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Saturday, May 14, 2011

Help Domenic Johansson

I'm taking the unusual step of posting the same blog to all my blogs, no matter what their subject.
Domenic Johanssen was a happy child of two loving parents. His parents were taking him to India from Sweden where they had been living, when officials boarded the plane and took Domenic away. People who are told the story cannot believe that Domenic was removed from his parents on such flimsy grounds: the Johanssens were planning to home educate (which was legal in Sweden at that time), they hadn't allowed him to have all the vaccinations, and he had two cavities in his baby teeth.

He has been in the care of the Swedish authorities since then, and repeated attempts to get him back have failed. The separation has adversely affected the health of his mother and father, and the photograps of the child now compared to the child then make it obvious that he is far less happy in the care of the authorities than he was at home.

Th Swedish system seems to be a heartless and inhumane system which ignore human bonding and puts the interests of the family last in any decision. I find it absolutely incomprehensible that a state in a civilised country could be allowed to behave like this.

I don't know what can be done. I have written to judges and officials over the past two years. In a place where home educating seems to be considered abuse, it is very very hard to know how to communicate with these people.

Everyone to whom I have told this story have been suspicious that there must have been another, hidden, reason for taking Domenic away from his parents, but that truly isn't the case. If you can think of a way to publicise, or to put pressure on the Swedish authorities, please please let me know.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Starting out

For years I have been writing a book.  For years.  The only trouble is, that I have never actually worked out which book I am writing.  Thus, I never finish it, I just keep starting it over and over.  There's the children's story I have been writing since my own children were small.  I must have twenty or thirty versions of the beginnings of that.  I know how it starts, and I know how it ends, but the middle has evaded me and I have never managed to get past the feeling that I ought to know what's going to happen before I start to write it.  And I don't.

There's the book about my spiritual journey, from childhood to adulthood.  I have started this more times than I can count, and have drafts of the first few chapters in books, in word documents, on scraps of paper, in diaries.  I have never managed to make a coherent narrative from it, and have even made lists of revelations, things that have happened, the things I believe and how I came to believe them.  I find that once I start to work on it in a disciplined way, which I have frequently started to do, I get irritated by the idea that I might be espousing things I don't actually believe, in my heart, or espousing things I don't actually do when I have a choice, and that it is hypocritical to continue to write it.  That or I think I come across as a saintly person which is very far from the truth.  Writing the truth, so that it doesn't talk the talk without walking the walk is the most difficult thing.

There there's the book I have been writing about home education, and about my transformation from a wholly conventional mother, sending her children to school, to a rabid unschooler.  Again, the trouble is that I have a natural (inherited) tendency to lecture, and I hate it when that comes through in the writing.  I try try try not to lecture people if I can help it, but I know that I catch myself after the fact sometimes.  In writing, it is obvious, and so I end up with a John Cage situation.  I write and write and then erase more than I write and am left with nothing at all at the end of it.

Then there's the book about my family history, which remains unfinished despite thirty years of work.  My major problem with it is the John Dickins who lived in the 18th and 19th centuries.  I know so much about this man, about he jobs he did, the places he lived, the people he married, his children and who they married.  What I don't know for certain is where he was born, and whether his father was indeed John Dickins of Church Preen, son of Richard Dickins of Church Preen.  The book, the History of Church Preen seems to indicate that he was, indeed that John Dickins... but then I have done enough family history over a long enough time to know that people ought not to accept at face value what a relative says.  My great aunt was convinced her aunt was a doctor, and she turned out to be a nurse.  Not that different, but different.

So I have failed to write down in a coherent way the things I have learned over the last thirty years and I think anyone in the family who comes after me will curse my lack of information - not the lack of notes and material, but the lack of a narrative which puts them in context or tells them where I obtained information.  I should have been doing this as I went along, and have advised many people not to make the same mistake, but the truth is, I would struggle to do this with the wealth of information I have collected, and I have so much information in my head and nowhere else, that it is difficult to know if I would ever finish, if I started now.

Then there's the more personal history I have not been writing for more or less all but the first 10 of my fifty two years.  I have written diaries and odd notes and for the past 13 years have written blogs and posts all over the net... but I have never yet succeeded in turning that into a narrative that other people might be interested to read.  Mostly I am like everyone else - say that I am interested in people and don't care if they are famous or not... but generally if I see an episode of "Who do you think you are?" for someone I don't recognize, it has to be said that I feel a lot less interested in it.  I fight against that feeling, but I do have it.

Then there is the book about being a Quaker, I have started to write but have stopped, for many of the reasons that I gave above for the spiritual diary.  Part of my belief as a Quaker is that everyone has their own path to God, and I don't like the feeling that I am telling people what it is right to believe or to think.  I'm not, but it can appear that way when trying to write down what drew me to Quakers, and why I feel I am one, and have always been one.

I've also often wanted to write down my feelings and thoughts and what I have learned about reincarnation, although a lot of what I thought I knew has been called into question recently.  I've started books about Second Life, how to use it and what it is.  I've started books about being a family historian, about the history of the Quakers in Uxbridge, about how to unschool, and about how to do various crafts I love, like beading and papier and fabric mache.  About the illness which struck my husband, and my experiences with my son when he was so ill in 2005.  All perfectly viable ideas which I haven't finished.

So... the trouble is you can't cobble one book out of the beginnings of all of them.  I need to have discipline, which I have never had, decide on a subject and stick with it, rather than changing my mind once I have written thee or four chapters.  So.  I have decided that as blogging is something I have successfully done in the past on a regular basis, I will try to make one blog post every morning, because I do other things and get caught up in the day.  And this is the beginning.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Touched

I cannot touch the you I see
I can't touch you
You can't touch me
And yet my heart leaps when I see
Your avatar in front of  me

I cannot feel your hand or kiss
I can't feel you
You can't feel me
And yet I feel it when you kiss
(Even if the avatars miss :-))

I cannot watch your hand or eye
I can't watch you
You can't watch me
And yet I watch with inner eye
And hear your quietest, slightest, sigh

I cannot touch
I cannot feel
I cannot watch
I cannot hear
And yet the you that you are here
Is the one I hold most dear

Fee

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Gone

I had no warning you were going,
I turned around and you were gone.
I looked for you in every person that I met.
Caught glimpses of you in strangers' faces,
Chased your shadow around corners.
I waited for you to come back.

The love I had for you is still here.
At first, it was a shard of ice in my heart,
It woke a little after me, reminding me,
Stabbing me with the loss I felt.
It filled me with yearning.
Longing for poppy-sleep and you.

Gradually the ice melted and I remembered.
I found the love for you warming my heart.
I realised that love doesn't die, it lives forever.
When strangers remind me of you now, I smile.
Remember how I love you and you love me.

Priceless

I could have had one hundred thousand pounds by now
If I had stayed in the daily grind
Found someone else and given them my babies to mind
I could have bought them anything they wanted.

I could have had exotic holidays each year
If I had kept at the coal face
Trekked up and down the tube at a snail's pace
I could have gone anywhere I wanted.

I could have had clothes and shoes and jewels
If I had left my children at home
Left someone else holding the brush and comb
I could have worn anything I wanted.

But...
What I wanted was to feel my heart squeeze
Every time I turned and caught sight of my children
What I wanted was the joy of squidging the face paint
Even if most of it was squidged into the carpet
What I wanted was the tears and tantrums, the fears and nightmares,
and the firsts that scatter the land of childhood

If I had a million pounds by now
I couldn't buy one day in the past
The work is always there, but childhood doesn't last
The time I have had is priceless.

Fee Berry 2005

Spirits Rising

They left expecting ordinary days
Instead found they were going on a different sort of journey
They left their cups of coffee and unpaid bills
Stepped out of their homes and away from their lives
And can't return

Instead their souls set free today,
In darkness and confusion,
In smoke and pain,
Soared away from their broken bodies
Into a life beyond

Light a candle for their friends
and their families.
Light a candle for their children...
Their wives and mothers...
Husbands and fathers...
Light a candle for the loss

But their souls were set free today
Into a life beyond

The people in real need of light,
Of prayers and illumination
Set those bombs

Mr Trebus

I didn't know, I told my friends
I only saw the odds and ends
Littered over his garden.
I didn't know, I couldn't see
The person that he used to be
Before his confusion.
We used to call the council too
They'd charge him for the work, it's true
...though he hated them.

The blow fly problem abated for a little while.
The rats had nowhere to hide until he provided more accommodation.

I couldn't see, I told my friends
A garden full of odds and ends
Obliterated the man.
I couldn't know, I didn't see
He once was just like you and me
Before his confusion.
The council took his stuff away
It took them more than half a day
To move it.

We asked what he could possible want with second-hand garlic presses
and a pair of boy's shorts.

I didn't care, I told my friends
How many men the council sends
It will not solve it.
They'd need to know, they'd need to see
The solution's clear enough to me
He needs to go into an institution.
The council tried to talk him round
They never gained an inch of ground
He was intractable.

The junk helped him live his life
Old air conditioners and wood for healing was an unusual approach....

I didn't see, I told my friends
I hated all the odds and ends
Gathered with love.
I wouldn't know, I wouldn't see
He needed care from you and me
To cure his confusion.
The council only saw the crap
Only television saw the chap
Under the junk.

Even then, the hurts in his life were only diagnosable
Using the encrustation outside.

Fee Berry 2005

Nearly Dead

Will they say I lived all my life
On suburban roads
Not of the city or of the country
But a place in between
Will they say I never took any risks,
Never had to hack my arm off in extremis
Never eating anybody's cousin in desperate straits?

Like millions I struggled from one pay day to another,
Trying to stop the haemmorhage of money through the bars and pubs of the town...
Trying to keep up, to keep the income over the outgoings.
I don't care what the Joneses do.

I long for the wild places without fences or walls,
Where the birds wheel and the wind blows lustily,
Where the sound of the sea is never far away
Where the shores rustle their greeting to the waves
And the driftwood tumbles up and down the beach.

I long to run without worrying I am going to break a knee or hip,
Long for those days when I didn't know what I had, who I was, what I was going to be.
"Youth is wasted on the young," said my grandmother, and I protested, but I didn't understand
Until now
How little I appreciated my youth while I had it.

Will they say I had talent but I
Frittered it away on unfinished projects
Neither brilliant nor awful, but somewhere
in between?
Will they say I never took any risks,
Never embroidered all my lovers or
Revealed my innermost self?

Like millions, I was always writing my book, a novel or
a handbook or an autobiography.
The truth is, I started too many times, and finished
Never.

I long for a place of my own, a library
A place to keep everything that means anything
A place to watch my family on the wall, laughing and smiling
While I write or sew or research or simply read
A place for being and a place for remembering and everything in its place.

I long to write without worrying about the consequences,
Long to say what I think
A place to scour the corners of my memory, to see the pattern of my life.


Will they say, they hadn't realised I was still alive? 
Will they say, I never kept in contact, which is true
I have tested my ability to live without them all
And I can.
What will they say about the person I have become? 
What can I say?  I tolerated difference and saw none.
I loved the people I loved
Did the things that I did
And I am not sure what sort of future I made for myself, or what past.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Zeitgeist



I watched a short film from WanderingMind which turned up on my Youtube feed last week, questioning the current economic system. I agree with him; I have often wondered why it should be that the same world should go into free fall because an elite set of people suddenly decide to crash the stock market.

In the comments for that video I found references to Zeitgeist the movie, and although I am busy and the film is over two hours long, I made time to watch it, because I thought it might be important.

I like a lot of the movie, I suppose because it reflected a number of things which I believe, about the nature of human beings, and the importance of nurturing children in their early years.  It wasn't radical enough about education for me, but then, few things are.

However, I was very disappointed by the end of the film, the apparent solution to our dysfunctional money market system that currently abuses the planet.  I felt that the film maker spent a lot of time discussing human nature and its need for nurturing, but then ignored a lot of basic human needs - for a place to call their own, and for possessions... for frivolous things which the state is never going to provide.

I looked at Peter Joseph, the film maker, and even before he propounded his communist utopia, thought how like Trotsky he looked.  I don't know if there is anything in reincarnation theory, but he's definitely a candidate for examination.  He looks like Trotsky, and he sounds like him too, in the theories he proposes.

What I was hoping for, was something different, and I suppose more scientific.  There have been successful societies which have used different paradigms for their operation, where there has been considerable equality.  Couldn't we try one of those systems instead?  I feel that any system has to respect human nature, and our need to be diverse, to allow for the fact that one man's meat may be another man's poison.  We don't all like the same stuff or even need the same stuff.  We need to assert our individuality, even when we believe passionately in joining in society to protect the weak or to help those unable to help themselves.

I think the current market-based, money-based economy is a male-centric competitive system and we could be trying the alternative, which is a feminine nurturing system, which values caring and sharing and looking after people, and thinking about them.  Which doesn't count the cost of everything in financial terms, but in costs to individuals, societies, countries, in human terms instead.

I think any system which is going to work will have to consider the nature of being human, and allow for the endless variations which we come in.  Certainly I think a feminine system would make sure that babies and children are looked after well, and particularly children who are removed from their families... currently I think our society takes children from abusive parents and consigns them to abusive institutions which compound the damage.

I will have to think about the information in the film.  But I don't think it is the answer.  Maybe the reported system which obtained in Britain before the arrival of the Romans, or the system reportedly used on the Island of Thera, known as Minoan Akritiri society, seems to have been egalitarian, nurturing system which led to a highly artistic and creative place which thrived.  Why not look back in history to find better ways of doing things?

One thing is for sure... I think a lot of our trouble came when we allowed people to start trading in things which don't exist.  If I were Queen of the World for a day, I'd ban that.  I'd ban trading in futures, in currencies and in derivatives.  And there's an end to a lot of the ills, right there.

One thing I think the film achieves, is to stimulate thought about the sort of world we live in, and the sort of world we want to live in.  That can only be a good thing.

Saturday, March 05, 2011

Comic Relief 2011

I have tears running down my face, having watched part one of Famous, Rich and in the Slums with Lenny Henry, Angela Rippon, Samantha Womack and Reggie Yates, part of Comic Relief.  For those outside the UK, Comic Relief is a charity which raises money for projects at home and abroad, and which is very highly regarded in the UK, as all the money raised goes to the charity work, none of it to administration or publicity.  The charity raises money specifically for those things directly, in order for them to be able to say that every penny donated by the public will go to charitable work.

One of the places that they work is Kibera slum, the biggest slum in Africa.  It has to be seen to be believed, and even though one could vicariously understand the noise and smell from the reactions of the people involved, it was obvious that it was very difficult for a viewer in a comfortable home in the UK to really gain a sense of the poverty they were looking at.

The four volunteers were stripped of their belongings, including their clothing, and then sent to live alone for three days.  They were given a very small amount of money and told to make their living.  The culture shock must have been extreme... they were hurtled from cosseted lives in the UK to the worst living conditions imaginable... sewage running in open gutters in front of their doors, hole in the ground lavatories shared with hundreds of others, people whose only suggestion when work wasn't available was to go to a bar and sleep with a man for money.

I admired the people who did this.  I'm not sure I would have survived the first day.  I found festival conditions intolerable on a holiday  couple of years ago.  I'm not sure how I would have coped with open sewers and holes filled with human excrement.  On the other hand, what struck me was that I think my lack of adaption would make me organise improvements... one of the striking things about the programme was that the participants had stopped noticing many of the things which made such an impression at the beginning.  In this context I wonder whether survival by acceptance would be more useful than a refusal to accept the circumstances and insisting on change?  I expect I am kidding myself about the possibilities for change... but what distinguishes Kibera from the urban areas which border it except for organisation?

At the beginning of the film, they stated that as Kibera is classified by the Kenyan government as an illegal settlement, they are not obliged to provide health services etc for the people living there.  While I applaud the projects that Comic Relief are running in the slum, and the bravery of the four celebrities who went there, I hope that pressure is brought to bear on the Kenyans to put health workers and facilities in place, and not simply to bulldoze the camp which has been the response of some governments to clearing up similar places.  We have to change things.  We have to feel responsible for the people who are enduring that life.

If you wish to donate to Comic Relief, text "help" to 70005.

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

End of the Archers

At least for me.  For those who don't listen to the everyday story of farming folk, it ws the 60th anniversary of the Archers on Sunday, and the producers decided to celebrate Eastenders-style, with the death of one of the best-loved characters.

Had the actor, Graham Seed, been keen to pursue pastures new, I'd still have been annoyed by the clumsy and unbelievable way that they did it.  In the episode the staid and sensible farmer David Archer, persuaded his brother-in-law to go up on the roof in the dark and a high wind to get the New Year banner down.  I this had been Kenton, fabled Peter Pan of the series, it might have been just about believable, but nooo, David was the chosen foil.  Actually, though, the news that Nigel was to die came as a shock to Graham Seed too.  He played him beautifully, and it was mainly due to his continued involvement that I came back to the Archers after becoming irritated by previous shock-horror storylines.

The producers have spent the past few months turning one of the female characters into a whingeing and unlikeable harridan over the past few weeks.  Now if someone had thrown HER off the roof, I'd have applauded wildly.  But Nigel was the light relief in the programme... a hooray henry made good, who was kind and gentle, despite a recent storyline in which he has been forcing his small son to work ever harder in order to pass an entrance exam.

The choice of a shocking death, clumsily queued up a few episodes before, to mark the 60th anniversary of the show indicates to me that the producers are going for the depression and "excitement" of the TV soap, instead of the quality that kept Archers fans coming back for more.  It was the affection they felt for characters like Nigel, and the lack of shocking happenings... the small scale triumphs and disasters of real life, instead of the artificial drama. 

It amazes me that BBC radio knows its listeners so little... they are continually trying to interest Radio 4 listeners in Radio 1 and vice versa... when the type of person who likes Radio 4 is very very unlikely to want to listen to Rado 1 and vice versa.

Similarly, the person who loves the Archers, is not likely to enjoy the sorts of dramatic disasters which litter the TV soaps.  The petty squabbles which mark real life are far more interesting than the sudden loss of main characters which happens all too frequently in Eastenders, Emmerdale and Coronation Street. 

There should be room for both, and it should not be necessary for The Archers to pander to the tastes of people who are perfectly well served by the TV soaps.  We deserve our own fare, and once we had it.  Now it seems to me that the Archers has descended to the point where I don't want to listen any more.  The end of Nigel is the end of the Archers, for me.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Looking forwards, looking back

It's that time of year again, when the papers and tv are full of round-ups of the best/worst/most noteable happenings of the year.  A review is almost compulsory, and back here in St Albans, looking after my Dad, time hangs heavy, hot and loud.

I feel as though I have had very little time this year.  Reading "The Quest of the Overself" by Paul Brunton, I find that I should be ensuring I have at least half an hour for meditation every day.  I rarely achieve that, and so I am determined that I should try, now that things have become less pressured.

My stepmother died on New Year's Eve a year ago.  Her room is still full of her clothes and toiletries, and the living room is full of a pot of ashes.  My stepsister, her only daughter, hasn't felt able to deal with her mother's things, and my sisters and I have felt reluctant to interfere, or to upset her, by dealing with them ourselves.  She did ring up and insist that my father and sister should collect her mother's ashes during the mother's day weekend, but they have sat here untouched since then.

It's hard to know how to handle this reluctance to deal with things.  She wasn't our mother, and didn't attempt to be.  My father doesn't seem unduly morose in the run up to the anniversary.  His way of dealing with my stepmother's death was to take every picture from the albums they had built up and throw away any which didn't have her in them.  Thus he has an enormous pile of pictures all ripped from their context, of my stepmother smiling at the camera.

During her funeral, the officiant - I have no idea if he was a deacon, vicar or priest - referred to the "happy-go-lucky" personality of my stepmother... which occasioned a few puzzled expressions among the family, wondering who in their right minds might have used that phrase for her. 

The problem is, that there wasn't much to say about her, apart from the fact that she worked for ATV for a while.  She smoked, she talked, she ordered my father around, she complained, and she smoked some more.  By the end of her life she had given up smoking, stayed in bed all the time, and watched soaps on tv.  She seemed annoyed that people were interrupting her soap-watching when they came to see her.

Her daughter and granddaughters were the only people she was ever positive about.  Generally, she seemed content with her life, but not particularly happy or unhappy.  Certainly not happy-go-lucky.

Hopefully my stepsister will feel able to tackle her mother's possessions in due course.  It would certainly make life easier if there were space in the wardrobes and drawers for things to be.

Monday, December 06, 2010

Being there

Welcome to the tropical paradise which is my father's bungalow in St Albans.   He is ill at the moment, and so the family didn't think he should be alone.  My mother (his ex-wife) stayed last week, my sister came over the weekend, and I arrived yesterday.

It's -5 in the shade outside, I awoke to a hoar frost which had edged the leaves with a sparkling white fringe.  So it came as a bit of a shock last night to step across the threshold and be hit by a wall of heat, like Hawaii in summertime.

He started off with a chest infection, moved to a possible bladder infection and then revealed a badly infected toe on Friday night, something he had apparently been nursing for weeks without telling anyone.  My sister operated on him over the weekend and no, Doctor, she doesn't have any medical qualifications.

He seems to be feeling better than he did last week, but is terribly terribly weak... only just about managing to make it to his chair this morning. 

I must admit I was anxious about coming.  I love my father, and he's a kind, generous and loving man, but he is also addicted to the Daily Telegraph (and insists on reading great chunks of it out), plays the tv at 90 decibels (and shouts at it) and is normally quite exercised about various tings in the news.  The Labour government really used to get him going; now he mostly reserves his ire for the EU. 

I haven't done a lot of work today, although I do have a broadband connection.  It is pretty hard to keep my concentration up under the current conditions, not least because I have to go somewhere to try to find some oxygen every so often.  Still, the doctor came, and prescribed stiffer drugs for the infection, which I fetched from the Chemists, taking pictures of the amazing frost along the way.

He's eaten a little dinner, but is mostly not very hungry.  I hope he will feel better tomorrow.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Power and powerlessness in the NHS

The Guardian today reports the tragedy of twins dying because of a mistake over drug administration, at Stafford Hospital, already at the centre of an investigation into poor standards of care.  The investigation into allegedly hundreds of unnecessary deaths at the Staffordshire hospital, is looking into why so many NHS bodies didn't act sooner to halt the "terrible standard of service inflicted on patients...".

Whenever anyone says anything like that, I am transported back ten years, to a time when my husband was admitted to hospital with an abdominal obstruction.  He was seen in the Accident and Emergency department by a junior member of a team of doctors who weren't from the Gastroenterology department, and admitted to one of the wards in Hillingdon Hospital.

There he was literally used as a guinea pig by several junior doctors from that team.  At one point they planned to give him an explosive laxative to try to shift the obstruction, and it was only when I asked them what would happen to my husband if the obstruction was not to be shifted by the use of laxatives that they decided to abort that procedure.

He was put on conservative treatment, which meant nil by mouth and drip only for fluid.  I frequently found that his drip had run out and no one had replaced it... something which gradually increased the pain from his stomach.  I would try to insist on the drip being replaced rapidly because he is a patient who "tissues up" very quickly... if a drip is left unused for more than half an hour, it become unusable.  Thus often the simple job of replacing the fluid turned into a lengthy fight for him to have a new drip inserted and the bag replaced - often there wasn't a doctor available to redo the drip, and he waited hours to have it inserted... and then the fluid wasn't increased to take account of the fact that he had had none at all for several hours.

I complained about his treatment, and had one nurse tell me that she often didn't drink all day and it didn't do her any harm... and another nurse tell me that the nurses were fed up with me complaining because they had some "really sick" patients on the same ward.

I watched my husband deteriorate day by day, and called in all the friends and family with any experience of nursing or medicine to see if anything would make a difference.  By the time he had been in hospital a week, he was vomiting faeces, weak, dehydrated and deteriorating before my eyes.

I wont go into the gory details, but there were many incidents... my husband was screaming in agony one day when all the nurses were in handover meeting and ignoring the bells, and so all the men in the cubicle of the ward, threw things and shouted until someone came.  The man across the ward was constantly complaining about pain, and the nurses laughed at him and told him to use his morphine pump... he complained that it wasn't working and they ignored him... only realising when the hadn't had to change the syringe after three days that it hadn't ever worked at all.

The low point was when I was sent with John in a wheelchair to the X-Ray department and the X-ray staff were so kind that it made me cry... they realised he should never have been made to get into a wheelchair, and his drip should not have been disconnected for the journey.

A doctor came in to see him and when I said I was very concerned about his condition, said:  "Mrs Berry, are YOU a doctor?  I can see him, he doesn't seem that ill to me."  I turned to him and said that I didn't need to be a doctor to see that he was deteriorating day by day... and that looking at him from the end of the bed was not the same as examining him.

He examined him and suddenly, he was an emergency.  It seemed that even though they were seriously concerned about his condition, he wasn't scheduled for surgery until the Friday, and then there seemed to be some sort of hold up relating to the drip kit for theatre... I overheard one of the nurses say that the system was that they had to turn in the old one to get a new one, and no one knew where it was... the anaesthetist was becoming concerned that my husband wasn't in a fit state for surgery and I was becoming concerned about her cancelling the operation, because I knew he would die without it, and so I disclosed to the anaesthetist what was going on and she obtained the necessary theatre kit.

He had his operation and was fortunate enough to go into the high dependency unit as they had a spare bed, instead of back onto the ward.  They removed necrotic tissue that no laxative would have shifted, and he was sewn back up.  Unfortunately I watched him deteriorate over the next 24 hours, and eventually watched as his blood pressure dropped to an impossibly low level.  The nurse was simply recording the numbers, and I asked why nothing was being done about it.  He said that the machinery must be faulty because he would be dead with such low numbers.  As a tactic, I had hysterics to draw attention to my husband...something I have never done before and hope never to have to do again.

It turned out that the machinery was right.  They began to push blood into him to compensate for the low blood pressure, and warned me that things looked bad.  My family gathered in the waiting room alongside the intensive care unit, and I went to see them, just as one of the surgeons happened along.  He met John's brother and made some throwaway comment like... "of course your brother is a much bigger man than you...", at which we both looked a question at him and said..."no, they're about the same stature and build" at which point the surgeon rushed away.  John was bleeding into the stomach and had an emergency operation to fix the nick in his testicular artery.

He had been so dehydrated during the first operation that when the surgeon nicked his artery, he didn't bleed.  Once he had been hydrated again, he began to bleed internally.  I began to wonder if anyone in the hospital ever used logic to solve problems... obviously the blood that was being pumped into him at regular intervals was going somewhere, and there was a reason why his blood pressure remained dangerously low.

Over the next two weeks that my husband was in hospital, I talked to a lot of people.  I talked to surgeons, to nurses, to health care assistants, to porters.  No one in the hospital felt that they had the power to change the things that needed changing.  Nearly all of them recognised the things that were wrong with the hospital, none of them felt that there were ways of feeding that information to the people who took decisions... in fact, my experience since then with hospitals has led me to feel that the whole management system of the NHS is designed to prevent the information that the workers know from getting to the people who matter.  The hierarchy is  there to give people a feeling of prestige and status, but it acts as a wall to information coming from below.  The middle management hear the complaints of both the workers and the management and absorb both instead of conveying information - in fact they more or less see that as their responsibility, to protect the management from the staff, and the staff from the management.

An example of this was when my husband returned to hospital to have his colostomy reversed.  When he came out of surgery, he was put into a private room, and I was told that he ought to have oxygen, but that they were short of the little disposible widgets which are required to be able to fit the oxygen mask to the equipment and so could I please pinch him from time to time to ensure he was breathing enough to keep his oxygen intake up.  When, despite my pinching, the alarm kept sounding for low oxygen, their solution was to turn off the alarm.

I went to the board meeting of the hospital, and reported this event to them.  They expressed shock and horror.  They had invested a huge amount of money to be able to pipe oxygen to each of the rooms and wards in the hospital, what was the point of that investment if patients weren't reaping the benefit, all because of a £3 widget?  I was asked to talk to one of the staff about it.  I duly rang up and talked to someone in the administration... and the first thing they told me was that they also worked as an agency nurse in the hospital and they were fully aware of the problem.  Fully aware, doing nothing about it.

I have come across this time and time again, in hospitals, that people are fully aware of the problems which are putting patients lives at risk, and yet do nothing about it because it isn't their responsibility - they don't feel responsibility, or any power to change what is happening.In that case it was all about budgets:  the wards hd a budget for the widgets, and if they exceeded the budget they ran out of widgets, QED.

After my husband was released from hospital I talked to people in the community, his GP, the local community health council, all sorts of people, to see if any of them felt that they had the power to change things.  None of them did.  Most especially the local GPs who felt that they had to maintain a good relationship with their local hospital in order to best serve the majority of their patients, even when they could see things going wrong.

This is at the heart of the problem... you can't expect other NHS organisations and practices to complain and report problems, because they fear that the good relationship they have with the institution will be destroyed.  That's human nature.

I have since had similarly awful experiences with Great Ormond Street, one of the most famous hospitals in the world, but by that time the Community Health Councils had been disbanded, and there was a Patient advocacy and liaison service in the hospital.  I had the greatest difficulty in getting hold of them, and despite many emails, no satisfaction.  It wasn't that I wanted to be compensated financially in either case.  My aim was that I wanted to prevent another patient from suffering the way we had.  I failed in that aim, on both occasions.

My belief is that the only way to ensure that problem hospitals like the Stafford Hospital come to the attention of the authorities in good time, is to set up a truly independent inspection service made up of both doctors and laypeople.  They should inspect hospitals outside their own area, where there is no possibility of damage to the relationships which doctors rely on, and they should be briefed not to establish a relationship of any sort with the hospital they are inspecting.  One of the problems with the Community Health Councils was that the people inspecting hospitals had a stronger and closer relationship with the people they were inspecting than with the community they were there to represent.

There is no perfect system, but some hospitals do better at this than others, and the ones which do well ought to be teaching the ones who do badly.  Where things go wrong, they should be looked at, and somehow patients, and consultants and nurses and administators and GPs and everyone involved needs to feel that if there is a problem it is everyone's responsibility, not no-one's.

I still have flashbacks to the two incidents which involved my nearest and dearest, and both of them survived.  I can't imagine how awful it must be, how much guilt and grief the surviving family members must have about the people who died needlessly at the Stafford Hospital.  But I do now that it is possible to change this, and that we all have a part to play.  The contact I have had with Americans in the course of my work in virtual worlds has led me to value the NHS and the services it provides.  It is a wonderful thing, even if parts of it need overhauling.  It would be possible, I do believe, to nurture it in such a way that we keep the things which make it such a unique institution, and change the things which let it down.

I have met some wonderful people in the course of my life, working for the NHS.  Dedicated, caring, clever, and committed.  Systems that let those people down and make them feel powerless, need to be changed, and I hope the inquiry at Stafford will help to do that.  It would be good to make those relatives feel that something positive can emerge from their losses.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

What's a twitter newspaper?

That would be this.  Looks a whole lot more interesting and less doom and gloom than a traditional newspaper!

Friday, October 22, 2010

Play



Watch this film about a person who made a robotic curtain for his workshop, which moves along with the passers-by and marvel at how humans love to play.  They play and learn things about how the curtain follows and reacts.  I am convinced that humans learn best when they are allowed to play, and that our schools should be more like those children's museums which are full of stuff to play and interact with. 

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Imprisoned

Great article in the Guardian recounts an interview between Jon Ronson and Natascha Kampusch on her new book about her imprisonment, 3096 days.

It seems inexplicable that someone should kidnap and imprison someone and yet appear so normal on the outside, but instead of finding this inexplicable, Natascha explains that it was that gap between the person he was inside and the person he was on the outside that was the cause of his madness.  He couldn't reconcile the two, couldn't be the person he appeared to be, or yet the person he really was, and so she filled the widening gulf in between the two personas.  It is a profound insight which does ring true.  As people often say on forums nowadays *THIS*.

I have tried and tried to work out what happened when one day I suddenly saw the damage that can be caused by ordinary schooling, what it was that spoke to me so profoundly and made me know for sure that it would be wrong to continue to send my children to school.  It's this:  that schooling creates a widening gulf between the inner life and the outer life.  It insists that children learn certain things, behave in a certain way, gain acceptance and praise by conforming, by moulding their outer selves into something the schools can deal with.

The problem is that most of us are not conformist, not interested in the things which school wants us to learn, and not naturally as quiet and compliant as a good record at school demands.  How well we deal with the demands made upon us at an early age, may influence our success or failure for years, decades to come.

Many of us are therefore imprisoned inside a persona which enables us to function well within a school environment, which is entirely different from our natural persona, and which imposes a dual or multiple personality on us in order to succeed.  I don't mean to imply that Priklopil's madness was caused by his schooling, I don't know when or how he became the twisted kidnapper, rather than a fantasist... but I can't believe it can have helped. 

That gap between the person we know ourselves to be and the person the world sees, is responsible for an awful lot of evil in the world.  Whether our self-esteem gap means that we value ourselves much less or much more, it leads to trouble, depression, megalomania.

I feel that we need desperately to understand the difference between schooling, which involves telling children what it is right for them to be interested in, what it is right for them to learn, what it is right for them to do, and education, which tries to recognise each individual child as unique, and to draw out their unique gifts and talents.

The first takes a child, ignores their uniqueness and tries to mould it into the ideal, which appears to be an academic - something a relatively tiny proportion of the population is naturally inclined to be - and the second allows people to find themselves.  The first requires the system to ignore who a person is, inside.  The second allows children to align their exterior with their interior world, and to become the person they are meant to be.

I knew immediately which model I wanted my children to be subject to, once I recognised the difference... and it was literally like scales falling from my eyes.  I realised that a lot of what I had believed about schooling was merely propaganda, not what I had experienced myself.  I'm wondering how long it will take for the education industry itself to recognise the same thing.

I think that our experiences and our view of the world is influenced by the message we receive from other people about who we are, and so it is hardly surprising that Natascha appears to be somewhat introspective and disassociated from herself, observing herself.  She speaks in the interview about her irritation that her empathy for her captor is seen as a possible symptom of Stockholm syndrome, instead of a practical strategy for survival, which is what she thinks it was.  I wonder if she is right that her ability to see her captor as a flawed person first, was responsible for her survival; to have survived so long in a place which was virtually undiscoverable, means she must have been offering her captor something that he needed. Is that wrong or an indication of some sort of mental failure?  Or simply practical?

That she was psychologically capable of escaping her captor, after 3096 days in captivity, speaks of her strength and her will to survive the ordeal.  Many people, with much flimsier cages, never escape.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Does competition raise standards?

I was listening to some government suit on the radio yesterday, talking about the coming changes to the NHS, and he said something that you hear all the time:  competition drives up standards.  Does it?  Does it really?  I have been thinking about the other areas where there is no natural competition and the government has tried to provide some, to see if I think this has caused standards to rise.  I really can't say that they have.  The Post Office, British Telecom, and the National Rail network all seem to me to have lowered their standards since forced to compete. 

The Gas and Electricity companies, who still pipe the same gas and electricity into our homes, don't seem any different for the notional competition which has been introduced, except for the proliferation of scamming salesmen who tour the country trying to persuade elderly people to switch to another supplier without realisng what they are doing.

I've become a bit of a sceptic when it comes to the likelihood of competition driving up standards where there is no real competition... where the contest is simply contrived by administration and bureaucracy.  My feeling is that the main interest of bureaucrats is to create more bureacracy, and the main job of administrators is to justify their posts.  I don't see there being massive changes for the better and standards being driven up.

Even in the free market, I think a lot of the things which we are told about supply and demand are mostly bullshit.  Let me tell you a story.

I have enormous breasts.  I'm not saying that to draw attention to myself, but it is a matter of verifiable fact that the size of my breasts far exceeds the sizes stocked by such high street companies as Messrs Marks and Spencer.  Once upon a time, in 1998, when I was new to the internet and exploring online forums, I stumbled into a forum apparently for big breasted women.  I thought to find fellow sufferers, sharing tips on places to buy our corsetry without breaking the bank, and how to live with big breasts without breaking our backs.

Of course, it wasn't in the nature of a self-help group, but a group for men who like big breasted women and - as far as I could see - a bunch of women pretending to be accessorised with large breasts.  When I gladly disclosed the size of mine one of the people in the chat room offered me two chairs - one for me and one for my breasts, and the banter in the room made it plainly obvious that they did not believe me.  I was a little bit naive then... I am a lot wiser now.

Anyway... there is an international company of bra manufacturers which boasts that their Doreen design is the best selling bra in the world, with so many thousands sold every year.  It is little wonder, as these bras are the only bras commonly available for people of my size.  It isn't possible to obtain other bras unless you pay two, three or four times as much - and even then it may be impossible to get the right size.

This means that although there is a demand - a strong demand - from women of my size for different, prettier, more feminine bras to accommodate women with enormous breasts, the only type of bra available is this one.  Thus it becomes the most successful bra in the world, not because it is the bra demanded by women, but because it is the only choice... a hobson's choice of this bra or no bra drives women to buy it.  Or else small children may die.  I could easily crush half a dozen five years olds if I run without a bra at all.

So supply and demand doesn't necessarily mean having what you want supplied to you... it may mean having whatever is available supplied to you as the best of a bad bunch of options.

When competition is added into the mix, it tends to be that prices drop rather than competition raising standards.  If another bra manufacturer muscled in on the business, this would be the most obvious way to beat the others - by dropping the price.

I'd be very interested to know if anyone had any examples of times when competition between companies or suppliers, had actually been proved to raise standards.  Let me know in the comments if you can find any examples.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

New thinking

I woke up this morning, turned on my computer, and did all the things I no longer evn think about:  they are second nature to me.  Checked my email, checked the news, looked on Facebook to see what people have posted there.  Followed a couple of links, one of which took me to the RSAnimation of Sir Ken Robinson's talk on the new paradigm for education which is here:


Then, I stumbled a couple of times... a funny about celebrating Columbus day by walking into someone else's houe and declaring that we live here now... and a trailer for a film about a film on David Suzuki which appears to be about population growth (and how it is too late to do anything about it, maybe?)

I realised that I have voluntarily submitted to two talks and that in the course of a week I voluntarily submit to many more - because they are about subjects which interest me, or because they are amusing or well made, or popular.

I do think it is true that people who home educate go through a conversion process, where they have to leave their old paradigm of education behind.  It saddens me that Sir Ken Robinson always talks in terms of public education as though there is no current alternative to the industrial machine of education which is provided by the government.  There is, and it is working, and it is called home education.  He barely ever acknowledges that it exists, when I think it could add weight to the idea that getting rid of ideas about what it is right for children to learn, and trying the education as growth model of education, works far better for individuals than the current model.

In any case, it seems to me that the education industry is struggling to keep u in some areas, particularly IT and computers... they can't print the textbooks fast enough.