My littlest one is 5 months old now, and things have sufficiently calmed down enough for me to write this out, but it has been brewing for a long time... and is appropriately LONG and windy.
I gave birth to my first son, Philip, in Cambridgeshire in 2004. To this day, that whole time in my life remains one of the most painful to remember. I didn't like living in England. My mother was dying of cancer back in the US and I wanted to be with her. The only reason I was living in England was because that is what it took to be with my husband, not because I particularly wanted to be here. Also, I was not receiving good medical care.
In part, it was because I was a first time mom, nervous in my surroundings, massively insecure about my capabilities to grow and raise a child, and navigating a medical system I did not understand. In part, it was because I had very bad luck and wound up with a bunch of jerk doctors "helping" me.
Regardless, I gave birth to my son and suffered major physical trauma afterwards that was not attended to. My tear developed a major infection that caused abnormal healing, and I was in daily agony. I was denied the reconstructive surgery that I needed, and ended up flying to America to pay out of pocket for that surgery. It took more than 5 years for me to be pain-free after the birth, and had I received the care I needed initially that wouldn't have happened.
We were thinking of moving back to the US anyway, and my husband had an offer from his company to start up the US branch of the company, so we took it. We moved back, and I then re-entered the US medical system.
Shortly after we arrived, I suffered three miscarriages back to back. I received brilliant medical care, and in my mind I had completely demonized the NHS for what it had done to me, and made the US system out to be flawed but perfect-for-me. But then I got the bill for it. I required surgery after all three miscarriages, and was also paying for the reconstructive surgery. Slowly but surely, we began to feel strangled by the costs.
Eventually, I got pregnant with my 2nd son, Henry. I was very ill during his pregnancy and required a lot of monitoring. My mother died while I was 7 months pregnant with him, and the stress of that pushed me over the edge, and my body just sort of failed. I developed serious preeclampsia and HELLP, and Henry was born prematurely via emergency c-section. He was in the hospital for 3 weeks.
Once again, I thought of the NHS. Of how things would have been in England. The NHS had become slightly less demonized in my head, just gradually, because several family members in England had gone through medical problems and come out brilliantly. I was beginning to wonder if it wasn't the system that had failed me, just certain people.
Henry received absolutely amazing care. We were in the hospital many, many times with him with his developmental delay assessments, and he was well taken care of. We were getting very well acquainted with the medical system, in a way that hadn't happened to me prior to having children. As he grew older, he had to have tubes put in his ears twice and his adenoids taken out. I had gone to the ER twice with Philip when he broke a finger and also cut his head open. I was having loads of blood tests and work done myself to see if we could find an underlying cause for the msicarriages and premature birth.
Bills kept coming and coming and coming. I was starting to get annoyed now by what I was realizing as waste and business. Was it really that important that my hospital had hotel-like rooms to give birth in? Did I absolutely need a private swanky room, or would a ward have been better? What WAS costing all this money? Were the doctors who were suggesting test after test really worried about my health, or were they just earning their paycheck? I was also seeing the financial strain on my father - who was positively swimming in the massive bills from the 7 years of cancer treatment my mother received, since they had no insurance. He was able to avoid bankruptcy, but only just. And I couldn't forget being with my mother in hospice as she was dying, and hearing her apologize to my father about how much she was costing him. I couldn't help but seriously resent that she was thinking such things, and worrying about them, in her last hours of life.
But still, we were so happy with the care we got. And I was convinced that I wouldn't have had good care if I had been using the NHS.
Then, I got pregnant again. My husband's job in the US was really rotten, as he was gone travelling nearly all the time. After 3 years of living in England together, then 5 years of living in the US together, we had really started wanting to go back to England - for a lot of reasons. but the pregnancy tipped us over the edge. I would need family nearby. I would need help with the kids. I would need my husband home more - and everything pointed to England.
So we moved, while I was 5 months pregnant. And I remained terrified that I'd be treated poorly, with memories of how awful, awful, awful things were when I had Philip. But things were different this time. I lived in a different county. I lived in a different place. I was under the care of a completely different set of people and a completely different hospital. A much smaller, non university connected hospital.
And happy surprise after happy surprise kept popping up. The midwife team was on me like white on rice, making sure I was monitored and happy with my care. I was seen at least twice a week by the GP, consultant, health visitor, or midwife... and they all communicated with each other. I was taken seriously. I was respected. I went to the hospital twice with bleeding scares, and never once did I feel mistreated. But this time - not only were my surroundings different, my brain was different. I was much more confident in both myself and in what I knew I needed from a doctor. I asked more questions, armed myself with much more knowledge, and simply because of time and experience I was a better patient.
George was born this last July, in a birth that will still make me weepy with happiness if I think long on it. It was a planned c-section. I have no lasting trauma, I have no traumatic physical souvenirs, I have no bad memories of that time. The ward was hot and annoying, the paint on the walls was ugly, the building was old and maze-like, the food was kind of gross and I had to bring more of my own stuff in instead of having it given to me. In short... it was more like a hospital and less like a hotel.
And it finally cemented in my mind what I was already learning... that the NHS hadn't failed me before. It wasn't the system or the country... though it was so easy to blame them in my pain and anger. I had no good experiences of the NHS to balance anything out with, and I came across jerks in the NHS at a very physically and emotionally vulnerable time in my life. But the was the PEOPLE that failed me. And also - now that we are back here - it turns out I'm not the only one who has come out of that same hospital with similar complaints. So my first major NHS experience - the birth of my first son - was just a nightmare waiting to happen.
I am so unspeakably thankful for George. For a happy, healthy boy to come out of a happy, healthy pregnancy... for that to be the icing on top of the cake, the happy note to end my family building song. And I am thankful for the NHS who provided me with brilliant care - without the financial burden. Henry is nearly 4, and it was only last month that I finally paid of the last of the bills from his birth.
So in short (ha!), both systems can suck and both systems can be brilliant. Giving birth in both places was so, so different... and I've seen the good and ugly of both. But at the end of that, I'm glad I'm here in England and I'll be forever thankful for the George that they gave me, and for restoring my faith in a system that is far from perfect, but at this time in my life it is perfect for me.
