Friday, 12 July 2013

Liverpool Care Pathway - The Arrogance Of Denial

Anyone may commit a tragic error. It's only human. To lack the humility to own up to it is unforgivable.

A dismissal of recurrent symptoms for which there is no immediate or apparent cause are too often these days put down to a mental health issue such as depression.

That might be the attitude of doctors these days. The Family GP is a thing of the past. It's all high tech and practice managers these days.

That might be the pharmaceutical drug pushers...

This is Mail Online 

A grieving father has been banned from the GP surgery he has attended for more than 60 years after raising concerns about GPs who failed to spot his son’s deadly brain tumour.

Last week Malcolm Buckley, 62, spoke of his devastation that his son, Chris, 34, died of a brain tumour after being told his symptoms were caused by depression.

He has now been left stunned after receiving a letter informing him he has a week to find a new doctor as his name is to be removed from the register at Robert Frew Medical Centre in Wickford, Essex.

The shock move came just days after Mr Buckley raised concerns about three of doctors at the surgery who treated his son.

Mr Buckley said: ‘I’m convinced this is the direct result of me raising concerns about my son’s care in the local paper and the doctors clearly do not like any criticism.

‘People should be aware that if they complain about their GP, they could be struck off.

‘I have been at the surgery 62 years with no previous issues and could now struggle to find another practice.’

Mr. Buckley, it might be some consolation, were it so, that they have removed you because of their shame…

Were it so…

No, it is the shameful arrogance of denial. It is the presumed infallibility of the omnipotent!

In this manner did we lose our first born son.

Jason's mum had already decided on the name. We sent away for a Birth Atlas. We still have it somewhere.

An arrogant, contemptuous young doctor came to our home.

Jason's mum had cramps and sickness. The doctor came, and went smartly on his way with barely a word. He said she had colic and dashed off a prescription with a flourish of his pen as if he had no time for us, his busy schedule focussed in his head. The cramps started coming fast and regular. Contractions.

The ambulance man calmed his poor mum as best he could. The ambulance rushed us off. I saw Jason's head crown. The nurse snatched them both off and left me standing there uselessly. Useless. Useless.

The nurse scolded Jason's poor mum. It’s only a miscarriage. You’re young enough to have more, she said. They wouldn’t let her see him. The cord was round his neck, they said.

Later, much later, I went to the surgery and demanded to see the doctor. I told him off in the waiting room in front of everyone. You left us in the lurch, I said. He blustered and retreated to his room. His partner came out and expressed his regret at our loss. How could that bring Jason back? He was gone. Gone. But he possessed the humility to apologise for his partner's misdeed.

There is no picture of him. There was only the glimpse of him I had, and that was all. We have nothing of him, nothing tangible but the thought of him and the experience of him as he grew inside. Where did they take him? What did they do with him? We have nowhere to go, nowhere to visit.

They incinerate them, someone said. Them. They don’t cremate them; cremation is reserved for people. They incinerate them. Them… he wasn’t a person yet. Not quite. Not quite. But he looked a person, whole, complete, in that Birth Atlas.

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