More Blood, More Sweat and Another Cup of Tea
So we arrived and everyone decided that it was for the best not to resuscitate her. We offered our sympathies and arranged for a GP to come out to certify the death. The family were lovely; they offered us tea and thanked both us and the hospital for what we had done. We hadn’t saved her life but we had allowed her to die with some dignity at home, rather than being treated futilely on a hospital trolley. When I went back to the same address a couple of days later (for the sick child), I saw the funeral notice on their front door. Last night when I went back to the same street for the woman who’d fallen over, one of the family came out and thanked us again. Four times to one small street and for a family and a job that I’ll remember for a very long time.
The Slow Attrition of the Soul It is 3 a.m., it is cold and dark and damp. I am tired and fed up and sad. My heart is being broken by a deeply demented 65-year-old woman who can only whimper and cry for no obvious reason. She can hardly talk because of the dementia, crying quietly to herself is now the only thing she does. She is clean and well looked after by her daughter who, a couple of months ago, suddenly had her mother-as-a-child, in addition to her own children, to look after. It’s jobs like that which slowly destroy your soul.
Knee I have a problem with knees, partly it’s because I’m slightly squeamish about them, partly because when they break or dislocate it is incredibly painful for the patient.
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