18) Am I a doctor - Er no! Tumour or Baked Beans?

 A blog about myself, daughter of an extreme hoarder parent, who fell over on Christmas Day 2025 and broke 3 ribs. He remains in hospital thinking he can come home soon... He has terminal oesophageal cancer, kidney function issues, asthma, diabetes, skin cancer and he’s 95. Meanwhile I’m running around like a blue-arsed fly trying to possibly make things safe at his house in case he gets sent home, yet being acutely aware he will have an uncanny ability to know if anything’s missing and he won’t be pleased. I have a job and family of my own. Slowly but surely, I’m losing the plot.

Thursday 5th February 2026 (Six weeks in hospital).

Today I spent 5 hours at that house tidying and clearing. I came out of there stinking dirty, sneezing and with an aching back. However, before I went home, I needed to go visit the hospital.

Dad has now been in hospital 6 weeks today. Fair to say he's pretty unhappy being in there. He says he wants to come out and complains a LOT. He is able to sign himself out should he wish. He knows this. However if he does this, he will get no help whatsoever from social services. No home help, no home nurses, no nothing.

As it's the NHS, and I appreciate they're really struggling right now, things take a looooong time. Dad doesn't help himself by complaining and moaning about anything and everything. His dinner is too hot/cold/spicy/mushy/tasteless. His tablets are not given at the right time - his water pill, he says MUST be given two hours before or 30m after (don't quote me) food, otherwise he needs to do a sprint to the bathroom. He can't sprint!

When I arrived at his bedside at about 3.30pm, he told me he had done a sit down protest at the nurses desk today because he didn't know when his ears were to be syringed and he can't hear. Of course he's frustrated, I get that. Finally the nurses took him to the ear dept and after a lot of searching, they said the appointment would be tomorrow.

I was a little concerned to see he had a kidney bowl by his bed with a watery foamy fluid in it. I asked if he was OK. He said he couldn't get anything down his throat and had try as he may, everything he ate or drank came straight back up. He had only managed to et 9 baked beans from lunch. This alarmed me more than it did him. This is what happened back in June 2025 when he went to A & E. Then they put a camera down his throat, it wouldn't fit so they put a baby camera down and found the 'nasty mass'. He finally had a stent fitted to hold the cancer back and after a few days was sent home. As he's 95 they can't operate and they can't treat it.

So when the same scenario played out again on Thursday, I went to see the nurse and quietly explained that I knew he was probably complaining too much but I thought this time it was possibly serious and I thought his stent was either blocked with baked beans or cancer.

20 minutes later, a man in a sweatshirt and navy trousers appeared at the bedside. 'Are you a doctor?' he asked, in a strong foreign accent. I'm not, and I told him so.

'So you're not a doctor' he said. I got the feeling this was a little accusatory. I repeated I wasn't. I asked who he was as his attitude was a little... unexpected.

'I'm the doctor.' he said.

He spoke to dad and asked what was happening and dad explained.

'Right. You are to have no more food and nothing to drink until tomorrow morning, when we will send you for an endoscopy. We will put you on IV fluids until then.' The nurse came and took away his uneaten dinner.  The doctor used my white board to explain to him and then he left.

My eyes started prickling. I fought the tears back. I'd let the tears out in the car on the way home. Visiting was almost over anyway. I hugged him and said I'd call the hospital the next day to see what was happening.

I held the tears back until I was in the corridor. I could do with a good cry, a release. Sometimes we all need a damn good cry... and the tears wouldn't come. They just wouldn't. I can't figure this out - when someone says the wrong word to me the tears pour out. Now when I need them to come, they refuse.

I rang the hospital at 3pm the following day. They said he was still waiting to be called down.

I rang at 4pm and they told me he wouldn't go down until Monday now as the unit had been busy. He has to be on iv fluids for 3 days as it's now a weekend.

Now I'm numb. Tears won't come, emotions are everywhere.

I went home with a box of paperwork to sort. In his house there are MANY boxes stacked high with stuff - each time he goes to Lidl, he takes a stackable fruit box to carry his shopping in - they're free and he can use them in the fire when he has finished with them (only he doesn't - he stacks them full of stuff - all over the house).

Some things I found in this box; 17 rawl-plugs and a drill bit, a receipt from 2014 for a toaster from Morrisons, a photograph of me from 1972, an old sock, 8 wine bottle corks, various letters and bank statements from 2014, 8 letters to him as executor for my mum (who passed in 1994). 2 letters addressed to my mum dated 2017, an ASDA magazine, a Lidl brochure, 2 Christmas cards from myself and my kids I don't remember sending - at a guess 10 years ago, an unopened marketing CD dated 2017, an original share certificate, 2 tax vouchers and a lot of ripped out pages from magazines about nothing in particular, a single flat moccasin slipper, an empty and cracked cotton reel and some hairy string.

There are about another 300 or so of these boxes.

A call from the hospital from the Adult Services team told me he would be allocated a social worker on Monday.