This week, my friend told me of her own story of corridor care. Her husband remained in a corridor for two days at their local hospital after having a stroke. She recalled walking around the hospital for hours, thousands of steps added to her Apple Watch, because watching her husband sat in a chair waiting to be assessed, still unaware of exactly what had happened to him, was just too much.
Stories like this have been repeated in the news over the past few weeks, amid rising numbers of people waiting on hospital trolleys for more than 12 hours for urgent care. The worsening delays for care are due to a combination of factors, and it’s not just something that happens during flu season. Unfortunately, it’s a situation that’s increasingly being experienced at other times of the year, too.
I remember visiting my aunt in A&E in spring last year. She directed me over the phone to the area where she had been waiting since the night before. Though not a corridor, it was clearly a small office that had been converted into a holding area: two beds squeezed in, little privacy, just enough space for a doctor or nurse to come in and do checks, and virtually no air. The staff were incredible as always, but it was not an ideal situation for either side. Corridor care is demoralising, traumatic and in some cases inhumane.
Another experience this week reminded me that the disparity in care can sometimes make the NHS feel like the most unstable, toxic best friend that we have in all our lives. It can shower us with love and make us feel safe one minute, but then, with the flick of a switch, it can also make us feel like we’re being gaslit by one of the biggest employers in the world.
I come from what I like to call and “cancer-y” family. I’ve now passed the age that my mum was diagnosed with bowel cancer, and next year I’ll be the same age she was when it cruelly took her away. So I’m mindful that I have to keep an eye on signs in my body that could indicate there’s a problem, and that’s how I ended up in a gorgeous NHS gown and paper shorts, with a slit down the back for full access to my bum.
I’d initially spoken to my GP about my concerns at the tail end of summer. She then arranged a phone call with a consultant in October who agreed I should be checked, and this week I found myself lying on my side, sucking the life out of the gas and air tube, as a doctor used the slitted paper shorts to put a camera up me and perform a colonoscopy.
Walking into the day surgery building at my local hospital should serve as a reminder to those who complain about Britain – and London – being full of immigrants, is that the system would fall apart, crumble in fact, if they got their way. Nurses Mai and Carlo, and Dr Iliana all hailed from places way beyond this little island, and carefully took me through a process that was uncomfortable, weird, and a bit emotional with kindness, authority and care.
As I lay on the recovery bed, the effects of gas and air slowly wearing off, Carlo walked in with a tin of biscuits so I could get a hit of sugar (custard creams, my fave), the offer of a coffee, and the kindest smile as he checked my pulse and blood pressure. I was their final patient of the day and they were preparing themselves to go again the next day, but their smiles and jokes covered any hint of exhaustion.
As I sat munching on my two packs of custard creams (I hadn’t eaten for over 24 hours, forgive me!), all I could think was that the NHS can screw with our heads on an epic scale. There’s another word for it, but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to swear in this column. But you know what I mean. It’s a head you-know-what.
I started the week heartbroken at what my friend and her husband went through with the NHS, and ended the week thankful for my experience. Two things can be true at the same time: it’s an imperfect system, with pockets of imperfect perfection. But it’s ours.
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