For the first six Saturday nights of lockdown, we ran an online quiz, of which one early question was: ‘how many people work for the NHS?’
Hold that thought for the moment.
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When all this really kicked off about nine weeks ago, I ruptured the tendon on my left thumb. It was simultaneously of little consequence, but exquisitely painful, so I took it along to the Haslemere Sports Injury Clinic for an appointment on what turned out to be their last day open.
About two weeks later, I had a telephone consultation with my GP who agreed that, in the circumstances, the best course of action would be to book an appointment with a specialist for July or August when things were calmer, and on the off-chance that it was still painful in four months’ time.
A week later, I got one of those NHS letters that you normally only get if they want to put some bit of scientific equipment into some random part of your body, and where your intention is to avoid it as long as possible.
Paraphrased, it said: ‘Go away. Don’t you know that there is a crisis on. Only contact us if one of the following four deteriorations occur’, and it then listed them, and a number I could call in the event.
A couple of weeks later, I realized, not without some pride, that two out of the four on the list now applied, whilst a third (‘Are you pacing about the bedroom in pain at night?’) was not completely out of court.
There is a promotional ladder for GP’s receptionists, I think, for when they have passed with flying colours every single exam in putting people off visiting the doctor, and making them feel bad about asking the question in the first place. When they’ve finished saying: ‘He’s busy seeing people; you know, really ill people.’ The local ones go to the Chichester Musculoskeletal department, where they reign in glory till they go to the great waiting room in the sky, and I found myself talking to one of them when I called.
‘No.’ She said, emphatically. They had been instructed by the Prime Minister, no less, to accept no appointments whatsoever until further notice, certainly wouldn’t be accepting mine, and what was I doing even asking the question. I looked down at my sad thumb and found myself apologizing to it. I also made a mental note that I would specifically excluding her from my clapping when I went out with my saucepan and spoon the following Thursday night.
So each day, I put my pleasantly deformed hand into a wrist support, and each night I splint it into immobility to avoid its component parts moving around and making me weep. Maybe a career in orthopaedic surgery beckons, after all.
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The answer to the quiz question, by the way, was anywhere between 1.2 and 1.5 million people work for the NHS, (depending on how you count seconded staff) making it the fifth biggest employer in the world (after US Defense Department; Chinese Army; Walmart and Macdonalds.)For interest’s sake, 150,000 are doctors, 330,000 nurses and 155,000 technical and science staff.
Around 26,300 people are currently in hospital battling the symptoms of severe corona virus. I am in awe of the professionalism, kindness and- above all- bravery of every consultant, doctor, nurse, porter, technician and ancillary worker who put themselves into harm’s way in those ICUs, shift after shift, day after day. I worry for their physical health, but just as much I worry for their mental health when they start to count the cost of the relentless pressure, of what they have seen, and who they haven’t been able to save.
Just about every one of my developing opinions about this pandemic have been shown to be wrong in the event, so please don’t take any lectures from me on the subject. However, at some point, aren’t we going to have to start mending a few more people, as well? Not my thumb, obviously, which is just a slightly useless appendage on a non-dominant hand. But the not-yet-terribly-ill people who right now would normally be fighting for, and occupying, those 30,000 empty beds.
I just worry that they aren’t getting any better.
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