X

Create an account to continue reading.

Registered readers have access to our blogs and a limited number of magazine articles
For unlimited access to The Spectator, subscribe below

Registered readers have access to our blogs and a limited number of magazine articles

Sign in to continue

Already have an account?

What's my subscriber number?

Subscribe now from £1 a week

Online

Unlimited access to The Spectator including the full archive from 1828

Print

Weekly delivery of the magazine

App

Phone & tablet edition of the magazine

Spectator Club

Subscriber-only offers, events and discounts
 
View subscription offers

Already a subscriber?

or

Subscribe now for unlimited access

ALL FROM JUST £1 A WEEK

View subscription offers

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating an account – Your subscriber number was not recognised though. To link your subscription visit the My Account page

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

X

Login

Don't have an account? Sign up
X

Subscription expired

Your subscription has expired. Please go to My Account to renew it or view subscription offers.

X

Forgot Password

Please check your email

If the email address you entered is associated with a web account on our system, you will receive an email from us with instructions for resetting your password.

If you don't receive this email, please check your junk mail folder.

X

It's time to subscribe.

You've read all your free Spectator magazine articles for this month.

Subscribe now for unlimited access – from just £1 a week

You've read all your free Spectator magazine articles for this month.

Subscribe now for unlimited access

Online

Unlimited access to The Spectator including the full archive from 1828

Print

Weekly delivery of the magazine

App

Phone & tablet edition of the magazine

Spectator Club

Subscriber-only offers, events and discounts
X

Sign up

What's my subscriber number? Already have an account?

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

Thank you for creating an account – Your subscriber number was not recognised though. To link your subscription visit the My Account page

Thank you for creating your account – To update your details click here to manage your account

X

Your subscriber number is the 8 digit number printed above your name on the address sheet sent with your magazine each week.

Entering your subscriber number will enable full access to all magazine articles on the site.

If you cannot find your subscriber number then please contact us on customerhelp@subscriptions.spectator.co.uk or call 0330 333 0050.

You can create an account in the meantime and link your subscription at a later time. Simply visit the My Account page, enter your subscriber number in the relevant field and click 'submit changes'.

Features

The NHS has forgotten the art of a dignified death

Ten years ago the National Health Service eased my father’s last days. My mother, this year, was not nearly so lucky

6 February 2016

9:00 AM

6 February 2016

9:00 AM

I’ve never understood the phrase ‘died peacefully’. Two weeks ago I watched my mother die, in the very same NHS hospital where I watched my father die almost ten years earlier.

There was nothing peaceful about it, at least from my unwanted ringside seat. The end — acute pneumonia providing the final nail in a soon-to-be purchased coffin — was painfully slow. It dragged on and on and on. She struggled for her last breaths and appeared distressed, confused and frightened to the end.

The last time I had been to St Helier hospital in south London was September 2005, as my father slowly slipped away. Naturally the memories came flooding back. And so did confusion. Ten years is a long time, especially in the NHS. A lot has changed, and none of it, from what I saw, has been for the better.

Medically, their endings were similar. Both in their early eighties, both with a history of cardiac problems and gradually weakening bodies that could no longer stomach (literally) or respond to more medication. But, bizarrely, I have uplifting memories of 2005. A consultant calling me aside, explaining why there would only be one outcome. He told me to prepare mentally for the imminent death, described in detail what to expect in the coming days, and pointed me to support services. My father was both comforted and made comfortable to the end. An hour after he died, I remember the nursing staff queuing up to offer their condolences. I had no doubt they really meant it. It was both sad and beautiful. And it was definitely dignified.

In 2016 it was different, especially for someone like me who doesn’t live in the UK and has not used any NHS services for ten years. During the four days I spent at my mother’s bedside, not one consultant approached or contacted me or any other family member. They told us nothing. Mrs Bhoyrul — or ‘Bed 13’, as she was known — was just another elderly woman waiting to die.

On day three, a nurse told me that the doctor had been and gone when I was in the canteen, so didn’t get a chance to speak to me. But he did leave a message — in the form of a crumpled leaflet that read ‘Understanding what happens when someone is dying’. The leaflet gives useful tips on changes you may notice in a dying person, including ‘difficulty swallowing’, ‘changes in breathing’ and ‘changes in how the person looks’. One section is absurdly called ‘changes in nursing and medical care’.

Later that day I approached a junior doctor for an update. She told me things were not looking good. ‘Is your mother religious?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ I replied. She said she would arrange for a priest to visit her. A few hours later, she explained the priest was busy but would definitely ‘say a prayer’ for her.

[Alt-Text]


I never saw the doctor again. But I did see plenty of nurses. Having read the leaflet explaining why a woman in a near-coma would have no appetite, I couldn’t work out why they came by at breakfast, lunch and dinner to inquire if she wanted a non–vegetarian or vegetarian meal.

The last conversation I had with my mother was on the afternoon of 11 January. ‘Are you in pain?’ I asked.

‘I am,’ she stammered back.

Shortly after 9 a.m. on 12 January, I noticed she had stopped breathing. I called a nurse, who confirmed that she had gone. I asked whether I could be alone with her for five minutes, and she agreed. A minute later, another nurse appeared, asking whether she wanted a vegetarian or non-vegetarian meal. I explained that she was dead. Moments later, one of the cleaning staff appeared. It was the last time I saw my mother’s face.

Soon after, I went to the hospital’s bereavement office, clutching a small bag containing my mother’s shoes, reading glasses and some clothes, to arrange the necessary paperwork.

‘She’s a Hindu, so we would need to do the funeral as soon as possible,’ I told them.

‘Sorry sir, no chance of a death certificate today. There’s a doctors’ strike.’

The only positive I can take from all of this is that at least I have no more parents left to die in the NHS. The strange thing is, the NHS is not exactly short of cash. According to the NHS Confederation, net expenditure went up from £64 billion in 2003/04 to £113 billion in the last financial year. The planned expenditure for this financial year is £117 billion. Nearly 33,000 more doctors and 18,500 nurses were hired between 2004 and 2014.

So why aren’t things better? Significantly, nearly one in four of the 1.4 million NHS staff are non-medical. Or rather, bureaucrats. Last year, the former M&S boss Lord Rose said in his report into NHS leadership that there was a ‘chronic shortage of good leaders’, and that the ‘administrative, bureaucratic and regulatory burden is fast becoming insupportable’.

I couldn’t agree more. From everything I saw, bureaucracy has got the better of humanity. I wouldn’t say that doctors and nurses no longer care for their chosen profession, but the system is certainly making it harder for them to do so. They appear overworked, burnt out and completely lacking senior support. In the US, many consultants will visit their patients at least twice a day. They do this largely for legal reasons, to avoid litigation if a patient dies. Getting a visit from a consultant in the NHS just once is pure luck.

MPs need to distinguish between protecting the NHS and protecting the NHS budget.

I know that there is nothing medically that could have been done to change the outcome. My mother was dying, pure and simple. Nothing and nobody could have saved her. Whether initially admitting an 81-year-old woman with acute pneumonia to a room with three other patients was the soundest move medically (more for the other three patients), I am not in a position to say. Whether it was right to send her home with oral antibiotics after her first visit to the emergency room, a week before she was admitted, I’ll never know.

But I also know that after my father died, my mother and I both marvelled at the wonders of the NHS. I would bore her with stories about who Aneurin Bevan was. We agreed that this was an organisation to be championed and praised for its quality of care and quality of staff. Regardless of age, background or condition, the one thing the NHS never did was stop caring.

Wherever she is now, I doubt she still feels that way.

Give something clever this Christmas – a year’s subscription to The Spectator for just £75. And we’ll give you a free bottle of champagne. Click here.


Show comments
Close