Dear Jeremy - the rhythm of a hospital

We are hanging in there, thanks for asking. I thought you might find it useful to see how actual users of the NHS find it, given that your experience of the NHS is through reports and spreadsheets rather than as an actual patient/family member.

Tuesday was Dave's first chemotherapy treatment.

As I walked around the hospital (the restaurant was in a different block than the oncology wards and I walked loads on Tuesday) it occurred to me that when you visit a hospital it's probably a bit of three-ringed circus. You and the Queen probably think hospitals smell of new paint and pine-scented disinfectant. When you go for your carefully controlled walk around, you are surrounded by a retinue that is ready to step in between you and something unpleasant that may come walking around the corner. You see a hospital at an arranged time, when corridors can be cleared of the riff raff. It's all a bit safe, isn't it Jeremy?

I am beginning to see the tides of the Norfolk & Norwich University Hospital and let me tell you, they doen't smell of paint or pine-scented disinfectant. 

The N&NUH smells of food, hope and despair.

When I walked along the corridors patients, family members and staff all made eye contact with me. Some smiled, others stretched their lips in an attempt at one. But as we all moved through this microcosm, we all knew and acknowledged that our reasons for being there were likely to be painful ones. 

In the restaurant, I always have to stop the catering staff from loading up my plate. They smile and try and heap on more food. It's ridiculous, it's not like I'm wasting away. But they know that food helps. The food in the main restaurant isn't too bad surprisingly. They've got a good selection with comforting additions: crumbles, sponge puddings, lumpy custard - food to stick to your aching ribs. Food to soothe ragged souls. 

Dave and I hate the coffee, but then we would. We drink a lot of tea there instead.

On one of the first visits Dave and I made to the canteen together, there was a guy who gave Zero Fucks. He had a dressing gown wrapped loosely around his emaciated body and walked with a drip. His pyjamas did not do a good enough job of covering the bags attached to various parts of his torso, or the murky coloured fluids they contained. At first, I was shocked. How could he display his physical degradation, pain and impending demise this way? And as I drank my tea and he ate his meal with one of his family members, I came to have a great deal of respect and admiration for him. After a while he finished his meal and moved off. Dave went off to use the facilities and when I glanced outside, this brave man was having a cigarette in the car park with his family member. Good on him. 

Zero Fucks to give. 

So it should be. This is what Life is really like for the patients who inhabit the weird world of the hospital. Life, dying and death aren't a pretty experience, there's lots of bodily fluids, vile smells and as much as we try and pretend otherwise, it's going to happen to all of us. All of us. Even you Jeremy. 

I met one of the Junior Doctors you are so determined to demonise. Oh, and a handful of those horrible nurses you try to chase away. They were all efficient, personable and tired; and so very, very kind. We were there for three shift changes. Or at least Dave was. I eventually, perked up the courage to ask the staff nurse at about 8 pm, when I was going to be chucked out. He shook his head. He gave me permission to stay as long as I liked; overnight, if I wanted. I couldn't. I'm too old and creaky to pretzel myself into the comfy chair in the corner. But that kindness took the pressure off the anxiety of knowing I'd have to leave Dave attached to the poisons that would hopefully buy us more time.

Walking back to the car, I wasn't walking the corridors alone. There were doctors, nurses and other staff hustling through, going about their business. I recognised faces from the canteen, they'd been here when I first arrived over twelve hours ago. They moved with the same energy and purpose. I don't know how they do that. The days of me pulling an all-nighter are long gone. Yet, they were still going strong. 

If you don't mind this suggestion, ditch your retinue, don a disguise and go and sit in a hospital canteen for a day and night. Experience the rhythms and heartbeat of a hospital for yourself, not as a distinguished guest, but as a participant. It'll change the way you think about the NHS, I promise you.