Covid rules cruel to my dying wife
WHEN my wife Leonore, known as Lennie, was diagnosed with motor neurone disease — a death sentence from which there is no reprieve — the NHS swung into action. The local MND team gave us fantastic support and provided equipment to help Lennie cope with increasing disability. But due to the Covid restrictions, once she went into hospital after a fall, it was a different story. Lennie’s one attempt at a virtual visit with me and her best friend Sharon was a disaster. The disease had reduced her voice to a husk and she found it difficult to grip her tablet computer. She dropped it several times, struggled to pick it up and was too far from the microphone to be heard. There didn’t appear to be a nurse available to help her. I asked about a face-to-face visit and was told this would only be allowed after 14 days. I pointed out this was the same visiting rights allowed to a convicted paedophile in prison. I did get to see Lennie much sooner because there were complications with fitting a feeding tube and they thought she might die. When she was found a bed in ICU, I had to leave. She survived, but her ability to use her fingers had gone and there were no more texts or phone calls. Once I was allowed to visit, I read texts from her friends and sent replies on her behalf. I was told I couldn’t visit again for seven days. This felt unimaginably cruel. Lennie was being devastated by MND, but had all her mental faculties. She had to endure hours alone with her thoughts and fears, utterly bereft. She was terrified and told me so. I was called back to the hospital the next day and then again that night because they thought Lennie might not make it. She had been put on a ventilator and I had to wear full PPE. With a device around my waist that noisily pumped air into a goldfish bowl on my head, I couldn’t hear a thing when she tried to speak. She was reduced to pointing to letters on a card to communicate. I don’t know who this was supposed to protect as we had both been doubly vaccinated, as had the nurses. Lennie rallied, so I was not allowed another visit until a week later. I made it clear I was not prepared to wear an outfit that rendered communication impossible. After a stand-off, the hospital relented and I was allowed to wear the same kit as the nurses: mask, plastic visor, gown and gloves. At least it was possible to communicate. The hospital finally found its sense of humanity and I was allowed daily onehour visits, with a blind eye being turned when I exceeded that. Nevertheless, we still found the restrictions cruel. Lennie had lots of friends, she knew her time was short and wanted to say goodbye, but the only visitor permitted was me. On my last visit, Lennie died within minutes of me entering her room. It was as though she had waited for me. My great fear was that she would die alone as so many did in the pandemic. That may be a consolation for me that she didn’t, but none whatsoever for her son and friends. I would have happily organised visitors in relays. I would have paid for Covid tests if that’s what it would have taken. Individual doctors and nurses were magnificent. It’s the inhumane NHS bureaucracy that’s rotten. The final indignity came with Lennie’s funeral. Less than 24 hours after the Euros final was attended by a crowd of 60,000, just 24 mourners were allowed into the crematorium. I can come to terms with my wife’s death, but don’t believe I’ll ever come to terms with the official cruelties that were inflicted.