The NHS

I’m becoming a bit of an expert when it comes to the NHS (National Health Service for my overseas readers; you’re very welcome here, by the way – don’t listen to the Brexenophobes). I’ve been in its clutches in one way or another for the last 24 hours. First with dad in Colchester General, and then I decided to pay Bristol Southmead a visit last night.

The NHS is a behemoth. It employs 1.5 million workers. And with doctors, surgeons, nurses, cleaners, caretakers, drivers … (I could go on), it pretty much represents every strata of the UK. I can tell you now that it employs people from all over the world: I know two Spaniards and an Indian quite well now; and a couple from Essex, which might as well be a foreign land to the rest of us.

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Southmead has its own resident cat – how cool is that?

It is big. And, I’m guessing as a result, a bit slow. C and I popped into Southmead just after two yesterday morning and, whilst we did see three different nurses and I had my blood pressure taken more times than was necessary and had wires stuck to every spare piece of flesh and then strapped to a machine that goes ‘ping’, we didn’t see a doctor until gone nine. And we were out 15 minutes later.

And the staff with dad (who is very poorly, but today mum says he is looking a bit brighter – we’re made of strong stuff, us Ladleys) were less enthusiastic than those at A&E last night. And I felt that they had too much to do, and on that list wasn’t giving my pop the nursing care you sort of expect. But, with staff shortages and maybe without the stern oversight of Hattie Jacques bursting out of her matron’s uniform, they’re just all a bit floppy. C, an ex-Army nurse, was spotting all sorts of nursing ‘don’ts’, but dad was comfortable. And safe.

Of course, the biggest thing which we all take for granted is that the NHS if free. From my 111 phone call last night, to the two bits of toast and two cuppas this morning, and a wonderful post-Brexit chat to a lovely Spanish nurse [issue: if we leave the EU, Spanish nurses stop earning ‘equivalent experience’ points which they can trade for a job back home – jobs which are in short supply; hence they are all thinking about moving away from the NHS to somewhere where there are jobs that the Spanish health service will recognise. Nice one Brexit.] the cost to me was zilch. Yes, it would have been nice to see a doctor before the sun had risen, but we were sat in our own cubicle and I was checked on regularly. I was never in danger. And it was all free. We should not take that for granted.

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Special chair for the weak kid on the touchline with oranges

So, what’s wrong with me?

I have an ectopic heartbeat (an extra beat that surprises me every so often) which developed into full-blown atrial fibrillation (AF) ten years ago … that’s where the heart dances to its own tune, indignantly ignoring the instructions that are designed to allow you to climb the stairs without passing out. I was admitted … and a half-an-hour drip later my heart was back under command. A round of tests later and I was told to expect this to happen more and more, and at some point I’d be fitted with a pacemaker with a rheostat that I could turn up just before I went out for a Saturday Park Run.

But nothing happened. Sure, my ectopic heartbeat continued to ambush me, but no more AF.

Until last week. When, instead of a full blown AF episode, my heart picked a fight with itself as to who was in charge of the beating. Then, the good old sinus nerve (the one who should be in charge) asserted itself and all was well. I weathered this for a bit, but then by about 1.30 last night I’d had enough and, via 111, admitted myself … with a sleepy C following me dutifully.

The prognosis is unclear. I have to get a 24 hour ECG and then they’ll look at the results. Hopefully it’ll be another passing episode and I can forget about it for a while longer. Who knows.

For the record? I had two really good days down at the school in Farnham and I might have picked up another job at a school slightly closer to home. And, notwithstanding wandering around with a bunch of wires stuck to my skin for 24 hours sometime soon, we’re hoping to get up to Scotland before Friday and have a couple of weeks wandering around in Doris.

In the meantime the government has a chance to redeem itself this week. But, somehow, I feel we’re in for a series of events designed to try to get May’s deal through the Commons. I live in hope that this is not the case.