I've heard a lot of complaints about the NHS from both Americans and Brits. I was in the hospital for five days a few weeks ago, and have this to report. (Then back to you, Peter Jennings, in New York.)
A brief background: Last spring, I was diagnosed with a degenerative bone disease called osteonecrosis (or avascular necrosis--AVN). I had had an aching hip for over six months after slipping in the tub, and when it first happened, had X-rays (in the States, Christmastime 2002) that showed nothing. The doctor there said there was no fracture that he could see, and that I must have just very badly bruised the area. I played stoic until it got to be too much, and went to my GP here, who ordered further X-rays. The radiologist said there was something seriously wrong with my hip, but he couldn't say what--he hadn't seen anything like it before. So he referred me to an NHS orthopedist, but rather than wait three months, I went to a private orthopedist, who diagnosed me with AVN after looking at the X-rays. (Yes, I hadn't heard of it either--it's relatively rare.) It affects joints--the blood vessels in the joint die off completely, and the bone subsequently starts to collapse. It can attack a single joint at one time, multiple joints at one time, or any joint at any time. When I had the X-rays in the States, it was too soon for it to show up. Then (here) I had an MRI (also privately), to see just how far it had progressed. We're saving money so that I can get a procedure done either here or in the States that doesn't require a total hip replacement, which is all the NHS will cover with this particular ailment. Anyway, that was a year ago, and I've been trying to avoid painkillers and limping around since.
Anyway, to fast forward to July 4th evening: AVN symptoms consist of both a constant ache in the joint, and periodic incredibly sharp jolts of pain in the joint (I can't really adequately describe it--a spear being stabbed into the joint comes to mind). I had a jolt like that July 4th, tripped over the edge of a rug, and landed with all my weight on my elbow, which broke in two places (I heard it--it was sickening). My bone, though not piercing my skin, was sticking out. I could barely breathe, much less stand. My husband (Andrew) called an ambulance, they gave me morphine on the spot before taking me to the hospital, and I was supposed to have surgery at 10 a.m. Monday morning (July 5). That didn't happen. In the meantime, I wasn't allowed any water, just in case I was supposed to go to surgery, and by 10 p.m. that night I insisted that I have something to drink. (It had been 24 hours of no fluid--not even ice chips.) The next afternoon, I finally went to surgery. In the meantime, I was on a morphine drip. The surgeon, whom I've yet to meet, put a metal plate in my arm and at least ten pins (the area looks like a railroad track in the X-rays), trying to fuse the bone back together. I'll never regain full use of this arm again, I've been told. But on the up side, it was the first time in over a year and a half that I wasn't in pain with my hip (due to the morphine). I was there five nights, and they wanted me to stay another two (bear in mind--they usually want patients in and out ASAP), but I was fed up and just wanted to go home and possibly get some sleep. (This is turning out to be a longer story than planned.) Anyway, I called my GP and told him it was a godsend to me to realize that I didn't have to live in constant pain, and told him that people in the States (on the two online support groups I'm in) were prescribed meds stronger than the paracetamol and small doses of codeine typically prescribed here, and I specifically asked him to put me on OxyContin, which has helped a lot of the people on those sites. I told him I was aware of the high risk of addiction, but that I was tired of living like a hermit until I could have my hip operated on. Amazingly enough, he wrote me a prescription and let my husband (who's also a patient of his) pick it up. I've had to double up on it here and there, but again, it's been a blessing. When Andrew went to get the scrip filled, the pharmacist acted as if it were a scrip for heroin (it was a two-day wait to get it filled, for them to scrounge around the area and find enough of it--56 pills--two a day for a month). Anyway, all in all, other than the surgery delay, the NHS wasn't that bad. Now I just want to get the pins that are protruding from underneath my skin taken out, and am further dreading the inevitable hassles going through airport security.
I told that story because the NHS can actually be worthwhile sometimes, waiting aside. It's too bad that a similar national health care program seems practically impossible in the States. And I even got out of there without contracting MRSA.
