Visiting at Royal Blackburn

Our national cult, the NHS, reminded me again this week why so many feel frustrated by it. I went to the Royal Blackburn Hospital to visit a congregant. Not knowing his ward, I gave his name and asked where I might find him. Reception staff demanded his date of birth. I explained that I did not have this information, and if I had, I was unlikely retain it in my brain (members may be pleased to know that this data is not kept by the chapel). I asked if I might find him by walking from ward to ward, but, they explained, ‘security would not like that’. The reception staff began to blabber on about data protection, about it not being their fault, about how busy the hospital was, etc. I made my feelings clear and someone said they would deign to search for him by address. I had his postcode, but no, that did not narrow it down. They then said that there were twenty people with his name on their records, but none of them were in-patients. Assuming he had been discharged, I caught the bus back. Then a contact messaged me to say he was on such-and-such a ward.

I was not pleased.

Whether the staff were bunglers, or over-worked, or dishonest, I do not know. But like the reception termagants who guard access to the GPs at my local surgery, they seem to be particularly adept at turning folk away empty-handed. Thankfully, access to the Living God does not involve running the gauntlet of NHS receptionists or ‘patient access teams’:

Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not. Jeremiah 33:3, Geneva Bible

God delights to hear us pray and the angels rejoice when one sinner calls on Him for the first time.

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay