Konnie Huq

Konnie Huq

My parents came over to the UK from Bangladesh in the 1960s after my dad graduated and was offered a job with Prudential in Holborn. Although it was heart-wrenching for them to leave their family and friends behind, they wanted a better life for their children than they felt their massively overpopulated and impoverished country could ever offer. After a few years spent settling in, they started their family – my two sisters and I were all born in NHS hospitals and so our cradle-to-grave journeys began.

My mum, although only basically educated, was an extremely intelligent and incredibly resourceful woman. She was also a whizz in the kitchen and could conjure up feasts out of nowhere. Even when she’d been working full time and fasting for Ramadan, I remember she would come home and rustle up a tableful of dishes for iftar (breaking fast) – every single one of them delicious, even though she hadn’t been able to try a thing herself.

My earliest memories of my mum are of her comforting me when I was ill with a fever or a tummy ache. The calming touch of a mum by your bedside stroking your head is irreplaceable. If the illness persisted the next day and I had to stay off school, we’d go to the local doctor’s surgery. They were always on hand to give us the magic green paper. She would swap it for medicine; sometimes it was even banana-flavoured. Taking it made me feel grown-up. The whole process was reassuring. I felt safe. I’m not sure at what point I actually realised how brilliant the magic green paper really was, that it let ALL children – no matter who, and many more besides – have free medicine to make them better if ever they got ill. Was there ever a penny-dropping moment or was it something that I just took for granted?

When I was fourteen, my parents saved up enough money to take us all back to their homeland. Bangladesh is a beautiful country, but one with 161 million people living in a space just over half the size of the UK. I remember my first encounter of the capital, seeing people hobbling about with missing limbs, blind people begging, poverty and illness everywhere. No magic green papers here.

Growing up, I was lucky enough never to need much more than the little green papers until my thirties. Though admittedly I did slip and hit my head in the Blue Peter garden one time! Thankfully, I was given the all-clear one quick CT scan later – in an NHS hospital, of course.

All that changed when my dad got cancer. My smart, jovial, good-humoured father. I was devastated. The suppliers of the little green papers came good again, this time supplying radiotherapy. Radiotherapy that prolonged his life long enough to see my children – both born in NHS hospitals. He died the same year I had my youngest. Much like my son had come into the world, my dad had gone out of it, cared for and looked after by amazing staff in an NHS hospital. I was by his side. They helped me too.

After over fifty years of marriage my mum was going solo. She had looked after Dad in his final years: cleaning him, feeding him, watching him deteriorate. Time for new beginnings. In 2012, when the Olympics came to London amid much excitement, my sister took my mum as a treat. But my mum found it overwhelming and claustrophobic. She wanted to leave instantly. Strange. She was always the life and soul, this was her kind of thing. We thought she had depression. But slowly other strange things started to happen. She began burning food. My mum had never burnt a single thing in all her years – for her to even overcook a dish was unheard of. Then more things changed. She began to look a bit scruffier – my mum, who had always prided herself on her appearance. She started to get forgetful – my mum, multi-tasker extraordinaire. She became more bad-tempered – my mum, usually so measured and good-natured. The suppliers of the little green papers did some tests. My mum had early onset dementia.

It progressed fast. Only a year on from the Olympics, we couldn’t even let her out of the house alone. As I watched my baby and toddler learn new words, I watched her forget them. Every day, as their little brains absorbed everything around them, things fell out of hers at an ever-increasing pace. As my eldest ditched nappies, my mum donned them. Each time I saw her, I would mourn different aspects of her. We’ll never laugh about that joke again. She can’t tell me that story any more. She won’t be able to teach me that recipe now. Does she even know who I am? It wasn’t long before she was hospital-bound – the same NHS hospital my father had died in.

My mother, conjuror of amazing food, was losing the ability to swallow. What now? A feeding tube? Starve to death? Starvation for my mum who was always so intent on feeding others? The irony. So many questions. So many decisions. So many unknowns. The hospital staff – overworked and underpaid – guided us through every step of the way. The doctors, the nurses, the support workers – we all had our favourites. I felt my mum did too. I’d sometimes see a flicker of recognition in her face or joy in her eyes, but it was hard to know for sure.

Among the decisions the staff had presented us with was permission to not resuscitate. It was a sunny day in the hospital the day she passed away. As with my father before her, I was there, holding her hand when her eyes finally glazed over. The staff had known and prepared me for what was coming as though they were oracles of the future.

It brings me great comfort to know that when I go, should I need them, the suppliers of the little green papers will be there for me too, just as they were there for my parents. They are here for us all. They won’t leave us limbless, hobbling in the street. For none of us are immune and we’ll all go in the end. I have a one-in-three chance of having the hereditary form of dementia my mum had. My aunt had it, my great uncle had it … I’m one of three sisters. The NHS offered me a test to find out but I think I’ll take my chances.

So, thank you NHS for caring for us and supporting us. Unconditionally. From cradle to grave. How amazing is that? How lucky are we?

⇐ Предыдущая 32 33 34 35 363738 39 40 41 Следующая ⇒