Lorraine Kelly

Lorraine Kelly

It was February 2012. One minute I was nervously sitting atop a horse for a charity challenge and the next I was being swiftly, expertly and gently moved onto a stretcher and rushed to hospital by kind paramedics.

I had always been a bit scared of horses and this was only my second riding lesson. As it was all to raise funds for a children’s charity, I thought I would be perfectly safe. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The horse had reared up, thrown me off its back and smashed a massive iron-clad hoof into my thigh as I lay helpless on the ground.

I was in complete shock, lost three pints of blood and needed help urgently. And, of course, the NHS was there to pick up the shattered pieces.

In the ambulance I was given morphine, but much more importantly I was given reassurance. They held my hand and told me I was doing fine and not to worry that the blue light was flashing and the siren blaring.

I was rushed to the nearest hospital, St George’s in Tooting, London, but I honestly don’t remember all that much about being taken to A&E. It was all a blur of busy but controlled efficiency.

The one thing I knew for certain was that I was in the best possible hands and so I wasn’t scared. Though I was lucky. A few centimetres either way and the artery could have been severed or my pelvis completely shattered.

It is completely crazy what goes through your befuddled brain in times of crisis. As they cut through my clothes and underwear, I remember thinking that my mum was right (she’s always right) and I was glad I had heeded her advice of wearing clean, matching knickers and bra, ‘In case you have an accident.’

I was in London but my husband Steve and daughter Rosie were miles away in Dundee. As they headed south, my fantastic friend and colleague Emma Gormley rushed to the hospital. She says she will never forget seeing me being wheeled into the operating theatre and apologising for probably not being able to make it into work the next day.

The operation lasted five hours. The skill of NHS surgeon Martin Vesely and his team meant I didn’t need a skin graft, but I had to have hundreds of stitches on a wound that looked like a massive shark bite.

I had to stay in hospital for over a week to recover and Martin was brilliant. He had the best possible bedside manner. Every morning on his rounds he would give me an update and tell me clearly how I was progressing, and then ask if I had any questions. Like most patients, especially those on strong painkillers and sleeping pills, I struggled a bit to take everything in. But Martin did an amazingly kind and considerate thing. He would go to the bottom of my bed and simply wait for a heartbeat, giving me just enough time to think to ask him something that had been preying on my mind. He also treated me like a person and not ‘a serious leg injury’ and that made all the difference in the world.

From the nurses to the cleaners, the physios to the volunteers who came round with books and magazines, I was so well looked after, but it was clear resources were stretched to breaking point.

One of the hospital wards assigned to the elderly – most of whom had some form of dementia – had to be closed due to an MRSA infection and the patients were moved in beside us. The patience of the nursing staff was just unbelievable. They had to deal with poor bewildered souls wailing in distress all through the night as well as aggressive behaviour that came out of nowhere. One nurse even had a full bedpan thrown at her, but she simply cleaned herself up, changed her uniform and carried on with her shift.

Last year I was able to go back to St George’s to say a proper thank you to all of the staff at the coalface who helped put me back together again. It was so good to have a chance to express my gratitude face to face and I found it extremely emotional.

As you could expect, they all said they were just doing their job and of course my accident, although it scarred my leg and my life, was just one tiny droplet in a vast ocean of routine emergencies they deal with on a daily basis.

All day, every day, they bring new life into the world, heroically battle death and devastation and give comfort to the desperate and the bereaved.

Then they get up and do it all over again.

This latest crisis has shown us all just how bloody lucky we are to have our brilliant band of NHS workers taking care of us all.

We must make sure we tell them how much they are valued and never, ever take them for granted. And we need to make sure they are properly looked after and protected so they can continue to do their jobs, which, as we know, are the most important in the world.

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