This year has been… interesting. Today marks my return home after my third major operation since May.

Another season of hospitals, curtains, beeping IV pumps, and the quiet rhythms of staff who work while the world sleeps…

This week, something stayed with me. Not my own pain. Not my own fear. Someone else.

Across from me sat an elderly gentleman. White hair. White beard. A sort of gentle, worn-in kindness about him… like Captain Birdseye crossed with Father Christmas. He never spoke unless spoken to. Always polite. Always thankful. The kind of man who apologises for taking up space in the world.

He practically lived in his chair. Not once did I see him in the bed beside him. He slept upright, small blanket tucked around him, hands folded. He never moved, his actions Slow. Fragile. Careful. The Macmillan nurse came to speak to him. He had cancer. He lived alone. Not once did I see a visitor.

There was a calm and stillness about him… along with a quiet dignity.

One morning, a team arrived, a cascade of roles, clipboards and language. He was deemed “medically stable” and therefore to be discharged. A plan to be put in place. Boxes ticked. Processes followed.

He tried to explain he did not feel capable, he wasn’t angry though clearly panicked… maybe… quietly afraid.

Though we know, once the system begins to move, it is very hard to stop.

Patient transport came later that day. The curtains drawn, though even with support, it was clear he could not stand unaided. They tried again, and again. In the end using a commode with removable arms to slide him across.

He could not stand. He could not transfer. And yet, he was going home!

As I watched, I felt… helplessness.

Because stepping in means stepping against the machine… and sometimes that can paint a target on your back. And I know (from past experience) what that feels like. The staff were kind, until they were not. Once discharge is in motion, care becomes direction. The tone changes. The ward fills with purpose and momentum… cold, clinical, unflinching…

I couldn’t shake the thoughts:
If he cannot stand to get into a wheelchair, how will he make a meal?
Or get to the toilet?
Or get to the door?

Maybe a care team will visit. Maybe they won’t have enough time.
Maybe they will come twice a day… or once.
Maybe he will wait. And wait. And wait.

There is so little room for dignity at the end.

I will never know what happened to him after he left.

Maybe there was kindness.
Maybe there was someone waiting.
Maybe not.

Schrödinger’s Elderly.

What haunts me is that he did not fight or cry or break. He simply accepted what was happening to him…

If this is how we treat people who have lived full lives… what will become of us when our time comes?