I've got your back...

Just before Christmas, my youngest son (whose birth led me to create this blog) was taken ill with bronchiolitis.

In the early stages, it doesn't look that much different from a cold, so when my wife first took him to the doctor it was purely as a precaution, just to reassure ourselves that our son's snuffles weren't anything more serious. Unfortunately, they were, but throughout his illness, having NHS staff on hand to offer support and advice was, as always, invaluable.

It started with what I always suspected would come along - the first indication I've seen first hand that NHS reforms aren't improving the service. We called NHS Direct, only to be told that in our area, we now have to use the 111 service. There are few things more reassuring than a professional nurse. Their compassion and experience have always put me at ease in the past when calling NHS Direct. Sadly the person we got through to was not a nurse, but a call handler with a checklist to go through. In fairness, we got what we needed, an appointment at the hospital walk in centre, but something valuable has been lost in the search for reduced cost.

When she arrived at the hospital, my wife was seen immediately. There's nothing you can do about bronchiolitis, other than wait for the illness to run it's course; and it's a horrible illness. My little boy was breathing from his belly rather than his chest, and sleeping constantly as he wasn't getting the oxygen needed to stay awake. He stayed in the hospital for five hours in his own room for observation. During that time, staff checked in regularly, and on occasion stopped to chat to my wife to put her at ease.

After he was discharged, we were given the ward number to call 24/7 if his condition took a turn for the worse. With the health visitor also on the other end of the phone, help and advice were constantly at hand. Even though medical treatment wasn't possible, and we had to let his Iillness run its course. Several nervous days of watching our exhausted little boy struggle to breathe followed. This was made bearable by the knowledge that we could speak to a professional at any minute.

He's better now, putting weight back on and is a chunky chap. As ever, I just hope one day he'll be able to rely on the same support his mother and I took as our birthright.

Phases of the moon

It's that time of the month again. I'm sitting in the pharmacy awaiting my prescriptions; 20mg hydrocortisone, 0.1mcg fludrocortisone. For me these are quite literally the difference between life and death.

Love songs and the like are big on the idea of putting your life in the hands of another person. My life, by contrast, is in the hands of the organisation that provides my medication. You know that feeling you get when you lose your car keys? Imagine that dialled up to a million. That's pretty much me when I don't know where my pills are. My disease is invariably lethal if not medicated; knowing my pills will be always be available is the most profound comfort imaginable.

Know your enemy...

Times are a little hectic with me at the moment, so not finding much time to write. Plus, even I go through weeks of not using the NHS at a time.

Until my own next instalment, check out The X-Ray Factor's concise summary of the quarter-century long attack on our NHS...

http://thexrayfactor.wordpress.com/2013/11/30/how-to-dismantle-the-nhs-in-10-easy-steps/

This is why I fight...

Picked up my prescriptions again last week. Every time I visit the doctors now, I'm reminded of my most dramatic trip there, back in late 2010.

I'd been having bouts of illness for several months. Fatigue to the point where walking across the room was a challenge, frequent vomiting in the mornings, and endless feelings of dehydration. I was working from home at the time, and still managed to end up too ill to work for seven days during the year.

Then, in October, I was taken out of action for a whole week. I spent four days on the sofa, wrapped in a fleece and a blanket, shivering to my bones. On Wednesday, my wife dragged me to pester my GP again; they took blood tests and called me back on Friday. By Thursday night, it took me three attempts to walk up the stairs, and I was mumbling deliriously as I did so.

On Friday, they called me in to discuss my results. After months of suffering with this mystery illness, just to hear it given a name was a huge relief. That name was Addisons Disease. Invariably fatal at the time Dr Thomas Addison first discovered it, these days it's medicated with steroids and has no effect on quality of life or life-expectancy at all. I was in the midst of an Addisonian crisis, the stage of the disease that comes just prior to death by circulatory collapse. Pleasant, eh?

I was taken to the Medical Assessment Unit at the Royal. Given the state I was in when I got there, the nurses informed me that the Intensive Care Unit had been notified of my arrival. It's all of about sixty feet from the main doors of the Royal to the corridor off towards the MAU. Walking that distance was one of the most physically strenuous things I've ever done.

At the MAU, I was hooked up to a drip, given anti-vomiting drugs, injected with steroids and talked through the process by a medical staff whose bedside manner was invariably superb. At each stage, they let me know what they were doing and why they were doing it. From being on the brink of death on Friday morning, and having had half a Pot Noodle to eat all week (it's funny what you can get down when you're ill), by tea time I was in a fit state to eat, and enjoy, a whole meal. By Saturday morning, after a sleep in my own private room, I was ready for release. Walking through the lobby 24 hours earlier had been like climbing the north face of the Eiger. Leaving, I strode across it easily, and when I got to the car park did some Dick van Dyke heel clicks for my wife's amusement. It was the fittest I'd felt in years.

The staff of the NHS saved my life that day, and did it with smiles on their faces and decency radiating from them throughout. As I type this I still feel a profound sense of gratitude.

This, I think to myself, is why I fight.

It's just a little prick...

In other good NHS news, we got the results of our newborn's heel prick tests back.

For the uninitiated, that's a blood test with a spot taken from the heel to allow for screening of several nasty ailments, including sickle cell disease, cystic fibrosis, and congenital hypothyroidism.

I'm pleased to report an all clear on all counts. You can't buy peace of mind like that...

Batten down the hatches...

Last weekend was warm and sunny; it was short sleeve weather. This weekend, it was cold and raining as I took my daughter to the flu clinic to prepare for winter.

When I arrived, the queue was out of the door. I was nervous. Years of news on the subject have conditioned even me to think that large numbers of people using the NHS at any one time means long, frustrating waits, at best. I joined the back of the line at around 11.

The waiting room was teeming with people. Mostly pensioners, people born around the same time as the NHS. There were several disabled people, and of course a few small children. In short, the most vulnerable, and to make a crude generalisation based on addresses they gave at reception, the least able to pay, should it come to that.

Queueing out the door, and a waiting room bulging at the sides. How long would I be kept waiting? As it turns out, not long.

A well drilled team of nurses and GPS called patients through at a rate of about one every 20-30 seconds. I checked in at 11.06 and was out again by 11.15. My daughter was fine with the nasal spray, and when we got home got a treat for her troubles.

Us? We have one less thing to worry about this winter, and will sleep all the more soundly because of it.

Angels led by donkeys

Yesterday, it was a triple event of NHS goodness. To my GP's surgery for blood tests, and a visit to our son from both the midwife and the health visitor.

At my GP, I dropped in at 10.20 to ask about having bloods taken (essential to keep tabs on my Addison's disease). I was back in having it done at 11.45.

As the nurse (typically friendly and effective) set about finding a usable vein, we got to talking about budget cuts. It's a minor detail, but the tape used in bandaging needle entry wounds was something of a false economy, falling to bits as she looked for the end. But with the surgery's pot of money growing smaller, more is to come. What might be next?

"Your ten minute appointment becomes seven. Then if I can't find a vein, we've had it."

For her, the cuts are all coming in the wrong places. No doubt there is a lot of bureaucracy which could stand to be cut, but in her experience, it's the front line that's bearing the brunt.

'Lions led by donkeys' perhaps isn't the right phrase. 'Angels led by donkeys' seems more appropriate.

When I arrived home, I found the midwife and health visitor in my living room chatting to my wife. The midwife was thrilled with our son's progress; he's back up above his birth weight so is clearly feeding well. Seeing her leave was bitter-sweet; the news of our son was all positive, and she had nothing but praise for the way my wife had handled the first fortnight. Still, as we're not planning on more children, it was our last meeting with someone whose warmth and wit we both enjoy.

The health visitor stayed with us for a good hour, outlining the next steps for jabs, and helping us understand how our son is getting enough milk. Again, cuts came up in conversation. Exasperated, I asked -

"Is there something more important the state should be spending money on than the health of its citizens?"

The health visitor replied, weary and sardonic -

"HS2?"