So one day, I decided to become a nurse. Not a new, sparkly nurse, but a ‘mature’ nurse, because I have seen a lot of life and feel like now I can tackle some of the sadness that comes from caring. That and the fact that I have an inherent desire to make a difference.
And now. Two words: Jeremy Hunt. An NHS in crisis. My mother remembered what it was like without a welfare state: her grandmother cutting her own tooth out beneath the dining table, drunk on gin, because of a raging toothache; and because she couldn’t afford a dentist. Paying a shilling for 2 visits from the midwife after the difficult and traumatic birth of my brother. The NHS was always a beacon in our house, something we could always rely upon. Something that would always be there. And Bevan was a God. So, I have to do something. I go on marches. I write to my MP. I engage with social media. All in the hope that I can convey some of the fear I have that our wonderful health service is taking its last breaths. And in the hope that I can help to save it.
So, now I’m tweeting, face booking, emailing, arranging and generally wearing my fingers out. I am multi-tasking – phone in one hand, laptop open, land-line on the go. There are multiple bleeps and pings around me, alerting me to some form of message from a new ally, someone I have never met but who understands, who wants to preserve what we have left of our NHS. These are amazing times. We could save the most important institution this country has every seen, or has ever had the privilege to be part of. I want to be part of that fight, I want my voice – shouting for the NHS itself – to be heard. I WILL be heard.