Yesterday I briefly mentioned that my mother had a heart attack at the weekend. I want to talk about it a little but I promise this won’t be an “oh woe is me” post that’ll ruin your Tuesday.
Firstly, Mum is doing well. In fact after surgery she seems sharper and more energetic than I have seen her in years. Basically, the blockage in her arteries has been slowing her down physically and mentally for a while now, so after the artery was cleared and the stent put in place, her body is now free to get on with more important things like making dirty jokes to my girlfriend or not letting me get a word in edgewise! My Dad & I (and Mum herself) had put this slowing down to a combination of getting older, the strokes she suffered a decade ago and even depression; gladly we’ve been proven wrong.
Now, I’m not stupid, I know my Mum is getting on, and I don’t expect her to suddenly become the woman I knew in my teens. I know she needs to rehabilitate properly and change her lifestyle a chunk to avoid further blockages, but if this means her & Pops can enjoy their retirement and each other, then what more can I ask. Fingers crossed the stent holds and she manages to shake her vicious biscuit addiction.
So to the slightly idiotic title of this post…
In my life I’ve not had a vast amount of dealing with the NHS. Hernias when I was a kid (the actual reason I took the name “sac”; to be clear I had giant balls for a 10 year old), odd broken bones, the odd bout of man-flu and a few things you don’t need to know, but in the round I have been fortunate enough to avoid the health service. So my view of the NHS in general is a little under informed by slanted newspaper print & rolling 24hour news. However, sitting in that ward for just 4 hours yesterday illustrated to me how truly idiotic it is to even discuss the idea of cutting NHS funding.
Just looking at the nurses, in that short time I saw them deal with true human sadness. People who hours before were moments from death, a man repeatedly wetting himself, angry wives worried about husbands, the largest woman I’ve ever seen unable to get herself to the toilet, shit, piss, blood and fear. Nurses dealing with this without a pause, without a grimace, and with the ability to share a smile with the people who need it. We weren’t even on an intensive care ward; Nurses there deal with death on an hourly basis. Yes, it’s their job. Yes, it’s their choice, but in all honesty, how much would you expect to get paid to wipe a dying mans arse? You’d certainly expect more than an average full-time burger flipper in the golden arches, but sadly you’d be disappointed. Experienced staff nurses average £21k. Full-time Mcdonalds employee in London…. £21k…
That’s insanity surely? I’d like to think that when I’m lying in a ward covered in my own waste, with my heart clogged with fat, the person looking after me would surely be paid more than the person who put me there?
Now, I’m not even talking about the care my mother received. From the moment my dad dialled 999, to my mother getting back on the ward from surgery was a total of 5 hours; 5 hours in which everything was done with professionalism and efficiency, 5 hours in which my mother got the chance at a better future.
