Hazel McHaffie

racism

Whistle blowing

To err is human, to cover up is unforgivable, and to fail to learn is inexcusable.
Prof Sir Liam Donaldson (former CMO England)

Whistle in the Wind has to be the most disturbing book I’ve read this year – and probably not best tackled when we’re all rather dispirited about the rising Covid numbers, and increasing restrictions on our freedoms. Hey ho! Once started I couldn’t go back.

It tells the story of one NHS senior consultant surgeon’s battle to get his hospital/Trust to take action in the face of a catalogue of failings and dangerous practices in his place of work – abysmal clinical standards, gross imbalances in workload, extremely poor judgements, shirked responsibilities, dysfunctional relationships, financial irregularities. But the ‘guilty parties’ resented Peter Duffy drawing attention to their deficiencies, and mounted a deliberate campaign of victimisation and counter accusations against him.

At the time, the Trust’s website declared that no whistle-blower would lose their job or suffer any detriment if they spoke up to identify genuine patient safety concerns – a claim made by most large organisations nowadays. But the reality was far from the promise. Even more unbelievably, the same Trust had recently had its Midwifery Department found guilty of gross and shocking failings, a fact plastered over the media, but senior management nevertheless still appeared complacent and apathetic. Ranks closed. Honesty and truth were stifled.

Hugely daunted, Mr Duffy nevertheless eventually reported his concerns to the Care Quality Commission whose job it is to oversee safe and effective practice in health and social care settings. Until I read this book, I thought they were indeed the go-to organisation for action and a fair independent hearing. But in his case, they didn’t even attempt to corroborate his account. And furthermore, they specifically state that they will take no part in protecting the individual whistle-blower. Who knew?!

Retaliatory action against Mr Duffy escalated, and included not only malicious, false, fabricated and covert accusations – defamatory emails and letters claiming he was both racist and a bully, and had fraudulently obtained money to which he was not entitled – but also docking a substantial sum of money owed to him, and eventually loss of his job.  Accusations against him were sent to the police as well as senior management. He even received a phonecall warning him that the consultants he had reported were ‘utterly committed to revenge’. He felt ‘thoroughly hated and despised’.

In spite of his senior status and established good reputation, no one in any of the organisations set up to deal with such situations seemed to be paying any attention to his legitimate and proven concerns. There was no feedback, no support, no action.

How this man coped with seeing continuing incidences of neglect, malpractice, avoidable harm or deaths, on top of the personal vendetta against him, I really don’t know. I once blew the whistle in a much more low-key way and suffered from the aftermath of the ensuing hostility and injustice for years. Reading this book stirred the embers of that horror quite stressfully. Finally, even Mr Duffy had no appetite for submitting reports of sub-optimal care which went unheeded; he felt intimidated and frightened by the hostility and retaliation.

By now the toxicity within the hospital  – ongoing rudeness, aggression, hostility, dysfunctional behaviour and relationships, collusion, incompetence, cover up, neglect, dangerous practices – together with his own fear of some act of revenge, led to his health suffering seriously. Sleeplessness and high anxiety levels led to him suffering cardiac arrhythmias, ending up a patient himself.

But his conscience and professionalism would not allow him to turn a blind eye when the lives and dignity of patients were at stake. The General Medical Council‘s position is, after all, unequivocal:
Doctors in particular have a duty to act when they believe patient’s safety is at risk, or that patient’s care or dignity is being compromised. Our guidance sets out our expectation that all doctors will, whatever their role, take appropriate action to raise and act on concerns about patient care, dignity and safety.
He felt the weight of this duty keenly.

Colleagues and friends, however, seeing how he had been treated, were reluctant to expose themselves to the same retribution. Even when his case came to an Employment Tribunal, disclosure was limited. Witnesses were warned off from supporting him; they could neither appear nor have their witness statements seen by the Tribunal. And just four working days before the case was heard, the Trust issued an intimidating letter, telling Mr Duffy he was doomed to lose his case, and they would be pursuing him and his family for costs estimated at £108,000. However, if he would just agree to drop the case immediately in its entirety, remain silent, and agree to a non-disclosure clause, then they would not pursue costs.

To his great credit, he did not give in to these strong-arm tactics. And he was eventually exonerated, but the triumph was something of a pyrrhic victory. Even though this case was deemed an across-the-board failure on the part of the Trust and the clinicians concerned, nothing much has changed, Mr Duffy laments. Systemic failures are still ongoing; lives are still put at risk avoidably; whistle-blowers are still treated as lepers. Furthermore, he and his family have paid a colossal price for his integrity, courage and commitment to patient safety. In a massive understatement, he says he still struggles to believe the tactics adopted to silence him. I recognise that sense of incredulity and bewilderment all too easily.

The NHS, regulators and the law, all repeatedly claim the importance of safeguarding and speaking out to protect others; and they have a clearly stated duty of care to clinicians and patients. They offered this particular whistle-blower neither care nor protection. I can well imagine writing this book was cathartic for its author – at last he could present his case in its entirety. And I thank him sincerely for doing so. It was, in the end, therapeutic for me too – putting me clearly into the camp of ‘committed, responsible, caring individuals’ who summon up the strength to stand up to those who hurt or bully the vulnerable. The fact that it’s not a literary masterpiece, adds to its feeling of authenticity. It’s an unvarnished, from-the-heart, account. I can only admire the persistence and courage behind it, and wish the Duffy family well in the future.

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Girl, Woman, Other

Did you know that last Thursday was ‘Super Thursday‘? – that day in the literary calendar when there’s a bonanza release of new books in time for Christmas. And this year, because of Covid-19 significantly delaying publication for authors across the board, as many as 600 new titles were released in 24 hours. 600! In one day!! SIX HUNDRED!! What hope is there for mid-or-below-mid-listers to be even noticed, huh? About as much as for a youngster with three C-grades-on-the-basis-of-teacher-assessment getting into Oxbridge, I’d say.

Seemed like a good week to home in on one title that has made the grade, big time: Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo which I mentioned in my post two weeks ago – co-winning the Booker Prize with Margaret Attwood‘s The Testaments. Evaristo is the first black woman ever to achieve this distinction, and she comes across at interview as a bundle of energy and zeal and determination. Positively effervescing! Given the high profile racial issues have been receiving of late, it could be argued that this book – its subject matter and its author – must surely be falling into fertile soil.

Girl, Woman, Other is Evaristo’s eighth work of fiction, which took her six years to complete. It’s written in a hybrid form that falls somewhere between prose and poetry, without capital letters or full stops for sentences, or proper paragraphs, line breaks being used to control rhythm and beat. Sound confusing? I know, and yet … it’s very readable (says this Booker Philistine with wonder in her voice). Here’s a wee peek inside …

The novel follows twelve characters, most of them black British women, moving through the world in different decades, from different backgrounds, having different experiences, making different choices. Each character has her own chapter, but their lives overlap and they are all interconnected in some way. Some of them are close – friends, relatives, lovers – others simply visit the same theatre on the same night. But common threads pervade their stories: oppression, prejudice, discrimination, racism, injustice, sisterhood. Which come in all shapes and sizes. Typically of literary books, there’s no real plot, but the characters challenge the reader to consider British attitudes and practices towards black women through the ages, and more importantly, one’s own prejudices and preconceived ideas.

The primary character and lynch-pin is probably Amma, a black lesbian playwright, now in her 50s, whose new play is being produced at the National Theatre in London. Her vignette starts the book; her after-play party almost concludes it. This part of the story is semi-autobiographical: Evaristo was co-founder, with two other women, of the Theatre of Black Women in the early 1980s. In between, we meet eleven other characters who range through frustrated teacher, abused partner, sassy teenager, nonagenarian farmer, non-binary person, adopted waif, and so much more besides.

Did it work for me? On one level, yes. I found the unusual writing style surprisingly fit for purpose. The characters come alive through their patois/pidgin, their disjointed paragraphs, their learned experiences over time. I especially enjoyed Carole, a Nigerian girl who rises above her circumstances – poverty, gang rape at 13, schooling in an establishment that specialises in producing teenage mothers and early career criminals – to acquire a degree at Oxford amongst future prime ministers and Nobel Laureates, and goes on to set the world of finance alight. And yet still finds herself overlooked and suspected. Then there’s her indomitable mother Bummi, determined to make a success of life against the odds, setting up her own very professional and superior cleaning services company, gradually accepting her daughter’s steps away from her African heritage, but herself accepted by the young English high society man Carole marries. I couldn’t help but take to the sassy teenage LaTisha, the queen of backchat, spouting her unique brand of philosophical wisdom and researched facts, all the while emoting pure insolence – a special skill of hers according to her teachers. And I really took to Hattie, 93 years old, a great great grandmother, still living alone and running the family’s 800 acre farm, outspoken about modern hifalutin ideas like mobile phones and non binary identity and central heating.

But for me, their brief biographies lacked a certain overall depth, and I’d have liked more development of their individual and collective stories. That in itself is a remarkable reflection. Booker Prize winners usually leave me shrugging my shoulders and saying, So what? This one left me wanting more. I’d call that a success.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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