Growing old and growing weary about what health and social care actually means

It used to be ‘you know when you are getting older when the police start to look younger’. I have never given much thought to this well-known saying, but last week, I came face to face with a more contemporary version. I was in a meeting where the social worker, doctor and physiotherapist all looked too young to be a social worker, doctor or physiotherapist. The occasion was a ‘best care’ discussion about my mother. My mum, aged 89, lives with dementia.  

Following a fall 10 weeks ago, she was admitted to an acute hospital in Wales where she remains today. She has no underlying physical issues other than those associated with getting older, and despite being moved six times during her stay, she is still occupying an acute bed that might be better used by someone with an acute illness or trauma. My mum wants to go home. However, following a mental capacity assessment, she was deemed not to have the capacity to make decisions about her future care. So, my sister and I, who both have lasting power of attorney for my mum’s health and financial affairs found ourselves in the meeting last week.

Interestingly, on the same day as the meeting, my blogging colleague Roy Lilley posted a blog that explored and challenged the value of the virtual ward concept and approach. His thoughts on the new social care model have some validity, but faced with my mum remaining in hospital for what felt like an indefinite period of time, I found I couldn’t agree with his argument. You can read Roy’s blog here and judge for yourself.

The outcome of the meeting was the decision to refer my mother to the Discharge to Recover and Assess Team – a model similar to the approach used in England, and one I have great confidence in. It means if the care plan is approved, my mother could be discharged with a wraparound care package in place. Despite my comments above about the age of the meeting participants, I have to say I was impressed with the time spent, the care and compassion shown and the team’s knowledge of my mum’s health and wellbeing care. It gave me confidence that we have made the appropriate decision.

Later that day, I travelled to London on the train. It is not a journey I enjoy, but needs must. Arriving, I whizzed across London on the tube to where I was staying that night. It was a lovely hotel, but for £175 a night it ought to be. The welcome was warm and friendly and the young receptionist even offered me a glass of prosecco while she sorted out my registration. It seemed churlish to say no, and after all, it was a very hot day.

I was in London to take part in a doctoral viva examination. I was the external examiner. The day of the viva began with brilliant sunshine. I thought - get up, find where I was supposed to be later in the morning and then go for a walk. So, putting my walking shoes on I set off. Finding the right building was easy enough. Google Maps took me right to the front door. Entering the building I was immediately confronted with a rather large and slightly intimidating woman, dressed in a bright blue ‘I’m the security so beware’ outfit who immediately demanded to see some identification.

I have often found myself in such situations and usually just go with the flow. However, I explained that I didn’t want to enter the building per se, I was just wanting to check I was in the right place for later on. I promised her that when I returned, I would show her my identification. I went back to the hotel had some breakfast, which I have to say was not great for a £175 a night hotel, got changed and waited until it was time to return to the university. Which I did.

The female security person was nowhere to be seen. She had been replaced by the largest, toughest man I had ever seen. He glared at me as soon as I walked in. I smiled back. He continued to glare. Unfazed, I walked up to the reception desk and asked to be directed to room V204. “Do you have any identification?” the chap behind the reception desk asked. Now I don’t do all this he/him, she/her stuff so, and I know that is not what he was after, but somewhat provocatively, I said just Google me. He was non-plussed. He said I needed to report to their security office. I said I didn’t think so. I was here to take part in a doctoral examination, and if the university security folk didn’t want me to do so, I could just take the next train home. It was one of those tense stand-off situations you read about in popular thriller novels. We all paused, the security guy gave an even fiercer glare in my direction. I smiled in return. 

Thankfully, I was rescued by one of the doctoral candidate’s supervisors, who recognised me from reading my blogs and following me on social media. She took me to room V204 and I was able to participate in the viva. It wasn’t an easy examination. However, this was nothing whatsoever to do with the student. Her work was excellent. Indeed, she got through the defence of her research with flying colours, no amendments required. A fabulous result. The problem with the viva was that one of the internal examiners was participating virtually. However, nobody had set up the facilities to do this, and we lost 45 minutes of everyone’s time getting the technology sorted. The viva was a great conversation. Ironically, perhaps, her focus was on Generation Z students and their interaction with social media to further their education and training.

One of the students thesis’ recommendations was recognising the challenge there might be in existing lecturers (faculty) being able to acquire the skills and knowledge to address a completely different generation of learners, who have never known anything other than that of a digital view of the world. I thought it was a challenge equal to the one I had faced when confronted with the young folk looking after my mum. Of course, all those fine folk had the skills and professional knowledge to practise, but I wondered about their ability to interact effectively with the people in their care and the others who care for that individual. That worries me. To date no one other than myself and my sister has spoken to my dad about the decision taken at the meeting. Maybe Roy Lilley does have a point after all.