaring, logs. I lay it exactly the same way but my efforts are not rewarded with the resplendent dancing flames which Barry achieves. My fires sulk! He cares for it as tenderly as for an infant, checking on its progress throughout its burning life. Woe betide me if he goes out leaving me in charge and the furnace expires.
Barry sits down for fire-lighting duty. He has a nifty little lightweight folding three-legged seat called a 'Walkstool' and I have one too. We bought them so that we could take them out to sit and watch and photograph the wildlife in the forest. They're made by a Swedish company and we have been very pleased with them.
Yesterday evening, while sitting on this handy stool feeding wood into the maws of a greedy fire, he suddenly found himself on the floor. The seat had collapsed! One of the legs had come adrift – the metal holding the legs together had sheared dumping him unceremoniously and extremely painfully on the deck. Barry has wonky legs – too many sports injuries through the years have left him frequently hobbling, often wallowing like a ship in a storm, and so he spends many hours exercising to build up muscles to support his less than brilliant joints. Unfortunately his legs were at an awkward angle as he fell and took the brunt of his fall. Gus thought he was playing and tried to join in, the rest of the dogs looked anxious lest they should be blamed for his misfortune and the cats, as is their wont, made themselves scarce. It is fortunate that he fell backwards and not forwards onto the cast iron stove.
After a few moments, during which mentally I ran through emergency drills, the pain became less severe and he struggled to his feet. Disbelievingly we examined the stool and he emailed the company to report the incident. They replied very promptly, offering profuse apologies and a replacement. The rest of the evening passed without incident, Barry relying on a walking stick to limp around the house. He has strong pain-killers in reserve for occasions when the pain in his legs becomes too great and so took one and we repaired to bed. He passed a very restless, agonizing night, unable to find a comfortable position and decided this morning that perhaps he should try to acquire some crutches to make walking easier.
He phoned the doctor's surgery to inquire about crutches and was told brusquely by the receptionist that they didn't have them there and he'd have to hire them. Politely, he asked if he should see a doctor in order to check the damage to his legs, and was passed on to a nurse who told him to go to the hospital A and E (Accident and Emergency) department. Now, no-one goes to A&E if they can avoid it because unless there's a limb hanging off or breathing has ceased a long wait of several hours ensues. It is increasingly the case that patients are referred to hospital where once upon a time matters would have been dealt with at the local surgery. Eventually, he was reluctantly offered an appointment for late morning. It is unfortunate, though not uncommon, that the first contact with one's General Practitioner is routed through reception staff who sometimes seem unwilling to expose their doctors to the public and can be quite intransigent. It transpired that Barry had damaged his cruciate ligament and might have cracked a bone. The doctor Barry saw was an Army medic so they exchanged a few khaki yarns and Barry discovered that he didn't need to go to a hospital for an x-ray – a local health clinic had the required facilities.
This afternoon he went to have his legs x-rayed. The information will be relayed to our local surgery electronically and the results phoned through to Barry once the doctor has seen them. The radiographer said, 'Your knees are ruined, aren't they? There's no cartilage left in the left knee – bone is grinding on bone.' Barry nodded – he only had one cartilage in that knee anyway, one having been removed in his twenties.
'You must be in a lot of pain,' said the radiographer chattily.
Barry agreed that sometimes the pain was worse than others.
'You must be very brave,' concluded the radiographer. This came as news to Barry. He doesn't think he's brave – he just gets on with life (Oh, my hero!)
The upshot of all this is that he didn't get any crutches but received heavy hints that maybe it was time he had some new knees. Much as he is anxious to avoid the surgeon's knife the prospect of pain-free legs is tempting. The longer he delays invasive treatment the greater the chance of improved surgical techniques. So, very soon he'll be visiting the consultant at Windsor Knee Clinic to discover what's new in knees this year! He last saw him two years ago when he was advised to stop running immediately – and seriously, he is brave because he loved cross-country running and still really misses it.
However, Barry is philosophical and an optimist. He is strong and healthy (apart from his wonky legs!) and has a large and loving family, many interests and an inquiring mind. Life is never dull with him!

Castaway – doctor or vet?

I have always said that if I should ever be cast away in an inhospitable place I would hope that among my companions there would be a veterinary surgeon. In my opinion they are far better qualified to deal with day to day emergencies and of course their diagnostic skills must be infinitely superior since their patients cannot tell them what hurts where. Of course, I'd have to stand on all fours – or on my back with my legs in the air (done that, for babies, four x umpteen times!)

I don't doubt there are good doctors and bad vets – I have met examples of each. Based on our experience over many years, my trust would be more readily placed in a vet than a hospital doctor. I know at this time of year the hospitals are full of newly-trained, apprehensive doctors who are expected to put into practice what they have absorbed in six years of training. Again, some will be splendid, some adequate and some should go back to medical school.

I have no idea of the experience of the hospital staff who recently - I was going to say 'treated' but that would be inaccurate, so, who recently 'saw' my fourteen-year-old granddaughter. Kiri had hurt her ankle badly playing football (her team won the game!) My daughter took her straight to the Accident and Emergency department at Dorchester Hospital. The leg was x-rayed and no break was found. 'Someone' decided that it was a bad sprain, told her she must use it and would not give her crutches as she 'didn't need' them. Kiri could not put her weight on it and burst into tears every time she tried. Gillian, very worried, took her to their family doctor who immediately suspected ligament problems and arranged for Kiri to have some crutches.

Days passed and Kiri's ankle was very swollen; she still could not put any weight on it, the pain was intense and she was taking strong painkillers regularly. In order to straighten her foot she had to carry it over to the opposite side of her body, above her other foot and allow gravity to work on it. Gillian went back to the hospital several times without getting a satisfactory answer. Eventually, almost a week later, she was told that they 'thought' Kiri had snapped her Achilles tendon and so they put her leg in a cast. So Kiri has had many days of pain, lost many days of schooling and given her parents a few more grey hairs – and Gillian has had to overcome the attitude, so prevalent in medical and educational circles, of being an 'over-anxious mother'. I applaud her for her fortitude – my grandchildren are lucky to have her and Paul as their parents. (My son and daughter-in-law are similarly to be commended!) It is appalling that a young girl should have to endure such (lack of . . .) treatment and such pain.

We have had several animals over many years that have led active lives and suffered occasional injuries. The vets' treatment has been immediate and to the point. By way of direct comparison one of our cats damaged her leg and the consulting vet immediately diagnosed and treated cruciate ligament damage. On other occasions treatment has always been urgently applied according to need.

Perhaps the Government has set targets for the NHS that do not encompass injuries of the nature that Kiri has endured. Perhaps the emergency departments are so focussed on meeting objectives and ticking boxes that they have lost sight of their primary function – the relief of pain and distress.

My apologies – this is a very personal rant. Make no mistake – if someone is in dire need through injury, accident or chronic illness, the National Health Service is wonderful, truly – and certainly my sister, among others, would not have had the peaceful, graceful passing that she had.

For 'everyday' emergencies those of us who can afford private medical insurance are thankful – but it's WRONG. There must be a better solution. (Education is another bugbear . . . ugh . . . later!)