“For
four hours I was away and out of my body, made to die then jerked
back to the world.”
(from a poem by Robin Robertson, who had same operation as me).
from: Feb 2018
I
recently had open heart surgery at St Bartholomew's Hospital in
London. A traumatic experience, but one which has left me deeply
grateful for the NHS – massively complex and intricate surgery and
after-care – carried out with extraordinary skill, care and
attention and FREE.
In
my recent article for The London Economic I wrote about the creeping
privatisation of the NHS. Here I want to highlight the NHS at it
best. A health system based in Aneurin Bevan's words on the principle
that “No society can legitimately call itself
civilised if a sick person is denied medical aid because of lack of
means.”
I
am lucky to be a citizen of a country that can offer me the medical
procedures I underwent that have kept me alive. For me, it is second
time lucky. Three years ago I had brain surgery that would not have
been possible in the past and remains, as does the heart procedure,
an impossibility for much of the world's population.
We
need to bear this in mind as we fight for our NHS against the
privatisers. They are creeping in through the cracks in our defences.
As recentlyl as five months ago, Barts were responsible for their own
catering. One nurse told me what pride he took in serving food to his
patients and how this was a central part of nursing care. Today this
has been handed to Serco, who run our prisons and whose annual
revenue from healthcare is over £1.4 billion. Breakfast was tepid
tea or coffee, cereal or porridge and toast. As I bit into the cold,
spongy “toast” I could imagine Serco executives meeting to
discuss how to cut back their costs to increase their profits. “Let's
start with breakfast”.
I
got to know my fellow patients, some with more problems than mine.
Barry had already had three heart operations when he arrived at Barts
in January for his fourth. His operation lasted 28 hours and they
“lost” him three times. He told me of his out of body experiences
which had traumatised him and made him scared of going to sleep. He
badly needed psychological care, but with the present level of cuts
in NHS funding, this is not available.
Just
as food is important to getting better, so is after care.There was a
time when post-operative patients would spend time in convalescent
hospitals. No more. In Germany and even in the countries of Eastern
Europe where I used to live, all operations included a minimum of one
month's post-op stay in a health spa.
We
not only have to fight for our NHS, but have to claw back what has
already been scalpelled away and hived off to the Richard Bransons of
this world.
What
memories
do
I take away from the time I spent at Barts? Not the operation and its
after-effects
of pain and worry, but the nursing care I
received with
such commitment and humour. The nurse pushing
my
bed down a corridor who I got chatting to. On
hearing I was a writer, he
brought
my
bed to a halt and with a wonderful smile quoted
verbatim from
Gabriel
García Márquez's
'Love
in the Time of Cholera:'
“Age
has no reality except in the physical world. The essence of a human
being is resistant to the passage of time. Our inner lives are
eternal, which is to say that our spirits remain as youthful and
vigorous as when we were in full bloom. Think of love as a state of
grace, not the means to anything, but the alpha and omega. An end in
itself.”
Then
there was the nurse replacing my chest bandage who wanted me to
breath in deeply. “Puff
out your chest”, she
said,
'like a Robin Redbreast.'
Barry,
a Jamaican living in Finsbury Park, would
chat to the patient beside him, a Trinidadian from
West London, about their youthful
memories of their island homes and their love of the calabash
tree, its
soft
brown bark home to
multi-coloured orchids. They told me that these trees, pollinated
by bats, grow
on hillside pastures, along roadsides and wherever there are
human beings.
The
pulp of the fruit has medicinal properties and acts as a remedy for
respiratory problems such as asthma, a
cure for dysentry, reduces
blood pressure, disinfects
wounds and is
used to treat
haematomas and tumours.
The
NHS is
our Calabash tree.
To my dead Donor:
Dedicated to Dr Wael Awad, his surgical team, anaesthetist & all nursing / ancillary staff at Barts Ward 4B - in respect for their care & skills
My blood pump was stopped
while a machine took over
the job my heart had done
for almost 73 years.
A cow's pericardium replaced
my narrowed, furred valve
that no longer moved like
a sea anemone's fronds.
This valve was given without
agreement or consent
so I made a vow to my dead donor
to never eat beef again.
Last time it was a subdural haematoma.
I escaped with my brain intact.
That involved an earlier pact,
made with myself, to act wisely
with attention to my herd.
My plan of action now
begins with breaking through the fence
to arrive, together, in greener pastures.
(David Wilson & Anne Aylor)
Left Field
