What my operation taught me about ‘our’ NHS

I saw the country’s complex relationship with the service firsthand – in all its horror and tenderness

It’s a testament to the state of the health service that when, a few months ago, I stood up from the lavatory bowl to find it full of blood, my first thought wasn’t, “Oh no, I’m going to die,” it was, “Oh no, I’m going to have to deal with the NHS.”

Bowel cancer? Mum’s had it; Dad died from it, and his only consolation was knowing that I might get it one day, too. His death was difficult. Aside from the pain and recrimination, I remember the ambulances that never came, the long waits in A&E – and I came to hate the NHS, all the more for being made to clap for it during the Covid pandemic. Why do the British make such a big show of love for an institution that treats them so badly?

Well, now I could find out. It’s a benefit of being a writer that whatever horror life throws at you, you always think “at least I can squeeze a column out of it”.

The chief problem with the NHS turns out to be its hopeless administration. Great at care, terrible at managing it. Given your family history, said the GP, you must take a test – so I did, and the result was bad. However, I didn’t know this because I didn’t realise I had to collect it myself (why would I?), and my GP, who is truly excellent, wasn’t prompted to arrange a colonoscopy until many weeks had passed.

Around January 2, I got a text to say it was bad news and I would be sent to surgery ASAP. Then silence. I went to the GP practice in person – they encourage us not to do this – and was told that the operation would eventually be booked by the secretary, but “she’s on holiday”.

I heard myself saying “thank you for your help”. Because NHS treatment is free – bar the thousands I pay in tax – we are trained to act as though it’s voluntary, and one fears that making a complaint might make it stop. I said nothing when a clinical letter went to the wrong address (the NHS still thinks that I live with my mother, beneath a Postman Pat duvet and posters of Steps) or when another, with instructions on how to prepare for a colonoscopy, never arrived at all.

Still, what we lack in clerical skills, the British make up for in good humour, which came in handy on the day itself – at Maidstone Hospital, with its brutalist fishpond and, to the disorientation of every visitor, a fruit and veg market at reception. Down the corridor, two doors on the right, Mum and I sat in the “derriere ward”, surrounded by people of all creeds and classes made equal by one of the most embarrassing medical problems imaginable, united by Blitz Spirit. To paraphrase the late Queen Mother, one feels one can look the East End in the face now that I’ve had a telescope shoved up my bottom.

“Mr Stanley? You’re next.” There was hurt. There was humiliation. But there was also an overwhelming kindness. This wasn’t the drugs talking. Before I had those, I admitted to a nurse that I was frightened, and warned her that when I’m nervous, I become posh and confused, so she’d have to treat me like a very stupid royal. I was stripped and led to the theatre, where they laid me on the table, pumped me with anaesthetic faster than I could notice – not general, for one must stay awake – and asked me to move onto my left side. “You’ll have to point me in the right direction,” I said, and the nurse, as gently as if she were wiping a baby, rolled me over.

Here, I was invaded by a cold camera, looking for suspicious or malicious lumps, but also handled with the most remarkable tenderness. Once your childhood is over, and you cease being adorable, no one has cause to touch you with such sympathy – until you fall ill or go gaga, and then the angels of the NHS appear at the bedside, to caress and clean, like a vision of Mother Mary. Occasionally, if you’re lucky, they will bring news of a divine reprieve. “No cancer, Mr Stanley,” said the doctor, “low risk at your age.” But she’d found plenty of lumps, so we will have to do this again, soon. “In the meantime, I’ve removed one of the offenders and tattooed the spot to warn the next doctor.”

How wonderful science is! To think there will forever be some part of my bowel that reads “Kilroy was here”.

Later, I enjoyed my free sandwich and cup of tea, and considered that perhaps people don’t really love the NHS, they love the people in it and the love they show to us – that we treat it like a religion because it really is Christianity in action, the work of compassion for which God made us. Then again, there’s the horrid bureaucracy: I will have to fight for that second operation, to find the missing letters and hunt down that secretary, even if I must go all the way to Magaluf to confront her with my forms.

“Mr Stanley,” said the nurse, “I am calling your mother in the waiting room to come and collect you, but she is not replying. Could she have left?”

“No,” I replied, “she’s just profoundly deaf. Shout louder.” As I closed my eyes and listened to the nurse yelling my mother’s name, I thought of my father – I wished he’d been kinder to me, but also that I’d been kinder to him, and pledged to be nicer to everyone while I still have time.