A few weeks ago, staying in Yorkshire, I had a migraine attack.
It followed a familiar path. First I can see only half of whatever I’m looking at. This is speedily followed by a bright circle of flickering, coloured lights in the upper right field of vision. If I don’t swiftly swallow one of my migraine ‘bombs’ (three pills: paracetamol, ibuprofen and sumatriptan), a crashing headache will follow.
But I’m an old hand – I had my first migraine attack at nine – and I carry bombs in my handbag, my husband John’s shoulder bag and my washbag.
Very rarely, I get another migraine symptom when my speech, like my sight, goes bananas. When I had my first attack, I was trying to tell my mother I wanted to be sick but it came out ‘I want fish’.
This time, my incomprehensible jumble of disconnected words convinced John I was having a stroke. I tried to tell him it was just a migraine, but I couldn’t string two words together.
He rang our doctor, who asked me, could I raise my arms? Yes. Make a fist? Yes. Did anything hurt? No. Was the side of my face drooping? No.
In spite of my answers, she ordered an ambulance to take me to Harrogate Hospital. The ambulance man asked me the same questions, as did a nurse on arrival at A&E, and so, after a six-hour wait, did the doctor.
In spite of my assuring him (I’d recovered coherent speech by then) that it was a migraine, he decided on a CT scan. Two hours later, I had one, waited another hour for the results, and was released at 2am.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, we are constantly told what a parlous state the NHS is in, and I am sure it is. But it doesn’t feel like a business on the skids.
In most near-bankrupt corporations, with too few staff, and a barrage of constant criticism, you would expect to find demoralised, unco-operative – even rude – employees and uncared-for buildings and kit.
But the NHS personnel (paramedics, nursing staff, orderlies, doctors and consultants) are all cheerful, sympathetic, polite, helpful and professional. You may have to wait for ever. But when it is your turn, you are treated as if you were the only patient in A&E, with concern and patience.
The nurse who took my blood had been on duty for ten hours – her replacement had rung in sick – but she was bright as a daisy. Said she loved her job. And the doctor took the trouble to access my NHS records. He explained why he wanted to refer me for a brain scan, just to be sure (people of my age, 86, are prone to mini-strokes).
And when, after eight hours, I said I was hungry, a nursing assistant went foraging for a sandwich. It was white bread with a skinny slice of processed ham. Not the healthiest supper for nurses on nightshift, but John and I wolfed it down.
I wonder what my 10 hours in A&E cost the nation? I knew all along that all I had was a migraine. But since the speech problem is a classic symptom of a stroke, and my extreme old age being a time when mini-strokes are common, everyone was determined to be safe not sorry.
No wonder the nation is devoted to the NHS.
Prue Leith’s Being Old … and Learning to Love It! is out now
