Revolving Doors

I’m starting to feel like a character in Bunuel’s film El Angel Exterminador, trapped in a situation and unable to work out how to escape. Or maybe I mean one of those Nouveau Roman novels, something by Robbe-Grillet perhaps, where the same scenario is seen in minutely different ways by the various players. Or, more mundanely, that I’m in a revolving door.

Mother is back in hospital, despite all our best efforts to keep her out of it for ever more. All our wishes were overturned when she fell (another UTI) and broke her arm and a number of ribs. How many ribs I still don’t know because so far speaking to a doctor has remained a distant dream, though I did send one of them a very long email earlier today. Except that it bounced back. I’ve been given the wrong email address.

That would be the doctor who I couldn’t speak to yesterday. The doctor who is not in today. The doctor who has decided my mother should be transferred to a medical ward. The same medical ward she was on in her last admission where she was so distressed and unhappy.

The doctor I couldn’t speak to on Monday authorised her removal from the acute ward to the still fairly quiet ward she is on now. No one called me, despite the fact that I’d been trying to speak to whoever was co-ordinating things for Mother. They suggested the social worker. She, I was told, would call me yesterday. She didn’t. I did get to speak to her today and she listened and was as helpful as she could be, but told me I really needed to speak to the doctor. The one who isn’t there. Continue reading