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As a journalist, I tread carefully in this article, mindful of the fine line between truth-telling and career suicide yet compelled to shed light on the harsh realities of the UK’s National Healthcare System (NHS). Amidst the walls of a Northern London hospital ward lay six beds, adorned with machines and cables. In this microcosm of the NHS, my father found himself ensnared, longing for salvation amidst the chaos that defined the healthcare system.
"I hope they can fix me," he murmured, his voice carrying a weight of uncertainty that echoed the sentiments of many others battling the NHS's shortcomings. His jacket, slung over the chair beside his bed, still held a green apple, a habit he'd carried since I can remember.
For months now the headlines have been screaming of waiting lists stretching into oblivion, of staff shortages reaching crisis levels, and of outdated facilities struggling to keep pace with the demands of a burgeoning population. For the first time I personally had to come face to face with this crisis. Begging, pleading and fighting my way through a system that wasn’t working, in an attempt to get my Dad the treatment he needs to ensure he can carry on living.
Returning from South Africa, I had hoped for a smoother transition, but life had other plans. My father's health took precedence, thrusting us into the heart of the NHS battleground. Amidst the cacophony of beeping machines and hushed whispers, I found myself immersed in the lives of fellow patients, each with their own tale of struggle and resilience.
One such character was the elderly man whose bed was right by the bathroom, a cantankerous soul seemingly trapped in a time warp of confusion and indignation. On my first visit in this hospital ward whilst staff were attending to my dad, we heard a loud bang and staff ran to the bathroom where the old man fell. “This is why he can’t be left alone.” A member of staff asserted. “What worries me is that this is the second time he has fallen now,” she added. His futile attempts to assert his independence clashed with the stark reality of his condition, highlighting the delicate balance between dignity and dependence.
During my initial visit to the hospital ward, the elderly man turned to me with hopeful eyes and pleaded, "Will you pick up my biscuit please?" My gaze turned me towards the foot of his bed, where a lone biscuit lay on the floor, forgotten.
With a nod and a courteous smile, I approached to fulfil the simple request. However, the member of staff attending to him full time now, intervened, cautioning me to refrain from the task, perhaps mindful of potential hazards. Respectfully, I withdrew, witnessing the disappointment etched across the man's face as another individual handed him the biscuit. The abrupt shift from anticipation to disillusionment was intense. From across the ward, a man chimed in, insisting, "It's been on the floor, give him another one." In response, the agitated elderly gentleman demanded, "Go on then!"
Despite his plight, the man vehemently rejected assistance from the staff and fiercely defended his privacy. It was on day two that an unpleasant odour permeated the entire ward, leading us to discover that the toilet door had been left slightly ajar. The member of staff assigned to the elderly man's care, dutifully stationed by his bedside day and night, bore the brunt of this ordeal, forced to stand vigilantly at the door to monitor him. We quickly discovered where the smell was coming from and after some time had passed, addressing the man, the nurse queried, "Are you still there?" to which he dryly retorted, "There are four blank walls, where else would I be?"
The situation escalated when another patient in the room resorted to spraying deodorant, a futile attempt to alleviate the pervasive smell. While we all suffered from the stench, it was the nurse who endured the greatest discomfort. Later, the man queried, "What’s all that clicking! Are you trying to tell me something?" receiving no response from the member of staff. Then, he muttered accusingly, "Are you a pervert or something?" as his tone indicated genuine suspicion.
Finding the situation somewhat absurd, I couldn't help but giggle, prompting laughter that spread throughout the ward, even infecting the nurse responsible for the elderly man's care. It was both terrible and hilarious that people, including my dad, were trapped within the stench as they remained glued to machines.
My father, however, remained resolute, instructing the nurse to "close the door!" as I interjected, explaining that they couldn't leave the elderly man unattended. Undeterred, my father insisted, "Go inside and close the door!" As laughter threatened to overwhelm me, I realised the toll such situations must take on the nurses. As I exited past the toilet, struggling to contain my mirth, the member of staff grinned and said: “It’s a tough job I have.” I couldn't help but empathise, thinking to myself, "If that were me, I'd be on strike too!"
Standing outside the hospital walls, desperate for a breath of fresh air, I observed a grey-haired man exiting the building, clutching a pharmacy packet. Intrigued by his appearance, I couldn't help but find him fascinating. As he stepped through the hospital doors unaccompanied, he uttered aloud, "God! Civilization..." with a sigh of relief, reminiscent of someone emerging from the battlefield unscathed. My gaze shifted from his formal blazer to his grey sweatpants, creating an odd juxtaposition.
As I observed the unusual sight, a soft chuckle escaped me, acknowledging the peculiar encounter. At that moment, I couldn't help but hope that my father would soon find similar relief, emerging from the hospital's confines and returning to the world, restored to health and ready to rejoin society.
Upon re-entering the ward, having stifled my laughter outside in the fresh, clean air, I hoped that the noxious atmosphere had dissipated. A patient had resorted to using axe deodorant to mask the smell. While his actions were well-intentioned, the result was less than desirable: the overpowering scent of deodorant mingled with faecal matter. Despite the discomfort, the elderly man seemed unperturbed as he reclined comfortably in his bed.
It was at this moment that my fastidious father, known for his cleanliness, remarked, "Now I can’t eat this apple anyway." His observation struck me as humorous, and I couldn't help but chuckle once again. Reflecting on our ability to find humour in adversity, I realised how fortunate we were to maintain a sense of levity amidst challenging circumstances.
The biscuit incident, though seemingly trivial, encapsulated the absurdity of our situation. As I attempted to retrieve the fallen treat, I couldn't help but marvel at the intricacies of human interaction amidst the sterile confines of the hospital ward. Yet, it wasn't the human interaction itself that troubled me. Rather, it was the ongoing struggle and bureaucratic hurdles within the NHS that hindered my dad from receiving the standard of care one would expect in a first-world nation. It felt like a battlefield, but instead of wielding a sword or gun, I often had to restrain myself, maintaining a smile and politeness, while inwardly fighting and hoping for a positive outcome for my dad. While I can't delve into specific experiences due to professional concerns as a journalist, it's important to understand that the crisis within the NHS is very real, and navigating its challenges can feel like being in a constant battle.
Amidst the challenges faced by the healthcare system, including record numbers of individuals on waiting lists, persistently high staff vacancy rates, and outdated facilities and equipment, the situation remains deeply troubling. Media headlines constantly highlight the crisis, with talk of a second junior doctor strike in February. How did a system once lauded as one of the world's best healthcare systems crumble in such a manner? Naturally, I'm troubled by South Africa's efforts to implement National Health Insurance (NHI) since discussions commenced in 2011. My apprehension stems from the realisation that if a first-world country is grappling with a crisis within the NHS, how can South Africa possibly execute NHI successfully, given our struggle to maintain basic services like keeping the lights on?
