Andrew Marr

Andrew Marr

Like almost everyone, I’ve had lots of NHS experiences, from possible cancers to the births of my children. But by far the most significant was having my major stroke seven years ago. It had happened overnight and I had woken up lying on the floor unable to get up. It was terrifying and yet, weirdly, from the moment I was strapped onto a stretcher and carried downstairs into an ambulance to Charing Cross Hospital in Hammersmith, I felt I was in completely safe hands and that somehow everything would be fine.

From the rush across south London, siren blaring, to waking up in bed a few days later after just dodging death, it would prove to be one heck of a journey. There were bad moments. An operation to clear a blood clot in my carotid artery failed. My family were gathered together and told I probably would not make it, and then again, later on, to say that if I did, my brain would be severely affected and I would probably spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair. Even after I came round, quite disabled, there was a long haul back through rehabilitation before I could walk even a short distance on my own, or talk clearly. Again, that was scary.

But what I remember today is the openness and the friendliness of the doctors, nurses and therapists around me. The doctors were frank in their explanations and treated me as an adult. The nurses worked endlessly but somehow retained a wry, salty good humour. Two physiotherapists, one from Eastern Europe and one from Australia, went many extra miles to get me going – even rigging up a homemade autocue in the gym so that I could practise before getting back to work … when my first job was to interview the then-prime minister, David Cameron. I felt I wasn’t surrounded by sickness, but by good people.

From Charing Cross Hospital I went to the National Neurological Hospital at Queen’s Square for further therapy on my non-functioning left arm. Again, just great people, a thoroughly democratic air in the wards and a huge deal of laughter. For a while, I had an agonising shoulder problem, eventually sorted with an injection into the joint. The jovial South African doctor, bearing a hypodermic syringe about the same size as the Second World War howitzer, told me: ‘I’ve got good news, and less good news. The good news is that once I’ve done this, you will be fine. You will sleep like a baby. The not quite so good news, Andrew, is that this is going to effing well hurt.’

It did. But I quickly discovered that it’s quite hard to howl and laugh at the same time. Our hospitals run on taxpayers’ money, world-class training and inspiring dedication. But beyond all that, they run on humour, and humanity. It isn’t the buildings or the awesome technology that we stand to applaud when we clap for the NHS. It’s the grit, the realism and the gutsy humour of the extraordinary people who keep it going. I wasn’t exactly lucky to have a stroke. But I was very lucky to have it here.

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