Hiya mate, how are you? ~ Not so good, I’m dying, we’re all dying
was the glib reply in order to get my brain together. Yes, I know but I
only have about 3 months ~ O.K! I started some small talk to try to get
control, how do you know? Who told you? It was Alison (The nurse in
York District), you know I went for some more blood tests last time I
came home, well the results aren’t so good and they think they can do
nothing else to help me. O.K. dad, leave it with me I will call Alison
and find out what the score is.
Of course I could
not call because, being a coward, I didn’t want the answers so I passed
to my wife Janet. She called and established the “facts”. No he has
long months, maybe up to a year because the cancer is spreading and we
can’t control. Phew, a little bit of breathing space, time to think. My
dad spent 6 months a year here in Spain with us and 6 months back in
York. In York he could enjoy the company of his neighbours and mates in
Burton lane Club.
Long gone were the days of dominos and bingo because long gone had the
eyesight due to diabetes however the social event, the friends around
him, the chat of the days on the railways were always a pleasure. My
dad enjoyed company and everyone loved him. He certainly made the best
of what life had thrown at him. He had been blessed with the love of my
mum, Ida; they were together for nearly 60 years. My dad was a typical
Yorkshire man ~ he could not cook, he could not iron he would clean if
he had to but basically he went to work and spent his leisure time on
the allotment and in the club, he brought home the money and my mum did
the rest.
It all changed one Saturday night in April 1999. We were in bed asleep,
in Stony Stratford, 160 miles away; the phone rang at about 2 in the
morning, obviously bad news. It was my dad ~ your mum’s had a stroke
and she’s in hospital. How is she? We won’t know until tomorrow then
they can tell ~ tell what? Whether she will live or die! So matter of
fact but what he was going through was hell, only those who knew him
knew that. ~ O.K. dad we are leaving now see you in the morning.
We arrived in York about 6 am. My Auntie and Uncle with whom my Mum
& Dad had been out the night before were there, spookily the clock
that her grandson Mark had bought had stopped and the phone did not
work. It was a very surrealistic morning waiting for 10am when we could
go to see my mum in the hospital. The first visit was horrible. My mum
just seemed to be asleep, only her grey hair showing above the covers,
she seemed dead. When we visited in the afternoon she was awake and
recognised us, very woozy but coherent. Mark, her only grandson and the
love of her life had flown home immediately and armed with photos and
memorabilia tried to drag his gran back. Unfortunately it was not to
be. Slowly over the next few months my mum went downhill.
Mark had to return
to Spain but came over when he could; Janet and I went every weekend to
visit. In some ways her stroke was a blessing because my mother was the
champion worrier of U.K. If she had been told she was ill she would
have been dead in a week with worry, dead in a day if the illness had
been my dad or one of us. The stroke was like a blow to the back of her
head that removed all that worry. Not without traumas for the rest of
us. One of the worst times for me was when she asked my dad. “Who is
that man?” ~ She meant me, to say the least it was a bit upsetting.
Anyway every single day my mum was in hospital my dad visited twice a
day to sit with her, bathe her and just to be near her. At 85 we
thought he would kill himself first with the gruelling regime. Instead
of getting better my mum seemed to get worse. After 8 weeks they agreed
she could come home for a night, imagine, it was like being at school,
“we will allow”. Of course we knew everyone had her best interests at
heart but the ones coming between you and what you want become the
enemy! Crazy I Know. My mum came home, she could not make a cup of tea
and the next day when they came to pick her up she went like a lamb ~
Heartbreaking. Finally they had to make a decision. She could not stay
in hospital she had to go in to care. No, my dad was adamant, she had
to come home. I supported him 100% because, although I was
apprehensive, I knew if he didn’t try he would never forgive himself.
Luckily the dreaded phone call came and my mum passed away in hospital
with another massive stroke. Again another 2am call from the hospital.
Back to Fred. Janet and I drove back to York at 120 mph to see
and tell my dad. Again crazy, I thought we will be in York at 4am wake
my dad up and give him the worst news of his life ~ so we slowed down,
still reaching York too early, no where for a coffee so we simply
killed time and eventually woke him at about 6am on the 24th June, two
days before his birthday. We went to the hospital, said our final
farewell and took my dad back to Stony, returning a couple of days
later to sort everything out.
So that was the start of my dad’s unexpected, unprepared single
life. Until he was ready he stayed with us. God knows what was going
round in his head and I am sure they were long days for him but he was
very stoic and never showed how he really was feeling. He sat in the
conservatory, smoked his pipe and thought his thoughts until he decided
he was ready to return home.
Fred had been diagnosed with prostrate cancer in 1994. As I
have said previously my mum was a worrier but she accepted this better
than I expected, better in fact than me. It was something we all had to
accept ~ no choice. Funnily enough, apart from the inconvenience and
discomfort of routine visits and medication it never really affected
him until the end.
In 1997 it was his 80th birthday. Mark had been living here for
3 years at that time and we decided to celebrate it in Spain. Foreign
food, Flight delays, hygiene my dad had all the prejudices. The fact
that both my parents wanted to spend time with Mark overcame all the
obstacles and after an unforgettable evening at Villa Tiberius they
both became avid Hispanophiles and spent many long holidays with Mark.
At the turn of the century Janet was made redundant, I was
unhappy with my job and so we decided, what the hell, let’s try Spain.
Mark had been here 5 years and so it was not such a leap into the
unknown. In March 2001 we packed our bags and came out here. Fred, now
comfortable with Spain joined us.
Thereafter for the next 4 years my dad spent a life split
between 6 months here and six months in York. His doctor in York was
kind with prescriptions and the hospital accommodating on appointments.
A real testament to the health service in U.K. and the main thing we
were frightened of giving up.
At first it was great, always a ladies man my dad flirted with
all our clients who in turn were delighted to encourage him and to open
a different world. A bit like being on holiday 6 months a year. It was,
I think, a happy time for him but not one he would have exchanged for
having Ida back.
The phone call giving him 3 months to live came in July, just a
couple of weeks after he had left Spain. When we learned that the 3
months would more likely be 12 months we arranged that he came back
here in September after the worst heat. A second phone call came and
told us that maybe 12 months was optimistic and a couple of weeks was
more likely.
At this point we decided that he should be back here. My dad’s
main wishes were that he should not be in a wheelchair and that he
should not go in a home. So I took the next flight back.
Alison has arranged for my dad to have a blood transfusion to
prolong his life. This was scheduled for the day after I arrived back.
When I opened the front door my dad was too weak to stand up, he looked
and sounded terrible. I went out for some fish and chips, he ate a
little and the next morning we went to hospital for the transfusion.
This took two days. On the third day we embarked for Spain. At
Manchester airport I asked him if he wanted any breakfast. Aye, I’d
love a bacon sandwich which we bought and which he devoured with
relish. The transfusion took ten years off him. When we got back to
Spain no one believed he was ill.
I had been warned in U.K. that the transfusion was more or less
a favour and that the results would be short lived and that a further
transfusion in U.K. would not be economical. (This is no criticism; the
care my father received in York was excellent)
So for a while everything was fine but suddenly he developed
T.I.A’s. Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA). Essentially “mini strokes”
which prevent control of everything, arms, legs, bodily functions etc
and last for anything from a second to a couple of hours. These were
unrelated to the cancer and we found (how I don’t know) that if he
slept in a sunbed at 45 degrees it didn’t happen.
This took its toll on Mark and I though as we were spending
alternate nights sleeping with my dad. The first help we had was from
Denise at a local doctor who loaned us a commode. Getting my dad from
the bed to the toilet during one of those T.I.A’s was nearly
impossible; light as he was he was a dead weight.
Finally we decided that we needed help and I went to see Cudeca. Mark
had some friends there. From the first meeting it was as though all the
stops were pulled out. Within 3 days we had a visit by a doctor and
nurse (Dra Rosa and Melanie) Mel was from Yorkshire and spoke to my dad
exactly as he expected to be spoken to, no bullshit, just how it was.
You can’t believe how much he looked forward to their visits. They also
helped us in understanding and coming to terms with the inevitable and
helped us round some of the Spanish bureaucracy. They supplied an
electric bed to replace the sunbed in fact everything we needed, all
free of charge (Important to a Yorkshire man). Which leads me to a
small aside. One night my dad dropped his bottom set of teeth in the
bedroom, Mark and I searched all over but couldn’t find them. When the
room was cleaned a couple of days later the cleaner found the teeth to
my dad’s delight, “Give her a couple of quid Dave, it would have cost
me twenty quid to get a new set” ~ you can tell how long he’d had them.
Occasionally as the T.I.A’s worsened and the cancer bit deeper
we spent a few nights in the Costa del Sol hospital where my dad
received a further two transfusions. The treatment he received was
excellent and, in my layman’s opinion, superior to what he would have
received in U.K. despite the treatment from York also being excellent.
I have to pay tribute to Helicopteros Sanitarios, The Spanish ambulance
service and the Costa del Sol hospital, not only for efficiency and
medical care but for the way they treated and interfaced with a
frightened old man (and that was just me!)
Anyway inevitably the cancer won, my dad held out to have
Christmas lunch with us. He was in a wheelchair at that stage but had
only been for a few days. He had all his faculties and had decided it
was his time. We had Christmas lunch, pulled some crackers and watched
T.V. He went to bed Christmas day and never really woke up.
We brought Fred out here as a gut thing; we never checked it
out it just seemed what we had to do. Without Cudeca we could not have
done it.
If you ever have any doubts about health care in Spain for you
or your family, forget them. If you don’t speak Spanish and live in the
Costa del Sol area, join Helicopteros Sanitarios (952 81 18 18). They
can provide all your medical and emergency needs to a certain level at
a ridiculously low annual charge. If that level is exceeded then they
will take you to the Costa del Sol Hospital and if they need more
specialist help they will take you to Malaga.
I speak from experience. My dad had a T.I.A attack as we were walking
out to dinner one night. He was particularly excited as we were going
with Sheila and Colin, friends of ours, but Sheila always made a big
fuss of him. Anyway the attack came. My dad immediately fell and banged
his head on the wall (I always accuse Sheila of pushing him, I’m still
not sure). The security guard called Helicopteros, they came, gave my
dad a full E.C.G. blood pressure etc. dressed his wounds and told me
they wanted to take him to Hospital. I followed the ambulance and went
with my dad as he was fast tracked through A&E. After checking, he
was left in a comfy armchair wired up to everything for observation
(This is common here, you can nearly guarantee that you will spend all
night in the waiting room). After an hour or so the doctor came and
told me he was not happy and wanted a second opinion so back in the car
and I followed the ambulance to Malaga. After establishing where he was
to be I told the ambulance driver I needed some petrol and a sandwich
and went to the local garage, after I got back and found somewhere to
park and was walking into the hospital (about 30 mins had passed) the
ambulance driver saw me and said “the doctor’s looking for you, we are
going back to Costa del Sol”. My dad was back on the stretcher and the
doctor, in perfect English showed me the X rays or whatever and pointed
out a scar on the brain. He explained that this could have been there
years or only tonight but that at 88 there was little point in
operating as that would almost certainly kill him.
Anyway back in the car, followed the ambulance to hospital and
accompanied my dad to a ward. “We will keep him in tonight, you can
collect him at 11 in the morning” ~ it was now about 5am.
Went home to bed fell asleep for what seemed like 5 minutes and
the alarm went. Back to the hospital (The car knew its own way by then)
and waited to see him.
When I went through the door he was sat up in bed, not only had
they made him comfortable they had encased his arm in plaster “ look
what they’ve done to my bloody arm” as they found he had broken it in
the fall, but they had also given him a blood transfusion (Remember in
York it was a favour)
On with his clean clothes and back to the car, how are you
feeling dad? ~ “I’m a bit peckish, can we go to Ruby’s (a local bar)
for an English breakfast?” (dé•jà vu I thought)
The purpose of this story is to urge any one who is in similar
circumstances not to worry about health care in Spain, even if its you
that is the patient remember there are a lot of people out there to
help you, of course it’s not all perfect we met one Spanish G.P. in La
Campana who is the most ignorant man I have ever met, Cudeca helped us
round this one, and also if you don’t speak Spanish you sometimes have
difficulty explaining or understanding however this is easily solved ~
just ask for a translator to be present in important meetings. There
are a few rules of course, make sure you have your E111 card, medicines
are not free when you leave hospital but often less expensive than U.K.
but that is about all. Join Helicopteros if you are in the area and
support the associations relying on donations (Books to the hospital
etc. but most of all Cudeca)
Cudeca have now opened a charity shop in Marbella (Avda del
Mar, the marble walk way where the Salvador Dali statues are) and Janet
is working there together with other people who want to support this
fantastic and innovative (In Spain) concept which recognises the needs
and fears of both patients and families and handles those needs
superbly. They, I am pleased to say, have gone from strength to
strength since being started from an idea by Joan Hunt O.B.E. in 1991
and now have an in patient facility in Arroya de la Miel paid for by
the donations and support of you and I
Maybe you can help the people who need your help now by donations of
any good quality clothing or items by giving a few hours of your time
or why not visit the shop and spend a few Euros, light a light, buy a
flower or badge or bracelet or just write out a big cheque.
If you ever need Cudeca they will be there for you and if you
don’t need them now or in the future you are the lucky ones and you
will have helped those that do.
For more info on Cudeca ~ http://www.cudeca.org
Fore more info on Helicopteros ~ http://www.helicopterossanitarios.com
For more info on Costa del Sol Hospital ~ http://www.hcs.es
For more info on E111 ~ http://www.dh.gov.uk/travellers
Written by
David Nicholson