this post should be filed under the ‘is it me?’ category, if I had one
A friend has been admitted to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford (hereafter known as ‘the JR’, which is nothing to do with fictional Texas-based oilmen, obv).
My first thought:
Holy shit, she’s so young! (she’s still at school)
My second thought:
Go see her and take some chocolate!
So I stuffed a large bag of large Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons (yes, two larges back there) in to my laptop rucksack, for one of those days when I could stretch some time to visit the JR.
Today was one of those days.
On my way through Oxford I diverted to the JR and (miraculously) found a parking space.
I schlepped (this is becoming my new favourite word) in to reception, walked up to the desk and gave the receptionist my most beamingest of smiles.
‘My friend [firstname] [surname] has been admitted [with condition]. Could you tell me which ward she’s in so I can drop in this Get Well Card and some chocolate?’ I asked, waving an envelope and bag of chocolate.
‘Can you tell me what you are to her?’
‘I’m a friend.’
‘No. I can’t tell you that’, replied the antipodean receptionist (she wasn’t actually in the antipodes, she was from there, but sitting in the JR).
My jaw thudded on to the desk.
‘Really??’ I responded, actually fitting two question marks in.
‘That would be a breach of our patient confidentiality rules’, said The Guardian Of Patient Confidentiality (who I had mistakenly assumed to be a helpful receptionist).
‘REALLY?????’
She could sense my incredulity.
‘I’m not making this up!’ she flung in my face.
‘Hang on,’ I said nicely. ‘I’ve already told you the patient’s first name and her surname. I’ve told you the condition she has been admitted under. I can tell you her address. I can tell you she’s here. And yet you are telling me – for reasons of confidentiality – that you can’t tell me which ward I need to go to, to deliver this card and these chocolates??????????’
I could sense the receptionist counting each of those question marks (ten, in case you’re interested).
‘That’s what I’m telling you’.
I was tempted to ask which hospital directive she was following – and could she show me this directive in print – but I was so stunned at this new definition of ‘confidentiality’, that I picked my jaw up off the desk, turned around and left reception.
I stood outside the doors, in plain site of The Guardian Of Patient Confidentiality, pulled out my phone, called the patient, and asked which ward she was imprisoned on.
The I walked straight in to reception, past The Guardian Of Patient Confidentiality, walked down the corridor and in to the lift.
As I walked out of the lift to my friend’s ward I wondered what would have happened, a few minutes ago, if I had lied about my relationship and had said I was the patient’s step-brother or cousin, would The Guardian Of Patient Confidentiality have granted me the information I had asked for?
Or would The Guardian Of Patient Confidentiality have interrogated me, in tiny detail, over my friend’s physical and mental characteristics, until I eventually fluffed a question, and would she then have thrown me in to Hospital prison?
But seriously, on the simple say-so of ‘I’m related to this person’, or ‘I’m not related to this person’, this is now a point of patient confidentiality?
Really?
picks up jaw and wanders off muttering how much the Daily Mail would love this story
The world has gone “confidential” mad. Did you know you can’t check your electoral roll entry without, usually, applying in advance and then bringing two lots of identification with you. Then, you will be shown the page, but all the other names on that page will be blacked out. And don’t get me started on the amount of drivel spouted under the guise of The Data Protection Act!
You should have biffed her on the schnozzle – she was worth it.
But yes, Data Protection and confidentiality are the latest things for everyone to completely misunderstand and go overboard on.
And that thing with the electoral roll, Dave, is that how it is now? I remember – about ten years ago – going down to wherever it is they keep them now and the only security check they made was to see if there was a bomb in my briefcase.