I ❤️ the NHS

There is much to bemoan about the NHS, from the cruel entitlement of its junior doctors to its zest for hiring diversity and inclusion staff when many people can’t even see a GP. I have been a harsh and consistent critic for years. I don’t like the cultish, Big Brother vibes, the gawping black hole for funds that seem mismanaged, and I don’t like the socialism. 

I still don’t like those things, but I have now seen the charm of the rackety NHS. Having a baby, I discovered the it’s generosity. I had a caesarian section less than a fortnight ago at UCLH in central London. I’d have one again just for fun. A handsome anaesthetist inspired instant confidence, understood my phobia of feeling sick and promised drugs accordingly. A young female obstetrician stood gently by while I burst into tears out of panic and fear that I wouldn’t like my baby. It was clear that they’d seen everything under the sun but the vibe was supportive and calm, not impatient. It was all like a celebrity spa day only with high stakes: an army of highly trained professionals completely dedicated to keeping you safe and out of pain. And all for free. In America the median cost of a C-section is about $40,000.

My gratitude for western medicine, and its incarnation in our free (at point of delivery) health service only grew as I traipsed into the delivery room, baby-daddy in tow in his scrubs. A vast chamber, nicely air-conditioned, with eight or so people of all kinds to hoist and soothe, inject and attach, narrate and monitor. It was wonderful to be the centre of attention of such people, not least for a hypochondriac like me. 

In came a UCL professor of obstetrics, a handsome Greek man to join the young lady obstetrician. The curtain went up and the procedure began. I felt calm, vaguely tugged around, and full of relaxed confidence. My baby was extracted expertly, she was rather wedged in but was ushered into a full cry by a waiting paediatrician. I was then stitched up and the incision was barely visible the next day.

Later, in recovery and then the maternity ward, I was seen by a constant rotation of midwives and nurses of varying sorts – one to check my dressing, one to take constant reads of the baby’s temperature, respiration and heart rate, and one to check my blood pressure, oxygen and temperature. My legs were paralysed for four hours, and by the time feeling returned I was ensconced in a bed by a window in a ward of four, me and the baby continually but quietly checked. I also had a bell to summon someone and used it frequently. When I realised I would get three meals a day too, in bed (from a lengthy menu that, perplexingly, had venison stew on it), I suddenly thought: I don’t want to leave. We’re staying for as long as possible. There were even solicitous inquiries after my mental health, with offers of support if needed. Is there anything nicer than total care plus breakfast in bed if you’re lucky enough to have a healthy gorgeous new baby snoozing in the crook of your arm?

Still, after four nights of zero sleep, my head was pounding and a deep dark dread about never feeling refreshed again made me desperate to get out. It was nice to be home, because I have a comfortable nice home, but part of me missed the NHS. 

At home, the care doesn’t stop, as all those who have bred before me will know. A young midwife, a blonde Latvian woman with a Mary Poppins vibe who looked more like a fashion editor, appeared not much more than 24 hours after I got home, checked out the baby carefully, helped me with feeding, and removed my stitches. We didn’t want her to leave, either. Next day came a disconcertingly attractive breastfeeding nurse, sent by Camden, who seemed to have all the time in the world to help. 

I looked askance at news that the Whittington and Royal Free maternity clinics are under threat of closure due to ‘falling birth rates’ in the area. Previously I might have thought good riddance: let the wastrel-like behemoth feel the squeeze. Now I’d be tempted to join protesters against this winnowing down of ‘our NHS’.