Ageism and neglect... the failings that saw my mother die in an NHS hospital

On December 7 last year, we went Christmas shopping and ate lunch out, but by the end of the day she had been admitted to Bradford Royal Infirmary after falling in the communal lounge of her flat. She had broken her left hip and the following afternoon had an operation to repair the joint.

She never recovered. Early on, I was told that in most cases it was usual procedure to get the patient out of bed as soon as possible and she would likely be in hospital for seven days before being moved on to a convalescent hospital. But, as the days passed, there was no sign of my mum even getting out of bed. Mum had always been a fighter and had always tried her hardest to overcome any obstacles that had prevented her living unaided, but following the operation she seemed to get worse, not better.

She was refusing food because it made her feel nauseous, and I hoped I might be able to speak with a doctor after the ward rounds. All I wanted was a few words of reassurance, someone to help me understand why my mother wasn’t making progress. After a wait of almost three hours, all the doctor could say was that he was sorry, but he would need to read mum’s notes first and he told me that he would ring me later.

By now mum was in a lot of pain with stomach ache. When the doctor finally called, he said he was going to do some blood tests and that mum’s blood pressure was low, but otherwise it was just a matter of time and she would soon begin to pull round.

She didn’t. I arrived late once for visiting hours and saw mum attempting with great difficulty to feed herself. She had no strength to support herself and while I tried not to show my distress at seeing her trying to eat a warm meal with her fingers, it was humiliating.

After a course of antibiotics for an infection – I was never told exactly what infection she had contracted – mum still didn’t perk up. She was quiet, unresponsive and that’s when the situation hit rock bottom.

Laying in bed 24 hours a day, mum developed pressure sores; when she moved, it was agony. On one occasion, my husband Ian and I noticed her bed was lower than usual and when we checked there was no air in the mattress. Mum had been left lying directly on top of the hard metal frame.

As the days passed, mum became even weaker. Her mouth was sore, her lips were dry and parched. She had gone into hospital with a broken hip, which had healed beautifully, but the rest of her body was a wreck.

In the week leading up to Christmas, the hospital seemed to be winding down for the holidays. An X-ray on her bowel was put on hold, but mum did seem a little brighter and I left her feeling that we had turned a corner.

On Christmas Day, we helped her open her presents and tried to make it special, but all mum could manage was some soup and custard. Mum had now been moved to a side ward, which was bland, depressing and devoid of any life; not even flowers were allowed. A psychologist suggested a higher dose of depression medication would help to lift the changes in her mood, but what mum really need was care and attention.

She was not a difficult or demanding patient, quite the opposite. When I visited every day, mum never complained, but in the last week of her life it felt like she had been left in that side ward to rot.

One evening I arrived to find mum lying in a pool of diarrhoea. She didn’t know how long she had been left in such a mess, but even had she wanted to get the nurses attention, she wouldn’t have been able – the buzzer was out of reach. Finally, one of the nurses did come. She apologised, but by then all I wanted to do was to take my mum away from the hell hole of a hospital to somewhere safe. I just didn’t know what to do or who to turn to.

Not at any time did anyone tell me that my mother was dying or even that her chances were slim and that she might not recover. Foolish as I was, I believed and trusted the doctors with my mother’s wellbeing. I knew she was very ill, but didn’t once think she was dying. How could she be? She had come in with a broken hip and that was no longer a problem.

On January 6 this year, I had to persuade my mother to have a bowel X-ray. She was poorly, scared and in a lot of pain from large sores. Still, I trusted the doctors as they said it was for the best and I gave my consent. I worried about the pain I might be putting mum through, but there seemed to be no other option. We needed to know what was making mum so ill.

She came back from the X-ray rolling in agony. Three times in the space of 40 minutes, I asked for pain relief. That might not sound like a long time, but it is an age for someone in pain. Eventually, mum did receive pain relief and was able to settle before I left her.

The following day, the doctors wanted mum to have a CT scan. She really didn’t want any more tests, not after the last one. They assured her that it would be painless and I watched her being wheeled away. When mum came back, she was tired and the pain had returned, but when in the afternoon, her niece and her husband came to see her she managed to chat and seemed to cheer up. Later I said goodbye and told her I would see her the following day.

In the early hours of January 8, mum became very ill and at 7.30am I received a phone call. I was told to get to the hospital as soon as I could. Mum passed away at 11.20am.

The only warning I had that mum was gravely ill was on the Friday night, January 7, the night before she died when the doctor telephoned me at 7.30pm to give me the results of the CT scan. “If she were my mum,” he said. “I would be worried.”

In the days after her death, I wrote down what had happened to mum. I was very emotional and angry and I decided it was not the right time to send a letter of complaint. I felt empty and cheated at losing mum, but I didn’t want to complain for the wrong reasons. Now, seven months on, I feel I have the strength and can judge the events leading up to mum’s death more rationally. I have still arrived at the same conclusion. Something needs to be said and done to inform those in charge about what is happening in our National Health Service hospitals.

Of course, complaining will not bring my mum back or ease the pain she suffered, but it might prevent another person’s loved one suffering the neglect that my mum went through.

The NHS was a service that Britain was proud of when it was first founded in 1948. Having experienced the nursing care that elderly patients receive in the year 2011, despite the leaps in medical advances in the past 60 years, it seem to me astounding that a person going into hospital with one medical condition might never come out alive due to ageism and neglect.

With this experience, we can only summarise that in our society there is no room or compassion for the elderly when they are ill and unable to care for themselves. No wonder the frail pensioner fears going into hospital in the 21st-century. This fear was felt a 100 years ago when the workhouse was mentioned because no one ever came out alive.

Sadly, I fear that if nothing is done to change the way we look after our elderly, our NHS geriatric wards will soon be known as the 21st-century workhouse.