Into the Bowells of the NHS... Part 1

On Tuesday the 28th of November, I embarked on a journey filled with anguish and pain and despair. This journey was of course metaphoric; it was more an 'experience' (maybe involuntary confinement would be a better way to describe it) and it led me into the inner bowells of the England's failing National Health Service; a topic that has sparked much controversy over the past few years.

Before I begin my tale of enlightenment, I must admit that I have never been hospitalised before in my life. I have never had the pleasure of spending time in a dreary hospital so imagine my surprise when the doctors told me I wouldn't be going home that night (or the night after). I did not know what to expect and was curious of my first hand experience with the notorious NHS.

So anyway, to the story...

It all began at school. What started out as nothing turned into laboured breathing and a dull pain spreading through my chest. It was endurable but left me extremely worried; What disease could inflict chest pains but no coughing? I thought of Pneumonia, Tuboculosis, AIDS (don't ask me why. I eventually associate every inexplicable disease to AIDS). I made sure all my friends knew just how much I was suffering.

"You're such a hypercondriac!" Robin complained, before hitting me on the back (to 'relieve' the pain apparently). "If it really hurts so much go to the Office. Atleast then you'd stop bothering me."

I admit, I am a hypercondriac at times. But because I know I'm a hypercondriac, any inexplicable pains are attributed to hypercondria. This pain was horribly real and ominously in the area of my chest. I couldn't take any chances with this.

I excused myself from my maths lesson and went to the Office. The secretaries there were totally unsympathetic and they didn't show the least bit concerned when they told me to wait and I was struggling to breathe. My dad ferried me to the Liverpool Royal Hospital (I was too old for Alder Hay, Liverpool childrens hospital and leading infant organ harvester). This is where my story really begins.

I was admitted into the the emergency unit and told to wait. There were three people waiting with me; Two men and a woman.

Both men were tracksuited and one looked like the father of the other. Occasionally the younger would cry and his father would reassure him (as if he'd just been diagnosed with cancer). The boy was treated like a ten year old and was told to leave his fathers side by the doctors (for reasons I will never know). The woman (I assume) was an alcoholic. Her speech was slurred, her reactions were slow and at times she would just stare blankly, even when the doctor talked to her. The doctor was unimpressed when she claimed she suffered a heart attack and he threatened to call security. Eventually the woman ambled off, possibly in a drunken stupor. I pitied them but I pitied myself more.

Already I'd encountered these two cases they both depressed me immensely. It didn't help that every now and then, crying relatives were ushered past me into a room (I never saw a single person leave).

Eventually, the doctor got to me and I was given a temporary bed where they could examine me. I waited for about three hours. I asked for a sandwich twice and the nurses promised me it would be delivered. I never saw a single sandwich that night.

When the doctor came, he delivered the devastating new that I was to stay the night, "under surveillence". I'd probably have registered less shock if you were to tell me God was real, the apocalyse is next week or that LFC had won the treble.

"I can't. I've got GCSE mocks!" I protested weakly. I knew it was in vain. Since I wasn't old enough to discharge myself, and my condition was serious enough to stay the night, the only people who had control of my situation were the doctors. They were to decide when I was to leave and when not. It was like prison (except with less luxuries).

As I was wheeled to my bed (I had waited three hours and I was put in a room with four free beds. I couldn't understand why I needed to wait so long for an empty room.) The idea of staying the night filled me with dread. I tried to console myself but it was no use. In fact, the only things that kept me going was the guilt my friends would be feeling at this moment, and that I would be able to write about my experiences as soon as I was discharged. Those alone gave me strength to endure the night.

Stay tuned for Part 2.