Sir Trevor McDonald

Sir Trevor McDonald

The brilliance of the NHS response to the ravages of the coronavirus reminds me of the reverence I’ve always had for doctors and healthcare workers who dedicate their lives to caring for us when we need them most. The memory of that reverence comes back to me whenever I manage, almost against my will, to tear myself away from the unbearable urgency and pain of the blow-by-blow accounts of how the virus has brought misery to hundreds of thousands of families, ripped communities asunder and sent the world into lockdown. In that depressing gloom, one light shines as brightly as the morning star – and that light is the selfless commitment and courage of workers in the NHS.

That thought takes me back to the island in the West Indies where I was born, because of the great respect we had for doctors and the medical profession in general. Of course, there was no NHS in Trinidad, but health and a desire to keep one step ahead of any passing epidemic were our major preoccupations. They consumed the lives of our parents. The place of doctors in our tiny island communities framed much of our thinking and our aspirations. It’s no exaggeration to say that, in a way, we were encouraged to do well at school so that we could become doctors.

At my secondary school, when the time came to make choices about which subjects we wished to take into the sixth form, Latin was de rigueur. At the slightest hint of protest, it was pointed out sharply that a career in medicine was impossible if one avoided doing Latin. We didn’t ask to be doctors, it was assumed that we should be, so I plunged reluctantly into translations of Virgil because I had no choice. That medicine was so prominent in the thoughts of tutors and parents was no surprise. We survived in comparative poverty and well-balanced diets were uncommon. Few general bouts of ill health passed us by without leaving their mark – this enhanced the absolute status of the medical profession.

‘You should become a doctor,’ was the constant refrain of parents and every neighbour who saw you carrying a schoolbook – without much success in my case, I must add, though it rang through my years at school.

Then I came to London and fell into the protective bosom of the NHS. My first doctor in south-west London demonstrated such a degree of empathy that I usually left his surgery believing that he must have, at some time, suffered an illness exactly like mine. He made me feel my ailments were his too. His successor was so generous in treating my occasional high blood pressure that she never failed to remind me that ‘white-coat syndrome’ was always a factor when a patient underwent the test. She was indulgent. She had a second home in Arizona and, partly as a way of deflecting attention from my medical problems, we talked American politics and about the sheriff in the state who acquired international notoriety for his tough regime on immigrants and prisoners.

I know no boastful or overbearing doctors. The front-office staff at my west London NHS GP’s were unfailingly courteous. The nurses were the same. When I turned up for my annual flu jab, before I could utter a cowardly word about how squeamish I’ve always been at having needles stuck into my arm, I would be told it was already well known in the surgery and that it would be done as painlessly as possible. I’ve always felt guilty about the fact that I don’t ever remember feeling any pain at all. That’s why, when I think of our NHS in the context of the monumental tragedy of this virus, and this epidemic, I’m reminded not only of the care and concern shown by my west London health centre, but of the doctors and nurses who came out of retirement to do what they’ve always done: to help the sick.

I shake with anger when I hear stories about health workers forced to fashion protective gear from bin liners and old curtains. I find it much too painful to listen to the tales of those who’ve lost their lives. They’ve gone back into the NHS in the service of a cause; they were well aware of the consequences – surely the ultimate sacrifice. Sometimes, in the course of our lives, we’re granted the privilege of hearing of the deeds of our fellow men and women who represent the finest quality in all humanity; the very best that they could ever be in any of us. That is the dazzling image I have of the NHS. May they be always afforded the encouragement to serve our people, whenever that service is most needed.

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