Last week a member of my family needed to call out paramedics following a distressing incident. Things haven't improved. A full-blown mental health relapse has ensued, with accompanying, but not necessarily related, chest pain.
Chest pain, so often put down to stressnanxiety, can also be more serious, particularly in those with high blood pressure, who are of a certain age and who have been under months of strain.
Did the referral letter go to the mental health clinic last week following a visit from Dr Slack? No. Has Dr Slack been near since last week? No. Today, with more complaints of chest pain and a really quite spiralling mental health situation, I'd had enough. I called the GP surgery and shouted at them. You have to shout to get results from the UK health system. So I shouted, they faxed, I called the mental health clinic to arrange tomorrow's response (you often have to organise 'professionals' in their response, as they quite often don't know how to respond). It was at this point that I mentioned the chest pain and given the medical history it was advised that the GP surgery be called again and a GP called out.
So I called them, and guess what? They went straight out. When I couldn't get through to my nearest and dearest tonight I put two and two together, and lo and behold, they have been whisked into hospital. But the hospital won't give me any details of what is going on because of 'confidentiality'. How is a disabled relative who can't just jump in the car supposed to find out what the hell is going on? I fucking hate the NHS.
Update: Discharged last night at 12.30am due to lack of beds. Sent home in a taxi - I made them check that front door keys had been remembered first. No contact today as I've just quite simply run out of the energy to cope. I should be phoning but the clinic is getting on board (finally) today. Over to them. Which is very crap of me, and I know I should be more caring but I've really had enough.