Happy Birthday NHS

Eight years ago I was diagnosed with a left frontal astrocytoma, or brain tumor to you and me. The same year I started this blog in order to tell the story on my condition, believing I had something special to say about a special situation. Later I got better and returned to work, and ceased being 'special.' My work on the blog ended.

On 12th June this year I was at home, playing chess with my son, when I had only my third and latest seizure. This was just a few weeks after an MRI scan revealed two new areas of concern, probably tumours. And about 18 months after I first began chemotherapy following a change in the original tumour.

I realise this could be a lot to take in for some of you, and I promise to expand my thoughts on this over the coming days, weeks and months, but I wanted to take this opportunity to say thank you to the NHS.

This is not just coming from a financial perspective, although such a contribution would be worthy. Over the last a few weeks I've tried to tot up much my treatment has cost over the last eight years. From MRI Scans to chemo courses to operations it would have cost tens-of-thousands of pounds. In all honesty I lost count and being a former journalist I don't need to worry about the 'facts' anymore. Either way it's an expense I could not and still can not afford, and to have to face cancer while dealing with such bills would have been unthinkable.

The real reason for me writing this post is to highlight just how personal a service it can be. During a seizure you can usually remember the first few minutes of what's going on. You can't move, but you're conscious of your surroundings. This includes my neighbour stepping over me to take the kids upstairs and my wife talking on the phone to the person trying to keep her calm while they were trying to find out what was going on. The last thing I remember was being annoyed about banging my head against the wall over and over again. You'd have thought someone could havd moved me or put a cusion between my head and the wall. I also thought is this it?

Then I remember coming round in what was probably A&E. I realised my wife was there, while doctors and nurses poked and prodded, and stuck various wires to my arms, legs and chest to check I was still alive. As I was being injected with some wonderful drugs when two paramedics, I'd never met before, came over to see how I was doing. I soon realised that while I had not met them, they had met me. It struck me that despite our short time together (slightly longer from their point of view) they'd come to, in some small way, care about the outcome of this case, of little old me. It's the strangest of feelings introducing yourself to someone long after they've seen you at your worst, and in your greatest moment of need. The cynic in me would say this was their way of getting some kind personal closure, or making sure they'd done the right thing, but I felt there was genuine concern there. A genuine worry of my well being. They had no reason to come back and check on how I was and yet they did.

I'm not silly enough to think I'm special and this a one off from thier point of view. These two paramedics show the type of people who work for the NHS. Having an above and beyond calling to care over what's practically needed. I'd be shocked to be the only one recieving this kind of treatment on their shift that night. 

This wasn't the only example of kindness over the 24 hours I was in hospital that day, let alone the last eight years. So I just wanted to say, 'Thanks NHS, and happy birthday.'