Don't get sick and expect good healthcare at the Countess of Chester Hosputal. Go elsewhere.
This is my experience of Accident & Emergency Department at the Countess of Chester Hospital on Tuesday 22 November 2023. All the names have been changed. The fault is not one person, it is the ineffective bureaucratic system and chronic underfunding by a a conservative government since 2010, who is to blame for the inhumane conditions. Everything I've written is true and accurate to my recollection. My message is don't get sick. Unless you are wealthy, then do not get sick, otherwise you disappear into a machine that doesn't care and you will disappear.
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The pain was through my lumbar region, into my throbbing right hip and shooting into my thigh and knee. If I lay still the pain was bearable. As soon as I got up to the bathroom, I could hardly walk for the pain controlled my body and my mind. When I got back to bed, it took between one and half hours and two hours for the back spasms to cease. These came in waves twisting my spine, screwing up my femoral artery, hammering my thigh and drilling my knee. The spasms went on and on. I arched my back. I rolled my back. I screamed. I moaned. I begged for it to stop. On and on they went. I chewed the duvet cover. I practised birthing routines of breathing. On and on.
I gave in and called 999 at eight o’clock in the morning. The ambulance crew arrived at ten o’clock, so I was pleasantly surprised. The two men stood in our bedroom and were very friendly and studious, but it turned out they weren’t full paramedics. They weren’t permitted to give pain relief. They called for backup. Then they spent one hour asking questions and filling in forms on an iPad. I asked if the hospital would get all this medical history. They assured me it would and seemed quite proud to say that it was a seamless technological process. All my notes would be ready on the hospital’s systems. I didn’t believe them but nodded and smiled, whilst trying not to move one iota. A third paramedic joined us in the bedroom. He pointed out that the other two were allowed to give me Entonox which was in the back of the ambulance. I had three paramedics help get me down the stairs and out into the ambulance.
We arrived at the Countess of Chester Hospital and the ambulance reversed up to the door. The driver got out and walked round. I sucked faster and faster on the Entonox. The mouthpiece of touch plastic was chewed up, like a dog’s plaything. I was wheeled out into cold air and straight into a blue curtain triage area. A surly nurse called Isabella; told the ambulance crew I’d be put into the corridor. They were surprised where I was going since no assessment had yet been made. I then had my observations taken with the blood pressure cuff put around my wrist. Clearly, she was going through the motions as fast as possible to get rid of me. She was resolute is refusing to make small talk and show any empathy let alone sympathy. She never explained what she was doing nor what would happen next. No records were written down in front of me. I always wondered what writers meant by a ‘hard face’. Isabella had a hard face.
Sure enough I was sent on my way into the narrow corridor. We passed another trolley with an elderly lady who looked tired, then another elderly man, and on and on. I arrived at space number nine. A cheap sign has been printed out showing a number nine. I thought that I therefore had to wait until the other eight patients had been moved onto wards or treated and discharged. My heart sank. It was to sink much further. A doctor arrives aged perhaps mid-twenties who had sunken eyes that betrayed a man who had little sleep. He explained that my trolley ranking of nine had nothing to do with when I might get a bed. It was all decided upon priority which is understandable until the penny drops that your priority might take a long time or never.
A tea trolley trundles along the corridor towards me. I am wriggling in pain that consumes me, occupying my mind. There is no world, just pain.
“Would you like tea or coffee.”
“No thanks.”
She trundles on.
An elderly man lying on a trolley was wheeled past me. He was number ten. He was bald on top but had long grey and silver, wavy hair around his ears and cascading down to his shoulders. He had a chaotic beard and moustache that hadn’t been trimmed in a long while. He reminded me of the image of the very old Leonardo di Vinci. As soon as he was manoeuvred into position, he began his tale. A nurse arrived and asked him how he was feeling.
“Hello, I was sitting by the riverbank fishing. I was looking to catch rudd or bream. You’ve got to have the right flies, you see. Just waiting for my mum and dad to pick me. The accident? Oh, I was driving. I had to stop suddenly. Felt this pain in my neck. I’m okay. Just waiting for my mum and dad to pick me. Are they here?….”
Nurse in blue without a name badge arrives and proceeds to put a cannula in my elbow and tag me with a white hospital name badge. I thank her.
These people are strangers to me. We automatically apply trust and confidence into anyone who is ‘medical’. They could have a history of domestic abuse or torturing puppies. They could be members of a neo-Nazi group or be an extreme Communist. We have no idea. They don’t wear name badges and don’t offer their names. If we ask their name, they give only a first name. Even the police have to wear a badge number so they can be traced. As we have seen with Letby, Shipman and Allitt, there are medical staff who kill patients. Patients should have a right to know who is lauding over them, pumping them full of drugs, cutting them open and taking care of them whilst they are vulnerable.
There are columns of people walking past all the time. This is the M25 of corridors. There are auxiliaries pushing carts for cleaning, nurses of every hue of blue arms folded looking studiously ahead, consultants with stethoscopes around their necks wearing chinos and check patterned shirts carrying black briefcases looking like they are heading for rehearsals of ER or Casualty, then security men dressed all in black with walkie-talkies and coiled wires in their ears, with a multitude of accoutrements on their shiny black belts, patients wander up and down looking lost, visitors wander up and down looking lost, then my doctor comes back. I note he isn’t wearing a name badge, but I’ve established he’s called John.
“Going to put you on painkillers.”
I thank him.
Behind me, “I’m waiting for my mum and dad to come and pick me. Are they here? I’m packed and ready.”
Nurse in blue arrives and proceeds to hook up a bottle of clear liquid on a metal pole. She connects it to my cannula. I’m cautiously relieved to be getting pain relief and wait for it to flow through my veins. I ask her what type of painkiller it is.
“Paracetamol.”
I start to ask her to repeat it, thinking I’ve misheard but she’s gone into the throng. A drip, drip, drip of paracetamol flows into my veins and makes not a jot of difference to how I feel. Are they hoping for a placebo effect?
A trolley is wheeled past. I glance over as the trolley brushes my trolley. It is covered in blue tarpaulin. I think it looks odd. The two porters are talking.
“Game on Saturday will be close. Fingers crossed but City are good.”
“Yea, City should win but who knows.”
They disappear at the end of the corridor from whence I first came.
John appears again and he asks lots of questions that I’d already answered with the ambulance crew. He hadn’t seen the notes. He manoeuvres my trolley into a side room marked ‘CDU’ that seems to be a storeroom. I look around, it is filled with old mattresses and the sink hasn’t been cleaned for some time. The curtain looks new. I am given an anal inspection to see if I am at heightened risk of paralysis. I can feel it so nothing to worry about. I am wheeled out into the corridor again.
“Are they here yet?”
Then I hear a new disturbance.
“You are not putting that in me. I am not having that.” It is a female voice. “Please I don’t want that.”
Four staff now file into the side room signed CDU. It is like a film scene where they hold down the patient. I try not to let it mentally rip away another bit of my sanity. I look around. Nothing has changed. I lie there and look at the dingy corridor with staff streaming past. Occasionally one will catch my eye and then quickly look away. Virtually every one of them pretend I am not there. I look at the ceiling tiles and note the rings of brown. Is that from water damage? I try and sleep and hours slip by. I curl up under my solitary blanket.
“Fucking wanker out back. Soon sorted him.”
I listen to the ongoing conversations coming out of the security office between two black dressed security men in black boots with a black mood. People queue up at the security office door.
“I don’t have enough money for car park. Can you let me out?”
Sigh. “You need to fill in this form and show some id.”
The woman sounds frightened and upset. “But I’ve lost my purse.”
Sigh. “Fill in the form and I’ll let you out.”
She thanks the man profusely for the amazing favour and she disappears.
I see John with a rucksack pushing through the crowd.
“Excuse me, John are you leaving?”
He looks dog tired and stammers. “Er. Yes. I’ve fully briefed my colleague, Elijah who is taking over.”
I’m thinking then why couldn’t he stop and tell me that? “Right, well thank you.”
I doze off and another hour passes. I glance down the corridor and see a trolley pushed by two porters. The blue tarpaulin has risen to incorporate the outline of a body. I realise it is a corpse underneath. The trolley is pushed next to me so that staff can squeeze through on the other side. I am inches from a dead person.
“Still fancy City. Haaland will score.” The porter is chewing gum and looking at his phone. Finally, they pull away. I feel sick and intensely worried.
I have been lying on the trolley for seven hours. It isn’t comfortable. The mattress is an upgrade on the ambulance mattress, but it isn’t designed to be lain on for hour after hour. I can no longer get comfortable. There is suddenly a long female scream from the room where they anally examined me. Staff continue to trundle past. There is a second long disturbed female scream. Staff are chatting as they walk past. I can’t believe no one is rushing to the scene. I mentally check. Am I in a hospital? Yes. Why am I the only one seemingly noticing terrifying screams? I think I must get out of here.
I see a man in blue pyjamas walking past looking up at the wall with the homemade signs.
“Paul?”
“Yes is it Elijah?”
He is surprised I know his name. “Yea. I’m your doctor.”
“So is there an update? Will I be admitted?”
He pulls out a folded piece of blank A4 paper. It has something printed on the back.
“What is your surname?”
“You’ll have it on my records but it’s Marsden”.
He writes it down and starts asking me what’s happened, and I tell him all over again. Clearly, he has no idea who I am or my medical condition.
“Erm, well we might, but we might send you home.”
“Okay, but when will you know? I’ve been lying here for seven hours.”
He sighs and pauses and bites the top of his pen.
“Well. We. I am not sure. Maybe.”
I can’t believe a doctor is standing in front of me and causally says I might be discharged.
“What’s my diagnosis?”
He bites his lip looking longingly back down the corridor. He really doesn’t want to be here.
“Well we don’t have any spinal consultants here at this hospital, so we keep phoning Walton in Liverpool.”
“Why was I brought here by ambulance if there are no specialist consultants?”
“Er, I don’t know. Look I’ve just come on duty. I can see you are in a lot of pain but we’ve given you painkillers.”
I interrupt him, “Paracetamol.”
“Oh right. So what are you usually on?”
I tell him about my spinal operations and my medications. I've been in hospital six hours.
“Right. I’ll get you your usual painkillers.”
I try to say well I’ve got them with me but like every other nurse and doctor no one is interested in the plastic bag full of boxes of my prescribed drugs. Elijah has disappeared down the corridor.
“My mum and dad are coming…”
I turn around to get a better look at the poor man. He is clutching an old supermarket bag.
“Aye up. You okay?” I cleaner with a cleaning cart has stopped.
“You’ve got your slippers on the wrong way round.”
The cleaner switches the slippers.
“I’m getting picked up. My mum is coming….”
The cleaner gives a bit of a smile and moves off.
I am given my usual tablets but they don’t have the right dosage, so they give me twelve tiny capsules instead of one. I am haunted with the thought, ‘When will I be admitted?’ Should I go home. I press the ‘attend’ button and wait. A mild, foreword bleep goes off and an orange light blinks above me. Five minutes go by. Ten minutes go by. I count. Over twenty-five medical staff walk past without the slightest interest. Could I be seriously unwell? Could I desperately need the toilet? Am I in pain (yes) but not one stops and asks if I am okay. After thirteen minutes my wife stands in front of a staff member.
“Excuse me, my husband needs attention, but no one seems to be coming.”
He is a middle-aged man, eating an apple and looking at his phone.
“Oh.”
He looks at me curled up.
“Right, well a nurse is…... oh wait there’s no one on duty.”
He points to the end of the corridor that I can nearly see.
“There should always be a nurse there but there isn’t anyone.”
He looks embarrassed and says, “I’m just a porter. I’ll go and ask someone.”
He walks off. I notice he has walked to the end and then walks back deep in conversation on his mobile. “Yes, a patient has said he’s been waiting ten minutes but there’s no one around here.” He heads off in a different direction.
I then notice there is another button on the wall marked ‘emergency’. I press it. Now a red light shows, and a reassuring, loud alarm sounds off. That sounds much better. After a minute of staff trundling past, no doubt annoyed at the bothersome alarm, my wife steps in front of a woman with tattoos filling her right arm.
“Excuse me, my husb…”
“Yes, what is it?” She swiftly cancels the alarm sound. Others smile at the woman. “I’m a nurse, so what’s the problem?” I’m looking at her fake tan and latticework, snake and writing spiralling around her arm.
I sit up. The tiger is awake. I’ve had enough.
I say, “I’ve waited thirteen minutes for someone to attend and no one came so I pressed the emergency button.”
“So? What do you want?”
“I’ve been laying here for seven hours, and I just want to know when I’m going to get admitted to a bed?”
She lets out a stifled laugh. “Seven hours? I’ve just admitted a man who was here for twenty-four hours.” She shakes her head.
“I see, so there is no chance I’m going to get a bed?”
She’s gone in the medley of traipsing crowds. I shake my head. There is no chance of me getting a bed which means I’m expected to sleep in this corridor overnight. I’ve had enough. The paracetamol nurse appears.
“What’s the matter?”
“The other nurse has just said I have little chance of a bed and I could be here on this trolley until tomorrow lunchtime. I am going. Can you remove the cannula?”
She looks panic stricken and says she’ll get a doctor. I shrug and my wife passes my bag with clothes. I am about to stand when a doctor appears. He is wearing a happy smiley face badge saying he is ‘happy to help’. I can’t help but laugh at the ludicrous badge.
“I am not waiting any longer. I’ve been here seven hours, and a nurse has said that it is taking 24 hours to admit patients. I can’t stay here overnight. This place is a madhouse.”
“You need to calm down. I am the registrar.”
“I am perfectly calm, but I am not staying here overnight. I am unwell and I need proper sleep.”
“So, er, what do you want?” He takes a long deliberate breath. “Tell me that. What do you want?
“I’ve just told you. I want to be admitted and given a bed. This place is awful. There is a gentleman behind me who is clearly suffering from mental health problems, and no one has gone near him, except a cleaner. Do you think that is good enough care?”
“Well, he looks alright.”
The old man is clutching his plastic bag. “Is my mum and dad there? I am waiting for them to come and collect me.”
I turn to the doctor with an expression akin to a gotcha moment in court when the defendant is caught lying. The doctor is frowning deeply. He doesn’t like me.
“Let’s get back to the point. What do you want me to do right now?”
I now have a look of a teacher speaking to a difficult ten-year-old.
“I have told you. I want a bed. Can I be admitted?”
I now see the death cart trundling past again. I point to it.
“Look they’re pushing corpses back and to past where patients are lying. Is that normal? Are you comfortable with that?
The doctor looks at me and looks at the blue tarpaulin.
“I am going to see what is happening for you.”
He disappears and after fifteen minutes I really have had enough. I go to the dirty toilet with blood drops around the bowl and take off my pyjamas. It is a struggle to pull on a shirt. I finish after ten minutes and stare at the cannula in my arm. I carefully pull away the sticking plasters and draw the tube out of my vein and press hard with the plaster down on the entry point. I gather paper towels and squeeze them into a roll and wedge them into my dripping elbow.
I go out. My wife has my bags. As we walk away, the paracetamol nurse comes running.
“You need to sign out.”
I look at her. I am escaping the madness and I’m expected to sign that I am satisfied with it all. Which is the greater risk? Staying or going? The risk of staying is definitely greater, for both my physical and mental wellbeing.
“No, I am not signing anything.”
We exit onto the main corridor, and we get a taxi home. Next day, no one calls to ask how I am feeling. No one calls my consultant. No one cares. The NHS for non-‘life or death’ situations is dysfunctional and broken. If you are bad but not bad enough, then you are shuttled off to the side. There aren’t enough staff and there aren’t enough staff who give the time to remember why they wanted to work in the health service. Patients can disappear into a huge stomping machine that goes through the motions and grinds up patients before spitting them out. If you make it out alive, count your blessings. If you are feeling better, you are lucky. Very lucky. The moral of this story? Don’t get sick. If you do get sick, make sure you are very wealthy. Wealthy enough to have more cars than you can drive any one time and more homes than you can sleep in each night. But, really, for everyone else, don’t get sick.
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