On the entrance door to hospital wards the sign saying “Only two visitors at a time” has been crossed out several times in the last few weeks. First, it went to “one visitor”. Then “...at a time” got dropped. Now it should read “only one visit.” And that’s if you are dying.
Patients with Covid are not allowed visitors. Their family and loved ones either have it already and are walking virus incubators, or they will have got it by the time they leave the ward.
There isn’t enough PPE for the staff. So if you are lucky, you might be allowed once to see your dying relative. But only in some hospitals. In others, staff lend their phones to let dying patients say goodbye. I asked my dad’s partner “can you get dad an iPhone and show him how to use it?” Otherwise, if he’s admitted to hospital he’s really on his own.
Meanwhile last week I slipped through for a Covid test. I had mildish symptoms — not enough to go home, but I was distracted, uncertain. I never realised how stressful uncertainty is. It eats you from the inside. I heard there was a way round the problem. I was texted a location to go to. It was an unfamiliar ward. No names, no pack drill. Swab done. Next day: negative. I guess that’s a relief. I’m safe to others.
Each day this testing business is about to be fixed — and then it isn’t. Come on, fix it. The excuses are wearing thin. And by the way, I get it that it’s probably quite hard to make a ventilator that works if you haven’t done it before. But really, how hard is it to make a paper gown in a few standard sizes? And some theatre scrubs and a decent mask? So we can start meeting standards, not lowering them. That, I don’t get.
