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![Doctor](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/news/2023/06/14/TELEMMGLPICT000339178841_16867608042220_trans_NvBQzQNjv4BqC9PogZUtSpqAqO-tnweStYO2VWxuYg_aguPtQ9FwIv8.jpeg?imwidth=680)
My mother had a heart attack 11 days ago, which was good timing. At least she managed to slip it in before the latest walkout by junior doctors. And it has given me, journalistically, a useful bedside vantage point from which to observe the condition of the NHS.
Is it really “the” NHS anymore? The definite article seems much too simplistic for an organisation as vast and variable as our modern health service. How well it works depends on the day, the place, the ailment, and a whole array of behind-the-scenes factors and human frailties invisible to the untrained eye.
Broadly speaking, though, I think it is fair to say this: the NHS is like a three-day-old doughnut. The jam at the centre – the real emergency, life-saving stuff – is fantastic. World class. But the dough around the outside – the GP services, the appointments system, the non-emergency diagnostics – is decidedly stale.
My mother is a good case study. For the past six months, she has been suffering from chest pains, breathlessness and exhaustion. She is 82, with a history of hypertension and high cholesterol. Yet two different GPs – two! – failed to diagnose her heart failure. Instead, she was told she had a minor condition called costochondritis (an inflammation of the ribcage caused by coughing).
My mother belongs to the generation that would rather die – literally – than make a fuss. But she did go so far as to request a cardiology referral. It took ages to come through: post-Covid backlog, added to the usual bureaucratic constipation.
When, at last, she was summoned to hospital for tests on her heart, a young male nurse came to fetch her from the waiting room. He ushered her to an examination table and instructed her to take off her trousers and socks. “I did think it was a bit odd,” Mum later admitted. “But he must have had his reasons.”
The nurse then stuck needles all over her legs, and sent electric pulses down them. Mum, naturally, did not protest. Later that day, the hospital rang with breathless apologies. There’d been a mix up with the paperwork: a neurology patient had been given Mum’s heart test, while Mum had accidentally had her nerve endings zapped.
Two days after this missed opportunity, her heart gave out. She is keen for me to emphasise “how wonderful everyone has been”. And indeed they have: from the young, gentle paramedics who found her panting at the bottom of her stairs; to the nurses who kept her alive and stable long enough to have a triple bypass; to the sleek, charismatic surgeon who cranked open her ribcage and rearranged her heart. After the operation, he came to visit her in intensive care. Arms crossed, nodding smugly, he said: “Some surgeons cut corners, do things in a hurry. But this bypass I’ve done for you – it is a thing of beauty.”
He was justly proud. I don’t believe anyone, however rich, could have bought better care than my mother has received in this huge, ramshackle inner-city hospital. Now her cheeks are pink for the first time in months, and she is almost ready to be discharged. The extraordinary generosity of the NHS means she may live to see her grandchildren fully grown. It is only regrettable that, before it saved her, the NHS almost killed her.
The NHS saved my mother’s life. Regrettably it also almost killed her
She belongs to the generation that would rather die – literally – than make a fuss. The health service almost made it a reality