‘The medics are on a par with soldiers I’ve served alongside’
After seeing Thomas, I had another visit to make. To my grandmother, Barbara Jones, 78, who lives in Birkenhead. A very recent diagnosis of cancer means she is highly vulnerable and given the stage of her illness, I accept I probably won’t see her again.
At the Nightingale, I work two day shifts 8am to 8.30pm and then two night shifts, followed by three days of rest.
While working we live at a hotel near to the hospital. Eat, sleep, work, repeat. On the three days off I race back to my flat in Colchester to wash my clothes and do chores.
Much has been made of army analogies and military language. But as I see it, we have to fight this virus to protect everyone in the UK. I am a small cog in the wheel – – and I’m not telling my story for praise. I am humbled by the strength of human spirit I witness daily.
The medical staff work with a fierce devotion. But then so does everyone – from the cleaners, canteen workers, porters to the volunteers who come to make cups of tea. Everyone is vital.
Even the staff at the hotel where we stay have been overwhelming in their kindness. At reception we are greeted by our first names and concern for the creases etched into our faces from wearing tight masks for hours.
We wear full Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) so only our eyes are visible. It’s funny how you can get to know someone just by their eyes. We’ve become a team, sensitive to someone who is having a bad day or needs a boost. Lunch is eaten in the canteen – alone at tables two metres apart – but the banter is uplifting. And worthy of any army unit I have ever had the honour to be part of. We are a band of brothers – and sisters.
A few days ago, I witnessed a patient who was in his final moments of life. A doctor held his hand and a nurse stroked his face. Their compassion overwhelmed me. Normally on a hospital ward, staff get to know patients from conversation and their families. You learn a lot about someone from the people who love them – grandchildren visit, or a spouse arrives with a crossword.
But it’s different for these patients, who are seriously ill and can’t have visitors. The staff only know their names. The medical staff I’ve witnessed are on a par with any soldiers I have served alongside. Professional, dedicated and robust.
Watching that nurse and doctor ease their patient’s journey out of this world, I felt a sense of inner peace. It was a sad, tragic loss. But the human kindness was life-affirming.
But there are highs, too. Like when the first patient was discharged from the Nightingale – staff gathered around to clap and cheer.
So, after a long day, back at the hotel, I phone my son, who is too young to understand why I’m not there. But I am doing this for him. It is as important as any military operation I’ve been involved in. We must win.
When Thomas is a young man and he asks me what
I did during the virus I want to make him proud. I want to be able to tell him, ‘Son, I played my part.’
Jamie has donated his fee for this article to Team Rubicon – a group of volunteer military veterans who have been supporting the NHS during the pandemic. To donate, go to teamrubiconuk.org/give/