The NHS is an amazing organization but, by God, it doesn’t always get it right. Sarah needed her dressings changed every three days so as instructed I went her GP surgery to make an appointment. Having queued for almost thirty minutes, finally the receptionist looks down her nose at me then sniffs when I explain what I need.
‘There’re no appointments for ten days,’ she snaps brusquely and looks past me. ‘Next.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘But she needs her dressing changed!’
‘You have to go to the walk in centre in Blackpool.’ She’s annoyed with me. ‘Next!’
So instead of being a one minute drive from my doctors surgery we have to drive forty minutes through the traffic of Blackpool. It was scary to see how the wound that had been the ‘bruise’ had deteriorated. Even the nurse who was changing the dressing called a senior member of the team in. And took a swab to check for infection.
And the original wound, so neatly mended to start with has split and is full of black necrotic tissue and yellow discharge. For some reason we, Sarah and I, are quite relaxed about it. I think it’s because she looks at me to see how I am reacting and because I look completely relaxed about it she’s not too concerned, then because she’s not stressing it makes me feel better so both of us seem more laid back than deck chairs. The nurses don’t quite know what to do with us.