"The tiny moments of kindness that made grief easier"
To celebrate the NHS' 72nd anniversary on 5 July, Cosmopolitan writers are sharing what the NHS has meant to them.
The electric doors behind me opened, and shut, and opened again. I held my phone up to my ear, the drone of an unanswered ringtone playing on repeat in my ear. It would go to voicemail, “Hi this is…” and then I’d hang up, before clicking the ‘call’ button once again. I was bathed in flashing blue lights, as ambulances pulled up, people were pulled out of them, and they drove off again. The beeping in my ears; the sirens; the hum of the doors; the noises were on repeat and I couldn’t see how I could ever leave this spot, I wanted to remain here, forever, on a loop. I felt like if I moved and retreated back inside, it would set off a chain of events that would lead me somewhere that I really didn’t want to go.
My mum was in a coma. Again. This time they wanted us to turn her life support off. If this was a movie, a nurse – with a face as round and as friendly as a buttered crumpet – would come out, take me under one arm and tell me everything was going to be OK. She’d sneak me a biscuit, put a sugary tea in my hand and wrap a blanket around my shoulders. I’d be broken out of my robotic state, led back into the room where mum lay, and what was happening would feel easier, manageable. But this wasn’t a movie, a nurse didn’t come. They had much better things to do; them and all the other NHS staff with their navy uniforms and grey-circled eyes had a job to be doing: saving lives.
I wish that the nurse with the sugary tea existed, not because I needed that tea, or the blanket. But so I could have someone individual to thank, someone to send flowers to each year, someone to think of as I stood on my doorstep clapping my hands together… Some way to mark how much of a difference the NHS has made to my life.
Instead, I have the knowledge that those who work within it have – in billions of big and small actions – created something huge: a network of people who we can rely on to make the hardest moments in our lives that tiny bit easier. I can’t remember a stand-out person because they were all around me, supporting me, even when I was too strung out on grief to notice.
Throughout my late teens and early twenties I was a frequent hospital visitor. I was adept at following blue lines on the ground, under harsh strip lighting, leading me to someone I loved, where I'd find them propped up by thick white cushions. I’ve sat for hours on hard red chairs, pulled in as close as possible to the bed, straining my body forward so I can grip onto a hand without disturbing any wires. Friendly faces would bustle past, smiling, attempting to either explain what was happening in the kindest way they could, or trying to do their job around me, not wanting to disturb the precious minutes I had with their patient. When visiting time was up they made leaving so much easier; knowing that – whatever happened – my loved ones would be treated with care and respect.
First there was mum, and the nurses who would come in and ignore the bottles of Vinho Verde (her favourite green wine) nestled in the sink, to keep cool. Her room was filled with yellow sunflowers, cards scattered across every surface, and there was always a queue of people waiting outside to visit her. The nurses would work around this disarray of gifts, and they’d bring us stacks of extra chairs to accommodate all her visitors. They understood that when someone is dying, there’s no point having rules get in the way of simple pleasures.
Then there was my grandma, and the canteen staff who would always bring me an extra pot of jelly when they wheeled her meals in. They'd joke about how I was the only person they met who actually liked hospital food enough to nick it off my grandma’s tray (she’d offer, I’m not a monster!) They were kind to me in a way that’s usually reserved for children; even though I was 25 and could often be found napping my hangover away at my grandma’s bedside. I didn’t feel like a very good person back then. Torn between where I wanted to be (partying in London, trying to become a journalist) and where I should be (in Edinburgh, pretending I was religious, praying with my grandma whose body was – very slowly – giving up on her.) Their never-ending friendliness made me feel better. Less rotten somehow. That, in turn, stopped my guilt of less-than-frequent visits marring the time I had left at her bedside.
And when my dad was ill – there were the doctors who strapped a shiny white band on her wrist, with the word ‘female’ written on in biro. She’s transgender, had been fighting so long to be recognised, and that identity band validated her existence. It made her feel strong. She’d had emergency heart surgery. It saved her – but so did, she believes, being treated as a woman. It helped her want to carry on living; living in a world where she was accepted. I wasn’t there when the band was placed on her wrist but thanks to it – and the surgeons, doctors and nurses that treated her – I was able to help her leave hospital.
When I was a child, I’d hear a siren and clutch at my collar. I had a superstition that if I did so, the ambulance wouldn’t go to someone I loved. I’d grip at my neck until long after the sounds of the siren had faded. But now I’m older, I know that if an ambulance is coming, you want it heading towards the ones you love. If they’re ill, the people in those speeding white vans are taking them to a place full of staff working tirelessly to ensure that those you love – and many others - are as safe and as comfortable as they can be. Even when they can’t be saved.
Life’s going to chuck some terrible moments everyone’s way, and when they do, the NHS is there and waiting. To me, that’s a lot more comforting than a mug of sugary tea.
Follow Catriona on Instagram.
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