Life has a funny way of reminding you what truly matters. For me, that reminder came sharp and sudden last month. What started as a routine gallbladder operation turned into an unexpected tour of our healthcare system, spanning three hospitals and a week of complications. It was, to put it mildly, foreign territory for someone who’s been lucky enough to enjoy a largely healthy life. But through it all, one thing became abundantly clear: the unwavering dedication of the people who make our healthcare system tick.
My journey took me from the bustling corridors of A&E to acute care and specialist wards at West Middlesex Hospital, before an overnight transfer to a specialist unit at Hammersmith. As my case escalated, the care I received across all these different places was simply wonderful. They worked tirelessly to figure out what was wrong and put a solution in place. This past month has been all about recovery and rebuilding strength, a process made possible by the incredible individuals who guided me through it.
I want to extend a colossal thank you to every single person who helped me. Whether from the NHS or private healthcare, every individual I encountered had their heart in their work. It was abundantly clear that the care of patients was their absolute priority, first and foremost. Despite the endless press and the language we hear about the troubles in our healthcare system – and yes, there are many – the people on the front lines of these organisations and institutions are simply beyond praise.
The work you all do is nothing short of incredible. In my most concerning and frightening moments, I couldn’t fault anyone for being there. Of course, not everyone can stay for long, and there are countless patients to deal with, each in different stages of their care journey – fighting, being brave, succumbing, or trying not to let go too much. Yet, the nurses, doctors, porters, and everyone in between, even those who brought my food, played such a critical role.
My experience also brought into sharp focus our individual roles in this complex ecosystem of care. Part of the reason my case became complicated was my own delay in seeking help. I’m one of those men who tends to think, “I can deal with it, I can improve my diet, I can sort it.” And while we can all do so much to be healthier – eating better, taking more exercise – at some point, our bodies need help, and asking for that help is key. My infected gallbladder became more problematic partly because I took my time. So, to anyone reading this: please, remember to ask for help. It’s amazing how people will step up and come to your aid. I was also incredibly lucky to have my wife, whose steadfast support and guidance were invaluable, along with the unwavering care of both our families.
My initial diagnosis came relatively quickly through the NHS GP system. However, a significant delay in getting the operation booked, coupled with my deteriorating health, led me to seek the operation privately. The private care was excellent, and the surgery was performed swiftly and skilfully. Yet, the initial delay caused complications, and I’ve been left wondering how we can bring down waiting lists and continue to improve preventative measures in our healthcare. My own delays, combined with NHS waiting times, undoubtedly made my case more complicated.
Following the operation, I faced further liver problems caused by complications from the infection and internal scarring. It became abundantly clear that for emergency care, our incredible NHS is the ultimate place to be. Private healthcare couldn’t assist me through that emergency; I landed squarely in the NHS system. While I’m grateful to the doctors and nurses from the private sector who remained in the loop, the NHS was where I received critical emergency care.
This situation, however, highlighted some communication challenges between the two systems. Not all technology aligns to properly store healthcare records, and with an emergency case that developed rapidly, my operating records hadn’t made it across to the NHS system. This meant doctors and nurses in the NHS were, for a time, operating blind until we managed to connect the dots. This required doctors on both sides to be open to communication – which, thankfully, was never in doubt – but it did rely on me knowing a phone number and putting people in contact. Not everyone is fortunate enough to have that access or care professionals willing to be on call. We’ve all seen press reports where private doctors haven’t been open to dialogue, and that certainly doesn’t help.
My biggest takeaway? Self-care, while vital, isn’t enough. You need help, you need a network of care, and you need to be willing to ask for it. The people within the NHS are truly amazing, and we need to treat them with the respect and reward they deserve.
I observed people in various phases of their journeys as I moved through the wards – from the uncertainty of A&E to the quiet acceptance of those too weak to fight. But there were also the fighters. I recall one man in A&E, clearly a “hard man” who’d lived a tough life, yet he resisted the care on offer, insisting on bringing in his own food and unsuitable drinks. Only as his condition worsened did he soften and allow people in. It’s a powerful lesson for all of us: let others in. Healthcare is a community effort, and those who can help you need you to be open to that help, whether you’re the brave fighter or the vulnerable patient.
Communication is paramount. Our systems need to talk to each other, and crucially, our people need to talk to each other. I experienced a delay of a few hours because one team wasn’t clearly communicating what they needed from another, resulting in me being wheeled back and forth across the hospital. These delays, even seemingly minor ones, can contribute to complications, as I learned with my soaring bilirubin numbers. Yes, we need more facilities, more access to the right drugs and people, and staffing levels need to be fixed, but a significant portion of the solution lies in clear, effective communication and a shared intention to communicate.
There’s also something to be said for addressing the divide between private healthcare and the NHS. The reality in the UK is that we have both systems, and both strive for excellence in different ways. We should embrace the opportunity that if some can afford private care, it reduces the load on the NHS. My complicated case highlighted the gaps that emerge when both systems are needed, and these are areas ripe for improvement.
Perhaps one of the most striking observations was the sheer diversity visible within our NHS, both among patients and staff. The teams across every ward I was in – four different wards across two hospitals – were a true reflection of the world. Immigrants from all corners of the globe – the Philippines, the West Indies, Africa, Nigeria, numerous European countries, and those born and bred here, or with generational roots from the Commonwealth and beyond – are all here, supporting us in our care, and of course, supporting themselves. Understanding migration, how we attract and support talent, and perhaps even contribute to the development of healthcare systems in other parts of the world through people returning home, is crucial. Conversely, those who have migrated here also have every right to care from our caregivers.
How can we not embrace immigration, with the necessary controls, while also recognising that the movement of people is a critical part of our country, our lives, and the systems that support and care for us all?
Thank you.
Thank you for everything you do, everything you stand for, everything you fight for. We can’t treat every action or expense as if it’s a good investment when it’s just addressing severe problems that arise from unhealthy habits. We need as much money spent on preventative measures, building models that make us healthier as a nation. And individually, let’s strive to be a country of care, where we truly look out for each other and live by the examples set by the incredible people in the NHS, and by the selfless care of my wife and family members.
