I don't much like hospitals. Of course, that's a sentiment so common that it approaches cliche, but I feel like I should mention it. I, and other members of my immediate family, have spent far more time in hospital than, wait for it, would seem healthy. Bad-dum tish.
Yesterday my father was admitted to hospital, and I couldn't be happier.
Even writing that now feels strange, like I've entirely missed the point of hospitals being a place where you go when things are going badly. But after weeks of watching my father's health spiral rapidly downwards, it's a relief to know that he's finally going to get some help.
The NHS gets a lot of grief. There seems to be a neverending stream of complaints, of newspapers packed with tragic stories of mistreatment and MRSA. Of course, that's because the loudest people are always those with complaints. People who are satisfied just go home and get on with the rest of their lives; they don't feel it necessary to contact the tabloids to say how well everything went. I know how they feel, because I shan't be contacting the newspapers with a glowing report of yesterdays events, but I feel like some record should exist of how things sometimes go exactly right. Hence, here I am.
So, yesterday afternoon I took my father to his GP to have his latest worrying development examined. After a brief - and, miraculously, early - session, the doctor recommended that we go to the hospital. While we waited he wrote a letter of admission, and while we were travelling to the A+E department he telephoned ahead to ensure that they knew we were coming and that we wouldn't have to wait. We were taken virtually straight from reception through for examination, which was performed promptly and efficiently by an exceptionally friendly and helpful nurse. Within minutes of that examination he was getting treatment, and within two hours he was on a ward.
He's already perked up overnight, and while things are still bad and there are still numerous worries around his health, the response so far has been exceptional. And it's amazing what a knock-on effect this good experience has had; the rest of the family are far more at ease, and far more confident that we'll be able to get him through this.
He's not out of the woods by a long way, and he'll be in hospital for a week at a bare minimum, so I'm not counting my chickens just yet. All the same, to stretch the metaphor to breaking point, this is the first time in a long time that I've even acknowledged the existence of chickens, and even potential chickens are an improvement.