I’ve just been in A&E. What I saw horrified me

“Nurse, nurse, I need fresh air cos my feet are swollen.” I’m sitting in what I’ll call a holding area, on a drip, waiting for a bed in a large city hospital. I won’t bother describing the first few hours in the A&E waiting room. You’ve heard it all before. And it’s not even Saturday night.

The place is full to the brim. Opposite is a well-dressed elderly man, on his hands and knees, searching for imaginary litter, which he tries to put in his pocket. He’s already trodden on his glasses.

In the small section next to him is a group of men. The language is ripe. One patient assumes the role of speaker, diagnosing his fellow patients and regularly calling for help. A nurse stops to persuade the elderly man to sit down. She’s been on duty for 11 hours , hot, tired – no lunch, just coffee.

An overweight man on a nebuliser joins the fray, gasping for breath. He walks out. Back after a few minutes, he’d been outside to grab a quick fag. Apparently he has chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, emphysema – and a hole in his lung.

Some patients have three family members with them, despite notices saying one per patient. That adds to the crowding and the noise. Good job Covid isn’t rife.

My daughter still hasn’t got a seat. There’s a young girl crying into a tartan scarf. A woman Googles her symptoms in case she’s got MS. One old man, asleep through all the constant comings and goings, is blocking the corridor. How do the staff do this job, day after day?

Hours later, I’m moved to a small temporary ward. No sleep, the dementia patient next to me has cried and called out most of the night. Another elderly woman says she’s worried about her nine children… in fact, she means her cats. The young girl opposite is using wax strips on her eyebrows, and tries to persuade us to have a go! Light relief.

Two days later, I reach my ward, where I’ll spend nearly three weeks. Staff are superb. I undergo tests, almost every day. I can’t fault the care I’m shown.

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I see everything that’s right about the NHS, and everything that’s wrong. Spotless wards thanks to the underpaid cleaners, who often double as an alert system. Staff searching the hospital for pillows, or sheets. Meals being affected because of supply problems – a sandwich dinner instead of sausage and mash. The meals man is embarrassed.

Nurses shouldn’t have to treat someone whose head is jumping with lice, nor should they be abused because she needs “more drugs”. That’s remedied by a whispered phone call and a meeting outside.

None of the staff – nurses, doctors, healthcare assistants – want to strike, but fear they may have to. One or two are thinking of going into the world of private health, for better shifts, more money. There’s a mention of supermarket jobs. Early retirement’s another option.

Where’s the humanity? Where’s the planning? Where’s the parity? And where’s the money? Aneurin Bevan must be turning in his grave.