The Mid Staffs Public Inquiry and my mother

I watched the BBC news this morning with a heavy heart.  Hearing the news that five other hospital trusts are to be investigated in the wake of the inquiry into the abysmal failings at Stafford Hospital.  For those of my readers who are not in the UK, the inquiry highlighted far-reaching neglect and abuse at the hospital, leading to a large number of unnecessary deaths between 2005 and 2008. 

It struck a personal chord.  I don’t know about Stafford Hospital but I do know about how my own mother died in Somerset’s Musgrove Park Hospital.  The lack of care she received was quite terrifying. 

I received a call from her nursing home to say she had become ill and had been sent to hospital. I went straight over.  It was late afternoon and nobody could find her.  Yes, the ambulance had dropped her off; yes, she was logged into the system but nobody knew where precisely she was. After an hour of desperately hunting, a doctor 

finally pulled me into her room and there was my mother, sunk in a wheelchair, barely conscious. 

‘I honestly thought she was going to die out in the corridor,’ said the doctor. ‘I couldn’t get a ward to take her so I brought her in here so at least I could keep an eye on her.’ 

The doctor said that, out of desperation, she had (knowingly) wrongly diagnosed my mother so that at least she could get onto the one ward which had vacancies.  ‘Please complain about this,’ she said, holding my arm as the orderlies came to take her away.  ‘Elderly people, in particular, are treated appallingly here.  It needs to come out.’ 

But, to be honest, I had other things on my mind. Like trying to keep my mother alive right there and then, and on through the night.  I figured getting onto a ward would make things better but it turned into the most surreal hell.  The ward was a Bedlam, people screaming and yelling. At one point the police came in, as one man started slashing a knife around.  My mother was petrified and she could barely breathe.  I could tell her condition was deteriorating swiftly.  Eventually, after several hours, I managed to persuade a junior doctor to come and examine her.  He said fluid had built up on her lungs and needed to be drained as a matter of urgency.  There was nobody to help so I stood handing him instruments and holding Mum while he performed the procedure right there, on the ward, in her bed. I don’t even think the screens went up.  I had to remind him to use antiseptic wash on his hands before he started.

I don’t know how we made it through that night, she and I.  I didn’t dare leave her bedside.  She was thirsty all the time; she was coughing up thick globbets of muck.  If I hadn’t been there I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have made it to morning.  The next day she was moved to another ward and I breathed a sigh of relief.  Surely it would be better here?  But no.  People weren’t screaming here but they were groaning and they were pushing bells which weren’t answered.  On this ward, the nurses’ station was separate, outside the main ward.  And it was very much a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’.  On the news today, it was suggested that hospitals are understaffed and that nurses simply can’t give their patients the level of care they need.  Well, sorry, but it didn’t look that way from where I was sitting.  I stayed with Mum for three days and nights solidly because I couldn’t trust the nurses to keep her hydrated and to prevent her from choking on the muck from her lungs.  Eventually my sister was able to come down from London with some of her family and we were able to take turns in watching her, in trying to get her to eat, in giving her sips of water, freshening her up, keeping her breathing apparatus over her face.

It wasn’t me being paranoid.  In the bed next to Mum another family kept vigil over their mother – just like us, they didn’t dare leave her alone.  They watered and fed and watched her.  Between us we tried to help other people on the ward too – when bells repeatedly went unanswered.  Some of the patients clearly had dementia – they rang the bell a lot because they became confused and frightened.  And that, in turn, confused and frightened the other patients.    

Getting information out of staff was nigh-on impossible.  Everyone was perfectly pleasant, just not remotely involved somehow.  Eventually Mum died, on that ward. 

Why didn’t I complain?  I suppose because my mother had just died, and I was contending with guilt as well as grief.  I couldn’t quite let my mind dwell on what had happened. I couldn't quite believe what had happened.  I knew, logically, that there hadn’t been anything else I could have done but even so, I felt lacking.  Doubtless she would have died anyhow – her lungs had developed a thick carapace around them – but I hated that she had suffered more than necessary because of lack of good nursing care.

Also, I guess, we don't like to complain about the NHS.  It's free, we think: we should be grateful for what we've got.  And, yes, the NHS does do wonderful things and there are wonderful people in it, including amazing and dedicated nurses.  And not all departments and wards are equal.  My family has had good treatment at Musgrove.  But, on this occasion, the hospital, the NHS, and the nurses in particular, let us - and Mum - down.  And there was no way of putting it right.  

I should have complained.  I should have made a fuss.  

In which my chakras are brushed into shape with crystal wands

Warning: contains woo woo stuff... (yup, probably more than usual).

It often seems like life is so darn unfair; like we’re being thwarted and vexed at every turn. But I dunno.  Maybe you have to trust that things are working out for the best, in their own weird way.  Maybe we just have to be patient. Maybe everything you really need comes to you - in its own good time.  

I’m still feeling rubbish.  It’s so weird because I really truly don’t get ill normally.  Just the one cold a year to boost my immune system. But this virus thing has been wretched – and weird.  I'm saying weird too much, aren't I?  And I whined – just a little – on Twitter (before quickly deleting it).  But clearly not quickly enough as lovely Nicki Hughes sent me a message saying, simply: ‘This isn’t right. Come and have a treatment – as a treat – on me.’  And she said she’d like to do this new healing treatment on me – so new, it barely had a name.  And I said…well, what do you think I said? J

So yesterday I drove through the wind and rain to the Levels, back to Nicki’s lovely peaceful centre.  And she gave me rose tea and looked at me and looked…worried.  ‘When did this all start?’ she asked.  And I thought back and realized that, curiously, it had all kicked off after I smashed myself on the nose with a kettlebell.  ‘You should see a cranial osteopath,’ she said, and I thought, ‘Doh, why didn’t I think of that.’  Because everything in our bodies and minds is interconnected so if you whack one thing out of balance, everything else can go skew-whiff.  And, honestly, why else would my eyes be permanently brimming, like I’m on the verge of tears?  ‘But I can’t…y’know…’ I said and she said, ‘Yeah, I know,’ and then said she’d do what she could.

So there I was, lying buck naked on Nicki’s couch in her gorgeous room overlooking the garden. Covered with a light blanket, looking like death not even vaguely warmed up (me, not the blanket).  And she started by smudging me (to cleanse out my aura).  Interestingly she placed the smudge bowl on my abdomen and actually touched my skin with the feather, rather than just wafting the smoke over me.  And the energy started fizzing, reminding me that I really should smudge myself more often cos it’s so easy to pick up negative rubbish. 

The treatment itself is really unusual.  The aim is to break up and release any blockages on an emotional or energetic level.  So she handed me a couple of quartz wands to clutch and took me on a guided journey through the chakras, placing the relevant crystals on each chakra and getting me to visualize all the crap being sucked out with my out-breath.  Yeah, I know – it sounds totally weirdy-beardy but, y’know, it was great.  

I’m into shamanic stuff, as you know, and this sent my bioenergy tingling all over the place.  Particularly in my third eye.  And that was interesting cos I figured it would be my heart or throat which would do the fandango but no. Third eye whizzing, pulsating, going totally bonkers, having a party all on its own. 

Anyhow, once we’d cleared the shit from the top to the bottom, she massaged me using specific oils for each chakra and using…crystal wands.  It sounds odd but it’s really very lovely.  I never did tell you about the bamboo massage at Champneys, did I?  Well, it’s nothing like that.  Very gentle, very soothing and there’s this wonderful little click click every time the wands meet. 

Then, just when I was floating off into the ether she plugged me back to earth with hot stones. I’ve always been less than blown away by these in the past but as part of this treatment they worked…a treat.  And they made me realize just how cold I was. Cold to the bone. Cold to the soul. Again.  And really, I could have stayed there all day, cuddling the ‘father’ stone – a big bruiser. 

But all good things come to an end (or so they say)...  and so the SP and I said farewell to Nicki and drove back down the motorway feeling…a bit blissed out really. By the time we got home I was totally wiped.  And so we snuggled us up by the fire and…slept.  Cos sleeping is also healing…right? 

Do check out Nicki if you’re anywhere within kicking distance of Taunton or Langport in Somerset.  Truly – she’s worth the trip.  http://www.waysidehouse.co.uk/

Heaven in Somerset...

I’ve been pretty spoiled over the years. Having worked as a health and beauty journalist (mainly for the Mail and the Telegraph) for decades I've been pampered every which way. I’ve had all manner of facials in all kinds of fancy spas and top-notch hotels.  And, I have to be honest, most of them really weren’t that special. Given the choice between a facial and a massage, I’d generally choose the massage every time. I mean, there’s only so much can be done with a facial, right?  You get your skin cleansed and exfoliated, they slap on serum, chuck on a mask (or ‘masque’), maybe zap a few blackheads, massage in a bit of moisturiser…you know the score.  Or you get wired up and have currents shoved through your skin or whatever.  And yes, often your skin looks a fair bit better but it’s just not…terribly satisfying really. 

In fact, the only facial that really rocked my boat over the years was the treatment (no way can I call it a mere facial) I had from Annee de Mamiel. Now, even if I could afford Annee (which, needless to say, I can't) her waiting list is longer than the phone directory. However…oh yes… I have discovered something and someone rather special, right here in Somerset.

I came across Nicki Hughes on Twitter. Then we met for a coffee in Taunton and I liked her. She seemed like a pretty smart businesswoman with a fair dollop of soul (instead of expanding her salon business and becoming effectively a suit, she decided to pull it back and keep herself hands on with a small beauty and therapy centre based at her home in Curry Rivel, near Langport.)

Anyhow, to cut a long story short, she offered me a facial and, looking at myself in the mirror I figured it would probably be a blessing.  I expected something nice, something functional and professional. What I didn’t expect was to be blown sideways.

She was raving about Repêchage, a US skincare system that relies heavily on…er…seaweed.  Now seaweed is all well and good, and packed with great stuff (vitamins, minerals, trace elements, amino acids, antioxidants) but it’s never really rocked my boat. ‘Nooo,’ said Nicki as we sat on the sofa in the rather bijoux treatment centre (oak floors, marble coffee table and delicious graphic paintings from Thailand).  ‘You’ll love this. They extract the seaweed in a particular way, cryo-crushing it…’

Cryowhatting it? 

‘They spin it in a centrifuge. And seaweed is wonderful because it has a very similar molecular structure to that of the skin, so the body absolutely drinks it up.’

Fair enough.  Anyhow, she got me to fill in a questionnaire and laughed out loud when my answer to ‘How do you relax?’ was ‘Twitter’.  Then she took a good look at my skin and pondered. Turns out Nicki prefers it if people don’t come in wanting a particular facial; she likes to advise and come to an agreement about which would be best. Oh hallelujah! At last! The one thing that really puzzles me is when you go to a spa and are presented with this list of treatments a mile long and are expected to choose.  It’s like a surgeon saying, ‘Look, here’s a list of all the ops I do – go on, you pick the procedure.’ You go to an expert because they’re an expert, right?  Garn, it’s a no-brainer surely?  So she said it was a toss-up between the Four Layer facial which chucks a shedload of moisture back in the skin or the VC5 which is all about firming and toning. 

‘Can I have both?’ I said.

‘Nope,’ she said. And so I went for the VC5 because it sounded suitably technical.

Her therapy room is huge, light and airy, and overlooks the garden. Had a brief love-in with  Bob the dog (soppy hairy cross between a collie and an arctic wolf) before he wandered back out.  Oohed and aahed over Nicki’s singing bowls and insisted on a quick blast - tingles right down the spine. Then stripped off my top layers (many) down to my bra and snuggled under the blankets on the most comfortable couch ever. Why don’t all places have couches that actually hold you without putting your back into spasm?

What happened after that?  Ummm…  Errr…..  Aaaahhhh….   I am usually really really good at remembering all the various stages and steps but not this time.  Cos this wasn’t just a facial; this was healing…serious full-on healing combined with a beautiful, assured touch and gentle caring.  I tell you, the woman is magic, sheer magic.  Most therapists will pop on the mask or whatever and go off, leaving you twiddling your thumbs and listening to the monotonous sub-Enya musak. Nicki never left the table.  I had my head massaged, my arms massaged, my neck de-stressed.  And at the mask bit, she darn well did Reiki on me.  Time just…vanished. 

‘That was…just…ummm…wow,’ I said afterwards.  Actually I think I just mumbled incoherently. Really, I’d lost the power of speech.  

‘Do you do that stuff on everyone?’ I asked. Eventually…I’m editing out a lot of umms and aaahhs here.

‘Yes, but I don’t always talk about it. Some clients don’t really want to know. They just think they’re getting a straightforward facial and that’s fine. 

Did my skin look different?  Not particularly but then Nicky hadn’t promised any miracles. It felt good though – clean and (it might be wishful thinking but) firmer.

I drove home on auto-pilot, so chilled that even the truck pulling out on me as I was overtaking on the M5 didn’t really faze me.  But, once home, I just sort of collapsed into a heap.  It felt like someone had taken a whole pile of crap out of me and dumped it in the bin.  Try as I might I couldn’t keep awake so I threw myself into the bath (with a handful of Repêchage Sea Spa salts).  And then I crawled into bed and…slept.  Deeply, blissfully, refreshingly.  Woke feeling like a whole new person.  And then I looked in the mirror and wow, I looked like a whole new person too. My skin looked clear and almost..glowing.  And so so soft. 

I know this sounds like a total puff but, believe me, I don’t rave about stuff unless it’s really really good.  I’ve got myself into all kinds of trouble with my honesty before but I’m not about to change. If I like something, I say so. If I don’t, I say so (or just keep my mouth shut). But I wholeheartedly recommend Nicki and, if you live within driving distance of Taunton (she’s roughly 15 mins away from the town) I would seriously suggest you get yourself booked in.  She doesn’t just do facials either… I’m eyeing up the massage menu and am intrigued by the idea of Theta DNA healing too.  Plus you can get all the usual beauty malarkey – waxing, tinting, electrolysis etc. Go on – check it out.

Wayside House, Curry Rivel, Somerset. 

Meanwhile I’m checking out the Repêchage range of skincare at home. So far, so good. Find out more (and find a list of local spas/salons using the range) here.

Hair (reprised)

So. Despite the bloodbath (I mean, the home hair colouring) my mane was still a mess. I simply have TOO MUCH hair (on my head, I hasten to add).  It's getting heavy, weighing me down. I swear to God it's adding a couple of pounds to the scales. When I do Zumba and tie it up in a high ponytail it sort of does its own dance, to a different beat, which feels very weird – a bit like playing different rhythms with each hand on the piano.  Anyhow.

'I really need a haircut,' I told the SP. He looked benignly at me and gently licked my hand in sympathy.  

'I REALLY NEED A HAIRCUT!' I shouted (in my head, of course) at the universe in general.  And lo!

‘Any bloggers around Taunton want a haircut and colour?’said Twitter. Right there and then. Bloody hell.

So I said, Yes please. And they said Next Thursday okay for you? And I said, Sure. And they said Great. And I said Look,  I should warn you that when I review things I’m honest, sometimes brutally so. And they sort of gulped (well, maybe I imagined that but I could sort of hear it in the pause between emails) and then they said, No Problem. In an Oh shit what have we let ourselves in for? sort of way.  And I said Great. So there we were. Thank you, Universe. Thank you, Twitter. Thank you, Sarah Hodge hairdressers. 

And there I was. A week later - yesterday, in fact - in Taunton.  And first I met another Tweeter (sorry, can’t do Tweep), Nicki (@waysidehealer) at Brazz for a quick cuppa. And she was as lovely as I expected.  And we swapped teabags (as you do) – my Yogi tea for her Pukka – and talked social media and healing and the universe and so on. 

Lucy, Charlotte, Karly, Maria

And then on to Sarah Hodge.  Big friendly smiles as I walked in (always a good sign).  No, scrap that.  HUGE friendly smiles.  Okay, you can argue that they knew I was coming and that I would be writing about them, but I promise you, after years in this business, you can tell when it’s put on and when it’s the real thing. 

Karly took charge. 

‘So, what do you want?’ she said, lifting up bits, peering, trying not to snort out loud. Now that's a big question, I thought. 

'With regards to your hair,' she clarified. Another mind reader, huh? 

‘Heck, I don’t know,’ I said.  ‘What do you think? You’re the expert. Do whatever you think.’

Oh no. She wasn’t letting me get away with that.

‘Okay…’ she said slowly, patiently.  ‘What don’t you like?’

‘Bobs,’ I said firmly. ‘I really hate bobs.  I mean…’ Backtracking quickly as I glanced around and spotting a couple. ‘They’re great on other people but not on me.  Oh, and not brown. Or black. I tried black hair once and I looked like a dead person. Other than that...anything. Apart from badger stripes.’

She nodded understandingly and kept asking questions.  I have never thought about my hair so much.  And finally she reckoned she'd cut a bit, heave off some of the sheer volume of the stuff, and that she might run through some high and lowlight thingies through it. 

‘But that won’t be very dramatic,’ I said. ‘I mean, for the blog. You’ll want a total transformation. Before and after shots.  You know, long red hair to bright blonde, er, bob or something.’

She gave me that puzzled look.  People never understand that, as a journalist, it's in your genes to do whatever it takes for a good story and if that means putting your health, sanity, reputation, life...looks even…on the line... you’ll do it.

Anyhow. She had that comforting confidence that all good hairdressers have and I was fed up of fighting in general so I put up my hands and said, ‘Do with me as you will.’ 

And very delightful it was too.

First up, it was warm. WARM. I got back feeling in my fingers for the first time in months.  Then lovely Charlotte gave me a head and neck massage before she washed my hair.  And they fussed around me and generally made me feel deeply pampered and welcome. And interesting conversation too.  Okay, so not ghosts and space cleansings this time, but Karly and I chatted about press and privacy, about state versus private education, about business and marketing, and about who had had the dodgiest hair extensions back in the 80s.

And, while I had rather hoped for a wild dramatic change, I had to confess she was probably right. It looked...rather nice.  And it felt – delicious – sort of soft and shiny rather than a wild ball of tumbleweed.  And they pressed ‘product’ on me and I promised I’d use them (with fingers crossed behind my back).  And I walked out feeling all sort of smiley.  Because, frankly, it wasn't just a good haircut and colour, they made me feel great.  And, honestly, that’s a huge part of the hair salon thingy, isn’t it?  

What? Oh, you wanna see?  Okay dokey… My webcam has broken so you’ll have to make do with the crappy phone pic, I’m afraid.

And I drove back over the Brendons, to catch a bit of snow and ice action.  As the sun was starting to set. Plain beautiful.  Just like my day.

Sarah Hodge has salons sprinkled around the South-West – Taunton, Tiverton, Chard, Honiton, Barnstaple, Wellington, Bridgwater.  See their website www.sarahhodge.co.uk

They’ve also got a new drop-in salon in Taunton called (doh!) The Salon.

Oh, and things I learned:

* If you’ve got wild hair (or have children with long tangly tresses) you might want to check out the Tangle Teezer – looks like something you get out of a cheap cracker but works seriously well (and gives you a scalp massage at the same time).  www.tangleteezer.com

* If you've got wild hair (part two) you need to sort of twist bits of it into sausages before you dry it - this is called 'twisting' apparently and 'stops fluff' (another technical term).

* A thingy called a 'wand' (by Babyliss) is THE 'phenomena' - you wind your hair round it and it goes sort of ringlety (but not in a bad Victorian way). Will I get one? Nah.

* Find a salon with adjustable basins (no neck crick) and - ideally - massage chairs. Oh heaven! 

* If hot chocolate tastes like warm milk, it means the machine has run out of chocolate. 

And this morning I said to Adrian. 'Hair. How come it needs cutting?' 

And he shook his head and carried on leafing through his cookery book.

'I mean, take dogs. Their hair doesn't grow. In fact, animals never need their hair cutting. Apart from sheep. I suppose it's once you start cutting it, then you have to keep on?'

'I haven't a clue.'

'But it's interesting, isn't it? Don't you wonder why?'

'Never give it a moment's thought.' 

I sighed. He rolled his eyes. 'You can't get cross because I'm not interested. It's biology. I'm interested in other things.'

'Like beer.'

'Like ghosts.'

'You don't believe in ghosts.'

'So what? I can still find them interesting. Fictionally.  I don't believe in fiction but I still read it.' He paused.

'Anyway, pubic hair doesn't grow.'

I decided to leave the conversation right there.

And if anyone knows. Why hair grows... Tiddly pom...please tell me. And sorry about all the ands - it was an and sort of day.