‘Corridor care’

I think most people know, or have some concept of, ‘corridor care’. However, witnessing it myself opened my eyes to the complete breakdown within the national health service.

Exactly a week ago, my dad slipped and fell down the stairs at home. I arrived at the hospital around 9pm and asked the receptionist where I could find my dad and she kindly gave me directions. I walked through the A&E waiting area, which was around 75% full and unbelievably hot. As I navigated my way around the hospital, I started to see trolleys lined up in the corridor, with patients lying on them. I walked up and down as I had difficulty finding my dad.

I could see that the trolleys were lined up the full length of the corridor. Without wanting to interfere with anyone’s privacy (if that is remotely possible to achieve with corridor care), I noticed so many frail patients on the trolleys, only taking up the tiniest of surface space. I also saw patients trying to sleep under harsh lighting with blankets as makeshift pillows. My dad had fractured three ribs, so was understandably in a lot of pain and he found it difficult to sit in a comfortable position. But, again, all he had for neck support was a thin blanket. It felt like every ten to fifteen minutes trolleys were being shuffled around in an attempt to create space for more patients, despite many trying to sleep. Ironically, some of the trolleys were positioned in front of signs stating ‘do not block’.

Some of those in trolleys looked incredibly unwell and in need of urgent care. I was genuinely shocked to see so many unattended and waiting for help. I want to be clear that at no stage did I think the situation was the fault of those working in the hospital. Not only did my heart break for the patients, but also for the staff having to work within a system which is entirely unfit for purpose. Every member of staff I interacted with was helpful and kind and working extremely hard. But, this isn’t enough when a system is stretched beyond its limits, to the extent that even when you are seriously injured you cannot expect to have a proper pillow, or may have to wait hours: to go to the toilet, to receive a cup of water, or benefit from pain relief. I found myself worrying about those patients who were particularly vulnerable and unable to grab the attention of a member of staff passing by (so much so that I asked the patient behind my dad if he needed some water, and he did).

When I arrived home at around 1:30 am, after driving my dad back, I headed into the bedroom and cried, real, full on sobbing. I cried for the patients I saw lying in corridors without the basic essentials, I cried for the staff having to work in such an environment day-in day-out trying their best but not being able to provide a higher level of care, and I cried mostly for the complete indignity of it all and the thought that fellow humans may end their lives on a trolley, in a corridor, on their own.