NHS at 75

 NHS at 75

How eternally grateful are we to the NHS? Today the National Health Service celebrates a well deserved 75th birthday. It hardly seems possible that we've come so far when it looked as though its future had been threatened by a global virus that seemed to go on indefinitely. But thankfully we knew how to look after ourselves. It could have been so much worse and yet our powers of resilience showed no signs of letting up and we got through it in the end. But the warning signs are still there.

Today the NHS is still teetering on a precarious precipice, wobbling under the severest pressure and still weighed down by rash mismanagement and the kind of po faced bureaucracy that continues to hamper its very existence. And yet it was never like this all those decades ago when a heroic politician by the name of Aneurin Bevan wisely considered the state of the nation's health and felt that there had to be some vital facility for those who were in desperate need of medical attention.

And so it is that we celebrate the culmination of a dream project that was bound to bear fruition and then just rapidly blossomed into the most beautiful flower of them all. Besides, where would we have been without our front line nurses, eminent surgeons, obstetricians, pathologists, doctors, cancer and dementia specialists, mid wives, matrons, paediatric experts and all manner of catering staff, porters and everybody who has played such a fundamental role in its development throughout the decades?

Of course there have been moments of crisis and, sadly, accident and emergency departments have been stretched to breaking point. At the moment the NHS are trying desperately to make up for the monumental loss of Covid 19 patients, and addressing at source the crippling waiting lists for cancer, kidney transplants, dementia cases and all of the ongoing mental health issues that became the aftermath of Covid 19. There must have been a point when everything became overwhelmingly unbearable, a forlorn plea for help that never seemed to be there.

But in 1948 hospitals and doctors surgeries opened up their doors to the sick, the ailing, the infirm, the poorly and those who simply couldn't cope anymore. Suddenly sympathetic doctors with bedside manners smiled solicitously at their local patients or those who'd travelled from afar. In front of us was the kind doctor with a stethoscope wrapped around their neck whose torch would be shone brightly inside your mouth and determined the severity of your illness. We knew we were being cared about almost immediately and there was somebody out there who could appreciate your pain. They were there for you and invariably engaged you in comforting conversation when we were so anxious to hear soothing diagnoses.

But for those cynics who still believe that the NHS are still underperforming and failing to rise to the daunting challenges, maybe we should remember where they were when the global virus first dawned at the end of March 2020. The ambulances were ready, the paramedics on duty and on every Thursday evening we were implored to clap for the men and women who were about to give such unstinting dedication to their profession.

Now though the NHS are still making their presence felt, still the benevolent face of Britain, the caring, understanding and compassionate influence on our everyday lives. For 75 years, day in and day out they have worked unsocial hours, through the night, always available to us whenever the need was at its gravest. We knew they had the vast resources and that nothing would be too much trouble.

For my late and lovely mum, who was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease and suffered so much, the NHS extended the warm hand of tenderness and love. Every day her carers dressed her, delivered meals  on wheels without any complaint or hesitation. My equally as wonderful late dad was similarly attended to with everything they could possibly offer. We tend to take the NHS for granted because they've always been in the background, taking our blood pressures, reaching out to us and talking if that is the therapy we need.

So today let's sing out a million congratulations to the National Health Service. It's time to light the birthday candles for the NHS, acknowledging the huge debt of gratitude we owe this essential service. In our local health centre there is a photo that looks as if it was taken during the 1950s. It shows a smiling mother with her young daughter gazing out of a window, mum pointing out the buildings next to parent and child.

Personal childhood memories of your local doctor abound. There was the venerable and hugely respected Dr Elliot, a no nonsense and ruthless GP who didn't mince his words. On one occasion, mum took her toddler son with a heavy cold only to be dismissed as a malingerer. Well, not exactly a malingerer as such but our medic prescribed the most simple medicine. You were told, in no uncertain terms that all you needed was an Aspirin, an early night and re-assured that you'd have made a complete recovery by the following morning.

Happy Birthday NHS. You've been with us for over 75 years and it's time to don the party hats, eat as much cake as possible and cast your mind into the future. Sometimes we tend to assume that they'll always come to our rescue when our fevers had just become intolerable. But now is the time more than ever when we look to our hospital receptionists, expressing the deepest admiration for those pushing the disabled in wheelchairs and for some of us with fractured fingers. We can never thank you enough NHS.