Wednesday, April 24, 2024
HomeNewsMy fight to rescue my husband from the NHS's merciless control

My fight to rescue my husband from the NHS’s merciless control


SIR Keir Starmer promises to introduce supervised toothbrushing in primary schools if Labour win the general election. Never mind this being a shameful reflection on some parents, it would represent another menacing intervention into family life by an already overbearing state. This should be a source of alarm, not comfort. 

At the height of the Covid madness, I had to work hard to extract a promise from my 12-year-old daughter’s school not to inject her arm with ‘vaccine’. An outrageous letter from the school stipulated that children should not be influenced about their choice to take or not take the vaccine ‘by either teachers or parents’. Parents! Parents, I explained hotly, are responsible for the care of their own beloved children, thank you.

A subsequent missive stated that the ‘mental wellbeing of the children’ was taken ‘extremely seriously’ and should the school feel it appropriate, counselling would be offered to any child without reference to parents. A bad day at school is one thing, but the need for professional counselling would surely indicate a serious problem which should be the business of any parent not actually engaged in the abuse of his or her own child. Apparently not.

The harms inflicted on all citizens, not least children, by the state since 2020 have been well rehearsed, but the undermining of the institution of family and marriage continues and is horrifying.

Last November my husband suffered a brain haemorrhage. The emergency care was good, and after life-saving and brilliant surgery and intensive care nursing he was shipped off to recover in a ward. The hospital was two hours’ drive away from our home. Three months of daily visits to provide essential care including help to wash and shave, edible food and adequate hydration ensued. During his time in hospital, he fell seven times, on one occasion gashing his head in the filthy ward bathroom, suffered several infections, an acute kidney injury and a serious adverse reaction to a course of antibiotics which had been allowed to overrun over Christmas. 

One evening my sister-in-law arrived on the ward to overhear plans being made to send my husband to rehabilitation in Birmingham. She explained that this would be far from his home and asked if the family might be consulted about his care. She was told that because my husband lacked capacity a ‘multi-disciplinary’ team at the hospital would decide on the best ‘setting’ for his convalescence. Could his wife and family be part of this discussion? She asked. Yes. Oh good, and when will this take place? Hard to say.

Eventually, my husband was signed off by the neurosurgeons and I asked again if he could come home.  Not until the multi-disciplinary team had decided on the best ‘setting’ for him, I was told.

What about home, with his own family and friends, his dogs, home cooking, fresh air, peace and quiet? No, I was told by an occupational therapist less than half my age, we are the professionals, we know what’s best.

But I honestly don’t think we need to be assessed by an occupational therapist, I said. I can cope, I’ve been married to him for nearly 30 years, we have three grown-up children, I work with vulnerable adults, I know how to look after people. I consider marriage to be a life-long commitment and sacrament. I wouldn’t consider doing other than caring for my husband, for Heaven’s sake! What’s more, I explained, I have organised full-time, live-in professional help, physiotherapy at home and a neuro-psychologist’s assessment all of which I will pay for. I work in the care sector and helped care for my own father who had lived and died in his own home after two years afflicted by motor neurone disease. I have made a lovely, sunny ground-floor bedroom, and my son has made a wheelchair ramp. We even have a ground-floor bathroom! Please, please release him. Are we not free citizens?

Unless I could produce Lasting Power of Attorney document (LPA), my husband’s future would be decided by a ‘multi-disciplinary team’ at the hospital, in its own good time. He felt like a prisoner, not a patient.

My attempts to ‘obstruct his care’ by the state were a ‘safeguarding issue’, I was told by the ward manager.

What? Had they not noticed me changing the sheets and drinking water, bed-bathing, cleaning the communal bathroom, carting up food, fresh fruit, teapot and kettle and clean pyjamas every single day?

My husband became weaker and more lacklustre. The injury had been a devastating shock, but this seemingly interminable hell was both bonkers and frightening. 

A chance visit by a family friend who happened to be a consultant physician working in the adjacent ward had a magical effect. He was obviously a ‘big name on campus’ and the young professionals suddenly stopped seeing me as a ‘safeguarding issue’ and a rapid discharge, subject to approval by a hospital social worker, was granted.

Thanks be to God. He is now doing well.

A subsequent call to the radiology department in our local hospital to ask for the whereabouts of the results of a follow-up MRI scan resulted in the familiar brick wall response. ‘Wife? Sorry, no can tell.’ Once I mentioned that I was also the patient’s ‘carer’, the beans were spilled. 

If we had been able to produce a LPA in hospital, we would have been allowed to make decisions relating to my husband’s health and welfare on his behalf. We would probably have been able to bring him home a good three weeks before he was finally released.

We have now organised Lasting Powers of Attorney (crucially for both health and welfare purposes, and for property and financial matters) all round in our house to guard against future interventions or incarcerations. It might possibly be the case that The Office of The Public Guardian is working from home these days, but after a period of six months, the papers have started to arrive.

State-supervised teeth brushing for four-and five-year-olds? No, thank you.

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Isabel Logan
Isabel Logan
Isabel Logan (pseudonym), a mother of three, runs cookery and art lessons for adults with learning difficulties and lives in the West Midlands.

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