In hospital with boris | thearticle

The NHS is launching an “open for business” campaign. About time. The aim is to persuade those of us with serious conditions or symptoms, especially heart problems or cancer, not to avoid

their GPs or A&E departments out of fear, or a misplaced sense of duty. Earlier Government guidance, urging us to stay away, along with the cancellation of many pre-planned GP and

hospital appointments, has been too successful. It has left some usually overstretched surgeries and non-virus wards quieter than usual. Suffering in silence is more than unnecessary. It is

dangerously counter-productive; piling up problems for the future for yourself and for the NHS, which will eventually have to treat you, as the Chief Medical Officer, Chris Whitty, pointed

out. That was the context in which I recently spent several days in St Thomas’s hospital with Boris — a buddy from back when, as hacks, our paths often crossed. He was in intensive care, in

the recently created and very completely segregated Virus wing. (It has its own entrance and reception. Connecting corridors are blocked.) I was not stupid enough to attempt to reach him,

far less grab a scoop. But I experienced the admirable conditions inside the non-virus side of the hospital. So perhaps then I should rephrase: I spent several days in St Thomas’s hospital

at the same time as Boris. I was paying one of my emergency visits to the cardiovascular wards following a near collapse. It was my fourth stay — a couple of them two weeks long — in just

over two years. My first visit was a drama. I collapsed with a heart rate of around 260 at a media awards dinner. I would almost certainly have died, but for the rapid support of colleagues

and staff at the Reform Club, and for the outstanding emergency treatment at St Thomas’s. I still have heart failure and arythmyia, but have acquired a fancy pacemaker, complete with a

built-in gizmo which gives you a monumental thump if the heart is misbehaving. I underwent a relatively minor operation. I still take a complex mix of drugs, all with potential side effects.

I truck along. Occasionally things get out of kilter. This time I was faint and feeble for several days, and getting worse. I am 81, living alone in central London and self-isolating.

Frankly I was scared. I tested my temperature and heart rate regularly. Both were low but not near danger point. Corona-19 usually starts with a very high temperature and a persistent cough,

neither of which I had. I thought I could, and should, tough it out — the Blitz Spirit and all that. In addition I had seen the non stop drip of horror stories on television about chaotic,

overcrowded, overworked and sometimes downright dangerous conditions in a number of hospitals. Of course the media plays a crucial role in exposing weak spots, holding the powers-that-be to

account and demanding improvements. But constant doom and gloom must eventually undermine public morale and judgement. On Thursday afternoon last week I gave in and called my GP. For the

past few years the demands on the excellent Soho Square General Practice have almost overwhelmed it. This time the receptionist had time to listen in detail to my symptoms. She said the

doctor would call me within half an hour. It took her twenty minutes. She too had time to listen, and decided I needed to go to hospital. She would arrange an ambulance. She actually

apologised because, as I was not an obvious Corona suspect, or in other immediate danger, I might have to wait a couple of hours. But within fifteen minutes I was in one of those super new

ambulances full of electronic wizardry which enables paramedics to conduct a raft of tests en route. By late afternoon I was through the heavy security now surounding the hospital, and

clocking on in the A&E’s new, very makeshift, reception hall. It was half empty. Calm, efficient — and quiet. The usual chaotic, noisy A&E churn, which a doctor described to me, with

bleak humour, as including “the sad, the mad and the bad”, was missing. Apparently, trivial and frivolous self referrals have dropped sharply. As have drink, drug and knife crime related

arrivals. There are fewer road accidents to deal with. Even so, it took a while to process me. There was a long session of questions about my lifestyle over the previous few days. And there

were swabs and tests. Eventually it was decided that I did not need to be moved to the Virus wing. So to an assessment area. Again calm, efficient and quiet. Ok; I had to spend eight hours

on a trolley, which sounds ghastly, but was actually a perfectly comfortable, adjustable bed on wheels. More tests, and a long wait for the results. But I was in a nice little curtained

cubicle. I had a book to read, and there was coffee and a sandwich if you were patient. It was well after midnight before an obviously stressed registrar down from cardio came down to

confirm the judgement that mine was indeed a heart problem. By 2am I was finally tucked up in an eighth floor ward with a fine view across the Thames to the Palace of Westminster. Good

Friday was yet more tests and X-rays. I was wired up for continuous monitoring of heart rate, blood pressure and temperature. My pacemaker was adjusted electronically by a specialist and my

meds changed by a registrar. The atmosphere was calm and there were empty beds. On previous stays bed blocking was an issue. Not now. Nurses and cleaners were friendly and cheerful but tired

after days of twelve hour shifts. Staffing was tight because some regulars had been transferred to virus duties. And those who remained were desperately worried about the virus breaking out

on their watch, not only for their patients but also for themselves. The disease has spread in some hospitals, more among staff than patients. No wonder most — though surprisingly not all —

were masked, gloved and distancing where possible. If there was a dress code it was so arcane that I never cracked it. We patients had no choice. We were ordered to wear masks all the time.

Even when sleeping. That really is unpleasant. By my third day, I was improving but still feeling woozy. I could have done with another 24 hours in hospital, before I resumed my domestic

isolation. Enter the registrar and another doctor. They clearly wanted me out. Was I happy to go? I said I still felt rather rough but didn’t want to be a bed blocker. “We are not short of

beds. You can stay as long as you need to. But this is a difficult judgement call, which we have to make together with you. There is a small but genuine danger that you could be exposed to

the virus while you are here. That risk grows with every hour you remain. If you can manage, we think it would on balance be safer for you to go home into lockdown, immediately. If your

heart problems recur we can rush you back in. But we will be guided by you.” I took a deep breath and agreed. Those who looked after me so well, from cleaners to consultants, are still

clocking on for their 12 hour, short staffed shifts, to keep the NHS “open for business”. Every time they do so, they are voluntarily dicing with the danger from which I was able to walk

away. All I can do is salute them.