My father got the care he wanted... not just what he was told to have

We've met the most caring and devoted of staff and the odd sloppy and couldn't-care-less type, who sat playing a computer game rather then attend to the calls of a needy patient; we've come across doctors none of us could understand because of their very poor grasp of English; there have been members of the caring professions who've spoken perfect English but talked to Dad as though he was a vegetable, and to us as though we were pond life.

On the last-but-one occasion he was in hospital, with breathing

difficulties resulting from flu, it seemed to us that he was there for far too long with very little going on, while the meter was running on a very expensive bed and he was becoming depressed.

Ignored for vast periods of time, he went through various indignities, including one morning having the personal Zimmer frame he used to go to the bathroom whipped away without explanation and not brought back.

His requests for its return weren't answered. In the end, he pushed a bedside locker on casters to the loo, risking falling flat on his face at any moment. When I spoke to the matron that evening about why he'd been left in this desperate situation, she personally took the frame

to him.

The story sums up something we've learned about the Health Service and not just with regard to the elderly: the patient, however feisty they normally are, is in there because they are weak and ill and they need a vigilant, strong-minded advocate who is prepared to ask questions and speak up when things aren't right.

I'm not talking about constantly badgering staff and demanding

attention as though Dad was the only patient on the ward, but rather a simple, active engagement with the care plan.

Dad is a cheerful, mentally agile man who spends his days reading, writing, listening to the radio, and telling a multitude of stories to anyone who'll listen. Sadly, his weak, arthritic legs have let him down these last few years, but he won't hear of moving to more suitable accommodation.

Repeated suggestions of a stair lift were met with: "Don't talk daft. The stairs are good exercise." Not one to overstate the case, he says he'd rather die than go into residential care, and I believe him. Many of the happiest of his 61 years with my late mother and four kids were spent in that semi.

Recently, the inevitable happened – he tumbled downstairs in the middle of the night. Amazingly, he was in a bad way but nothing was broken. Plenty of cuts, bruises, swellings, terrible pain, and thanks to anticoagulant drugs, worrying blood loss. But he, more than anything, was terrified that this episode meant he'd be "shunted into a home" (his words).

Considering he couldn't walk at this stage, maybe the easiest course of action would have been residential care, but ward staff listened to our fears for his emotional state if he felt forced to go into a home. We were introduced to the Intermediate Care Team, who told us that Dad was very lucky, because this was one of the few primary care trusts in the country that had not one but two "reablement units" where he could receive intensive physio and occupational therapy.

At the same time, staff at the unit would assess Dad's future needs and put in place any smaller equipment necessary in the house. They

provided extra grab handles, a softer mattress for his bed and a seat

over the bath. Their target for discharge was 21 days but no one hurried Dad, who was only able to take a couple of steps when he

arrived.

Staff were friendly and took time to get to know him and his quirks. They rang with progress reports on the days I couldn't visit, and worked with him until he was able to walk down a long corridor with his frame. They took him through everyday activities from washing himself to peeling a potato.

After all this tender, loving care, Dad left the unit last week fitter and looked better than he had in years. He finally accepted the stair lift as the price of staying safe. Staff will visit him regularly for three weeks to check he's okay and not neglecting his exercises or medication.

Dad is so happy, and so are we. Happy and thankful, that where he lives at least, there are the facilities to offer the elderly what they want rather than what others tell them they must have.