The NHS so broken round the edges is, of course, still excellent in a crisis. I found myself suddenly in hospital for a week in the middle of the month, and after being out for five days was sent back for an overnight. Got home yesterday. I had not been an in-patient since 1984 when I was in a neurology ward having an experimental plasma exchange as treatment for ME. This time I was in a cardiology ward. The week was a blur. I was mainly in a shared ward, I recall one morning, hearing a woman who had been admitted late at night tell the doctor she did not have her small suitcase with her because she had lent it to someone and when it came back it smelled like a bonfire.
On Monday, I was in a side room of my own for one night, I appreciated the privacy but it was bleak, reminded me of a Benidorm hotel in 1980s, hard surfaces, no comforts and a view of a car park. I had extra blankets but still needed my coat on top.
I had stopped reading about Gaza in hospital, though I periodically imagined what would it be like if we were being bombed. Unthinkable. I made contact with a Palestinian friend I'd had at university in eighties, he grew up in a refugee camp in Jordan. I had not seen or spoken to him for over thirty years. I wasn't sure if he would get my message but he did.
It was a joy to hear from him.
I am so very grateful to everyone in our NHS. I thought about what had changed since my last stay, forty years ago. They don't make visitors tea any more. And many of the nurses have tattoos.
I gave the paramedic a copy of my 2008 novel. My plasma exchange is fictionalised in there.
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