I’ve given up being brave and waiting for help from the NHS – what a pain in the neck

I rolled over in bed two weeks and ago, felt a twang in my neck and knew I’d done something hideous. The pain in my neck and shoulder were excruciating, so I did everything I could think of to reset whatever it was that had pinged out of place. This involved lots of gentle pilates and yoga moves, and a quick trip to the chiropractor who has sorted me out on many occasions, followed by loads of paracetamol, frozen peas and hot water bottles.

It would get better, it had to get better. I had two days for it to get better, because I had four gigs left up in the northeast before my tour broke up for Christmas.

It didn’t get better. At 3am on Wednesday, when I was delirious with pain and just wanted something to knock me out, my partner drove me to A&E, minutes from my house. I booked in, explaining that my neck really hurt and I no longer seemed able to use my left hand properly. A nurse gave me a couple of strong painkillers and directed me to “urgent care”.

This was a large room with no one behind the reception desk and only about seven other people waiting. Mask-wearing was good and I chose a seat as far away as I could from the only unmasked patient. “This will be a doddle,” I thought. “Eight of us? I’ll be out of here by 6am.”

Ha! Time ticked on and I realised no one was being called. It was 4am and a woman sitting near me told me she’d arrived at midnight and no one had been seen since then. Around 4.30am, we all decided to go to sleep. It was weirdly like being on a night flight: eight strangers snoring together, stretched out across the seats. The painkillers kept me going till around 7.30am, when, weeping in agony, I was offered two paracetamol.

At 8.30am, with my midnight friend still in pain next to me, I left. It was a bit like that episode of Frasier when Frasier realises there’s a more exclusive private club within his own private club and desperately tries to find the door. Maybe there’s an “urgent, urgent care” unit, I reasoned, or maybe even an “urgent. urgent, urgent care” unit.

My left hand had by now given up: it could neither straighten nor squeeze a tube of toothpaste.

I couldn’t get through to my GP, so I phoned the private doctor who has saved the day for myself and other family members, when the NHS hasn’t been readily available. At his surgery, I was given anti-inflammatory drugs, painkillers, including Valium for night-times (whoop), and the details of a pain specialist in case I needed an emergency MRI. By lunchtime, I’d cancelled the gigs and booked to see the specialist, who did advise an MRI, which I paid for and which was done on Friday morning.

The results weren’t great, but the specialist advised a week of rest and physio before further intervention. Let’s see what mother nature can do, we agreed. Well, the old cow let me down.

I could manage the pain (just) with the meds, physio and my magical acupuncturist. But the left hand was becoming evidently more useless.

My physio was worried and referred me to a neurosurgeon who basically said I needed an operation on my neck. Bang goes a big chunk of the tour profits. The op is on Friday.

To keep up to speed with all the latest opinions and comment sign up to our free weekly Voices Dispatches newsletter by clicking here

I’m not complaining about the money. I’ve given up on being brave and waiting to see what can be done by the NHS.

I did try. Before I saw the neurosurgeon, I saw my GP, who, when I demonstrated the uselessness of my left hand, asked whether I’d thought about going to A&E, before swiftly referring me to the hospital for physio.

The next day I got a text from the hospital giving me a code and number to book my appointment online. I was hugely impressed and duly followed the instructions. The first available appointment was on 4 January – brilliant! Weirdly, my time slot was 4.15am. I nevertheless booked and then phoned the help number to explain that they had an am/pm glitch on their site.

“Oh no,” said the nice man, “that’s a fictional appointment you’ve just booked. You’ve reserved a slot for your referral to be referred to the people who decide whether the referral is valid. You’ll get a letter cancelling that 4 January appointment, then another letter if your referral has been approved.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, this is mental,” I told him. “I don’t disagree,” he responded.

So that’s where we left it. I went private, the operation is booked and I’m now self-isolating with a left hand that has all the strength of an empty sock. All I can say is, thank God I’m a right-handed old Scrooge with enough savings. See you on the other side.