Pre-covid I flew into Toronto at least once a year. Loved the flight. Loved Canada. But the interrogation by immigration control on entry was fearsomely scarey. Stand behind the line. Move forward. Solitary. Long queue. Why are you here. What are you here for.
Clearly hospitals have trained receptionists using Canadian immigration model. Or BrinksMatt security.
Similarly I have tried for a week to speak to a human at go surgery. I need to get blood test. New MSU results.And advice on new drug which is giving migraines. No way. GP surgery can only snap and snarl. That’s if you are lucky to get to speak to a human. My email asking for help was replied with: You need to ring the surgery. I know. FFS. Answer the phone .

Some days start badly and improve. Option 1.
Other days start badly and go on getting worse. Option 2
Thursday was option 2
The usually -nice- sometimes -grumpy special nurse (CNS) had rung me on Wednesday.
I explained gp surgery had struggled to get stitches out of my back. She suggested I go to her at hospital in London . If reception give you trouble ring me. Apparently she cannot book patients into her own clinic. She must email not one but several emails. And hope it gets done. Stupidly I forgot to ask her for her number. Cancelling all previous arrangements for the day I rang for a taxi. Due to Eid – no taxiswere available. Daniel leapt about getting something decent on and sped me to the station. Fast trains have fractures ( don’t we all!.) my slow train chugged along and finally stopped somewhere near Luton.
Points failure. Eventually arrived in London but not before a near stabbing incident.
The man singing behind me could have been stabbed …by me.
As it was chucking it down with rain I tube hopped most of the way then got a cab. Going into the hospital was the usual shenanigans- Sleepy security person indicated change of mask and hand wash. Then queue for pre-reception reception Ms Dopey. But Dopey wandered off without a word. As the agitated queue grew we could only gaze at the gloomy desk, the vomit green paint and sign saying no excuse for abuse. Is that aimed at patients or staff? And posters proclaiming NHS was KIND. SAFE. TEAMWORKing and Improving.

Eventually Dopey came back. Called me over. Couldn’t get my my name . Told me I didn’t exist on the system. I realise now I should have told her my name is Mary. That fake name usually works for ERIC the software system they use. I nearly said actually I thought I’d just turn up pop in pretend I had an appointment. As if anyone would but for goodness sake believe us.

Getting nowhere she told me to write my name on a scruffy bit of paper. Told me CNS was not there. Crunching my jaws into a pre migraine hold, I suggested someone could try to ring the non existant CNS. That did not go well Iwas told to sit on a chair by the automatic front door. As the rain lashed down smokers began to gather at the door so wafts of tobacco were free to roam every time the automatic doors opened. ie continuously . Not fun for anyone let alone an asthmatic broken in too many places like me. I sat forcing down my instincts to run. The need for stitches out was priority the pain and crapness these tiny stitches inflict was unbearable. I clenched my jaw and decided to give it 10 more minutes then leave, when who should appear but Jerome. Kind of strolling through the ground floor in slow mo Unbelievable. With little explanation from me he took control. Rang for help. He got me out of the tobacco clinic with a nice nurse TEAMWORK and to SAFETY upstairs. Dopey at the door made me change mask and wash hands AGAIN. No point in arguing that this was ridiculous. Jerome suggested they iron all the used ones and put them out again!

Hot tears had sprung from nowhere. I just could not stop. Don’t know why I’m I’ve lost the plot. Jerome said he knew why … it’s over a decade of this stuff. Be KIND to me and I’ll cry. Shout at me and. I’ll clench my jaw. Excuse abuse.
Jerome just fixed everything.
CNS arrived and worked out how to dig the stitches out. Within minutes it was all done. I went back to St Pancras. Limping along it was good to get fresh air. Calm down.
Just as well…there were no trains running! Some breakdown somewhere. I just laughed out loud loopy. Waited it out and eventually got home. But. It was raining so hard water was coming through the ceiling in Daniel’s office. Whilst he went to ring awesome ‘ Dave ‘ patron Saint of builders, I tried to make it all safe by isolating the power supply. Dragging the pc etc out the way and laughing manically .
Another day done. Crashing headache of course. NHS admin are going to get a letter from me. Bet they do not reply – they will be too busy having meetings about meetings designing posters and deciding what green paint to use on the walls. Bugger the patients. Bugger the clinicians who are exhausted and pushing pushing the boundaries to support patients despite the hurdles put in their way.

I went to a shop this week. First time in weeks. All the signposts for distancing hand washing and basket wiping were supported by a cheery lady saying morning. Sorting masks and sprays and baskets and trolleys. . Hello. Ouch that foot looks sore ( to me)! That’s what kindness is. It’s not about money or resources orMatt Hancock’s cheesy grin. It’s about making eye contact. Inpatients could have cold fresh water within arms length. Cups of tea. Coffee. Crispy toast. Apologising when it all goes tits up, and smiling- smiles can do wonders for medicine. Cost implication is zero.

Such kindness would help patients feel safe , part of a team ( we are all on the same side aren’t we?), would this IMPROVE the experience?