Jojo Moyes

Jojo Moyes

L ike most people who grew up in this country, my life and my history are inextricably entwined with the NHS. I was born in 1969, ten weeks too early – a figure that should have heralded a death sentence. The pictures of me from that time – a translucent baby bird – are hard to look at. And yet somehow, with an incubator and the Herculean efforts of doctors and nurses, I thrived.

My childhood was a series of corrections and tweaks overseen by its myriad services: ophthalmologists (thank you for my glasses), dentists (thank you for my straight teeth), urologists (fixed that recurrent kidney infection), radiologists (yet another broken bone, set and repaired), and my adult life has been punctuated by its intermittent and less obvious favours: antibiotics, smear tests, anti-depressants and – gift of all gifts – the safe delivery of three beloved children. For whom the same cycle has been repeated.

When we had our third child, our good luck in being born here was brought into sharp focus. The fact that he was profoundly deaf was picked up at a specialist screening when he was just two weeks old and then confirmed after more comprehensive testing, one doused with tears, at eight weeks. That crucial early diagnosis (many deaf babies and toddlers become so good at imitating that parents often refuse to believe they cannot hear) meant that he was fitted for hearing aids at six months and that at fifteen months he was offered a cochlear implant – a coin-sized device that would be surgically implanted into his head and replicate the connection between ear and brain.

That three-hour operation, its attendant appointments and equipment, which took place fourteen years ago this month, would have cost £46,000 – a staggering amount and one which we would have had to remortgage to find. But because of the NHS, our son was given his hearing for free.

That it has worked beyond anybody’s expectations – allowing him to attend a mainstream school, enjoy music, talk over his siblings at a dinner table and even mimic people’s accents – is something I am struck by daily. If he chooses to not wear it and be part of the deaf community, that will be fine too. I’ll always be grateful beyond measure to Patrick Axon of Addenbrooke’s Hospital who changed all our lives with his surgical skill (and beautiful, tiny stitching) for giving him that choice.

But oddly, those achievements are not what I remember most when I think back to that time. I remember the kindness of a nurse who supported me when my baby was placed on the operating table and fought the anaesthetic. My legs buckled as I walked out, and she caught me and brought me tea and toast (‘the mothers never have breakfast’). It was the greatest tea and toast I have ever eaten. I remember the smile of the senior nurse in Audiology whose calm manner helped allay my worst fears. I think of the engineers who helped ‘switch him on’ six weeks later and shared in our joy when our son heard his first sounds, his eyes wide with wonder.

We might have taken the NHS for granted once, but not now. Not in the depths of a pandemic where the heroism of frontline staff – often operating without the right protections – humbles every day. But also when we look across the Atlantic and see those who do not have the same healthcare. Those bankrupted by cancer diagnoses. Those who have spent five or six-figure sums just to safely birth a child. Those like the woman I met recently on a plane who had spent a million dollars in excess of her top-level insurance policy just to care for a severely diabetic and disabled husband.

But I believe the NHS serves a greater purpose in the British psyche than just caring for our health. It reminds us that there is such a thing as the common good, an idea of true service. And this is what I take from mine and my family’s experiences with the NHS – that sense of service, something way beyond the desire of making money or progressing up a career ladder – and that sense of goodness.

Thank you, thank you to everyone who works for it.

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