How To Save A Life
How many people does it take to try and save a life?
Clichéd openings aside, it’s a question that has given me much pause for thought when I look back and (shudder) reflect on my experiences of the last year or so.
Earlier this year, one of my friends was telling me about his experience working as a HCA on a COVID ward at Northwick Park Hospital. From his account it seemed clear that it had left a deep impression on him; he described the isolation of being surrounded by co-workers who had never met before that night, and of the brutality of proning a patient, hidden in a swirl of sheets that helped maintain the objectification.
Most strikingly, I felt his despair at the situation; of the scale of people coming in shift after shift to try help - seemingly to little effect. Dozens of hands had been conducted into an orchestra of care, some proning, others typing frantically; and yet the faces behind the hands, this huge crowd of well-wishers, would likely never be known to the person they were trying to save.
It painted quite the picture for me, and yet the more it lingered, the more I couldn’t help but see another story within - one of overwhelming humanity. I saw a willingness of scores, if not hundreds of people, to work all working towards saving this one life, despite the difficulty in seeing the benefit of their actions.
My time at medical school has been understandably centred around the clinical setting, and I spent relatively little time thinking about all the other elements. In the last 12 months however, I found myself, quite unwittingly, entering a whole new world of non-clinical roles.
I started volunteering as an active response volunteer at The Royal London Hospital in April 2020, in what was the peak of the first wave, and it seemed like the entire hospital was in a state of flux.
Wards would disappear then reappear on another floor, guidance on where and what we could do was changing week-by-week, and cages upon cages of unexpected donations would come streaming in for distribution before the next came in.
The volunteers I worked with were a cross-section of East London, with no real distinguishable pattern in age, gender, ethnicity or experience. Throughout the highs and lows of the pandemic, and there were many, I always felt it heartening going to work with the volunteers; inspiring even. The atmosphere, of a group of people from all walks of life; a mix of people who were retired, furloughed, students, but importantly all united in facing the daily challenges of the hospital, was thankfully infectious.
I found myself interacting with an ever-expanding list of people through this role, whether that was working with the bereavement office to track down the property of deceased patients, or visiting the porters in the basement to secure some of that in-demand PPE, or liaising with the chaplaincy to communicate with families of patients.
Fundamentally, (almost) every new person I met pushed my belief away from the cynical pit I found myself encircling, and appreciate just how lucky we are to have the health system we do.
It’s a common turn of phrase that the NHS is run on the goodwill of those who work for it. While that seems to be a dangerous, unsustainable position for our healthcare system to be in; I cannot deny the truth in that.
Public attention on the pandemic, and healthcare generally, almost exclusively spotlights more clinical staff like nurses or doctors or healthcare assistants. While I’m sure it makes better TV clips, it means that as a society we often fail to appreciate just how many people are working to improve the lives of each and every patient.
It is often said that it takes a village to raise a child, and I would argue that sentiment applies just as much to healthcare too; from what I can see, it also takes a village to save a life.
