132. Sorry about that, Neville

Although we are only seven miles from the centre of Milton Keynes, this is an area that is unquestionably rural. Wavendon, the nearest settlement, has a population of 800 but it isn’t a village in the strict geographic, nomenclatural sense as it has no services or functions.  There is a church but there are no longer any shops in Wavendon, or businesses, or commercial premises and importantly, there is no doctors’ surgery.

The nearest surgery to our house is in Woburn Sands, a small town of about 3,000 people, two miles from Wavendon and that is where Caroline and I are registered.  This practice serves 11,000 people spread over 20 square miles. 

Many patients without cars have difficulty getting to the surgery.  Bus routes are few and services are (I’ve been told) erratic and anyway, the nearest bus stop to the surgery is a quarter of a mile from it - too far for someone with mobility problems.  Because of this, there is a framed notice in the waiting room asking if people with a car will give lifts to patients who do not drive or who need assistance. 

I have been giving lifts for the past year.

I have come across many people whom I would not otherwise have met.  They all have certain features in common.  Their most noticeable characteristics are that they are all white; they are all quite old - I would guess that they are all well over 80; nearly all of them are women and they all seem to live alone although just less than half of them live in sheltered housing.  Those who don’t, appear to be quite lonely.  

Many of those who don’t live in sheltered accommodation are housebound and live much further than walking distance from the nearest shop.  They rely on their relatives or neighbours to bring them the essential things they need.  One woman told me that the only time she leaves the house is to go to the doctor or to the hospital and this was the first time she’d been out for two months. 

One old lady opened the door before I rang the bell.  She had been sitting by the door for 45 minutes because she looks forward to her rides to the doctor so much. 

Nearly all of them have lived in the area for several years and some for all their lives.  They delight in telling me about the old times and I have learnt a lot about recent history of the area.  Every one of them is chatty and friendly, and their gratitude is almost embarrassing.

After we’d been travelling for a few minutes one day, a man asked me where I was taking him.  He regularly goes to three clinics at the hospital in Milton Keynes as well as to the GP.  All he had written down was that he was being collected at 10.30 and he was confused as to where he was going.

When I first started helping, I asked for the patients’ telephone numbers.  I thought that as I sometimes had to collect three people with the same appointment time but who lived up to four miles apart from each other, I would phone those who I would be picking up late and warn them.  However, not one of them ever answered the phone.  I have asked why, but I’ve never had a satisfactory answer.

One Thursday last month, I had six patients on my list to take to the surgery.  The first appointment time was at 10.10 and the last one was at 10.35.  It was clear that getting all of them there on time would be impossible but the doctors are aware of this and always fit them in.

Judith, the first person I collected that day, lives only 600 yards from the surgery.  I knocked on her door at 9.55 to allow enough time for what is often a slow business of getting the man or woman into the car.  Many of them have some kind of walking aid that needs to be stowed in the boot and they often need help and support to actually get into the car.

We set off and as I turned on to the main road I found that the route into Woburn Sands towards the surgery was closed to all traffic because of resurfacing.  The necessary detour was six miles and took more than twenty minutes.  Consequently, I was immediately way behind my planned schedule.

Maureen and Neville live near each other in the village of Aspley Guise.  They live two miles from the surgery and they both had appointments at 10.20 but I didn’t manage to drop them off at the surgery until after eleven.

By 12.30 I had managed to deliver all six patients to the surgery and had taken three of them home.  As I walked into the waiting room for the last time, I saw Maureen chatting with two women and a man.

I don’t ever really see the people I pick up.  They usually want to sit on the back seat but I immediately recognised Maureen because had sat at the front on the way to the surgery and she was wearing a distinctive, yellow jacket.  Maureen, the other woman and the man stood up when they saw me and I gestured to them to follow me to the car.  I put two walking frames into the boot and we set off.  

First, I drove to the village of Husborne Crawley and dropped off the other woman.  Then I was on my way home at last.  Aspley Guise, where I had collected Maureen and Neville, was on my way.  We reached Maureen’s house and they both got out.  “He’s coming in for a cup of tea,” she told me.  Pleased that I was going to be spared another five minutes driving, I set off home.  I had driven more than forty miles and had been driving virtually non-stop for three hours.

At 1.30, as I was watching the end of the lunchtime news, my cell phone rang.  It was the receptionist at the doctors’ surgery.

“Will you be collecting Neville soon?  He says he’s been waiting more than an hour.”

I realised immediately what had happened.  The man who went for a cup of tea with Maureen wasn’t Neville, the man I had picked up some three hours earlier but he did live in Aspley Guise.  Maureen must have told him that he could join her for a lift home.

Neville wasn’t at all annoyed or resentful at being overlooked.  He told me that he’d had a really enjoyable time chatting to the other patients and with the receptionists.

Of course, I will be wrong in most cases but I’ve never seen any sign of illness in any of the people I have taken to the surgery.  None has ever mentioned a particular complaint.  It seems to me that they only ever go for check-ups.  I suspect that as most of them look forward to their appointment with happy anticipation, the main motive for many of them is the social aspect of it all. 

When I was a boy, pupils at my school were asked to help at the “Over-60s Club” after school.  Over 60s!  That isn’t considered old today.  Fifty years ago, times and life expectations were different.  There are organisations around here today for old people but I wonder if they are for the over 60s?  Their notices say that they cater for “older people” and I’d be very surprised if anyone in their 60s joins.

The surgery asks that patients always book appointments with their usual GP to ensure continuity of care.  If I want to book an appointment today with my usual GP, the next available slot is in 19 days time. 

I once suggested to my doctor that apart from when someone requests an emergency appointment, she can never see anyone who is actually ill - anyone with an acute illness.  She smiled and her response was non-committal. 

In many ways, loneliness must be the worst kind of social poverty.  It is very sad for lonely people and there are knock-on effects that indirectly affect all of us.