The last two weeks have felt like an endless game of pass-the-problem, only no one seems to want to catch it. That’s the reality of navigating NHS challenges as a live-in carer—you’re the one trying to connect all the missing pieces while keeping your client safe and comfortable.
It started with something simple—at least, it should have been. The hospital should have made a referral to an occupational therapist. Straightforward. Standard. Necessary. But when I followed up? Nothing. No record. No sign it was ever sent.
That same hospital also forgot to register my client for a scheduled catheter change.
Of course, these things always come to a head at the worst possible time. One evening, the catheter blocked completely—no flow at all. I tried to reach the district nurses, only to discover there’s no out-of-hours phone line. No nurses on call.
Surprisingly, NHS 111 was the bright spot. Within 20 minutes, a clinician called me back. But once it became clear we needed someone to either flush or change the catheter, we hit another wall: no one available.
In the end, the out-of-hours GP called an ambulance. Forty minutes later, we were lucky—one of the paramedics happened to be a nurse. They managed to flush the catheter and save us from a hospital trip.
But even their sensible suggestion—that district nurses should come out as soon as possible—turned into another obstacle course.
The next morning, I rang the district nurses. You don’t speak to them directly; you speak to a call screener, who “passes on the message.” After three messages, I finally got a call back.
And still, they didn’t come.
Their reasoning? Further interference might increase the risk of infection. I can understand the principle—but it’s not much comfort when your client is still in pain.
I explained carefully that I could only describe what I saw, and I wasn’t making a diagnosis. Still, the only advice was to take a urine sample, wait for results, and then, if needed, start antibiotics.
Meanwhile, my client was left uncomfortable, waiting.
Sometimes in care, it’s not the emergencies themselves that get you—it’s the waiting, the bureaucracy, and the feeling that no one is quite willing to take responsibility.
For those of us navigating NHS challenges as a live-in carer, moments like these are more than just “a bad shift.” They’re a test of patience, persistence, and emotional resilience. You’re the one holding the line when the system falters—managing fear, pain, and uncertainty, all while keeping life moving for the person you care for. And when the dust finally settles, there’s no real break—just the knowledge that next time, you might have to fight the same battles all over again.
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