Dame Julie Walters. Matthew Syed

Dame Julie Walters

Dear NHS,

You may not remember, but we were an item some years back, 1968/9 to be precise. You always loved a uniform and I gladly went along with your demands, donning my starched white cap and apron to please you on countless occasions. Alas, our love affair was not meant to last, and you threw me out following an incident with an elderly man and a bedpan, whereupon I was hauled up in front of the matron after his relatives threatened to sue.

Anyway, I just wanted to say, I never stopped loving you, despite the rejection, and now you are my total hero! Without wishing to sound like a stalker, my love burns ever brighter and will never, ever end! And yes, it was me hanging about in the bushes outside A&E last night and shall be again and again until you see the error of your ways.

Eternally yours,

Nurse Julie Walters ♥ ♥ ♥

Matthew Syed

I had never before sat at a person’s bedside as they passed away but a few years ago I was at the hospital beside Philip, my beloved granddad, as his breathing became quieter. His deterioration had been quite steep, perhaps understandable given that he was nearing a century in age.

Beryl, his elder daughter, was hurrying from Heathrow airport where she had landed from her home near Washington DC. His younger daughter, Dilys, my mum, with whom he had lived for the last two decades of his life, was rushing back from a rare holiday.

I couldn’t quite believe it was the end. He had been a mentor, a confidant, the dearest of friends. I thought of the many visits to the home he shared with Nana, who had passed a few years previously, up in Prestatyn – our walks along the seafront, our long chats in front of the fire, the way he would offer advice. Tears came and went as I looked at his face, peaceful, resigned.

I was conscious of something else too. The nurses. It wasn’t the fact that they checked his vital signs, monitored his breathing and made sure he was comfortable, even while semi-conscious. It wasn’t the diligence that they showed in everything they did. Rather, it was the compassion that went beyond professionalism, a concern for this unique human being, my granddad, despite the many other people on a busy ward, struggling in their different ways.

A nurse brought me a glass of water. She had brown hair and deep brown eyes, and I agonise to this day that I don’t remember her name. She explained what was happening, explained that he was near the end, and offered wise words that might help me to cope with the finality of it all. As I listened, I noticed that his breathing was subsiding once again.

Almost as she finished speaking, he took a deep breath. I shot a look at the nurse, worried that he might be experiencing pain. She explained, patiently and kindly, that this was normal in his condition. Just then, Granddad seemed to stop breathing altogether. I leaned forward and put my ear to his mouth, caressing his head. I stood back upright, alongside the nurse, my heart pounding. ‘He’s gone,’ she said gently.

Time is such a strange and elastic thing. In my memory, I stood there for many minutes taking in her words but it can only have been a few seconds. I shall never forget the nurse leaning down and kissing Granddad on the forehead. ‘I am not supposed to do that, but he was such a wonderful man,’ she said. ‘You get to know each of your patients personally.’ Despite my grief, I was astounded by her humanity. ‘Thank you,’ I murmured.

Beryl came into the room perhaps five minutes after her father had died. She had rushed from Heathrow and sprinted up from the hospital car park to the ward. We embraced. She had worked as a nurse her entire professional life, towards the end of her career at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea where she had cared for the old and frail. But she too was profoundly moved by the compassion of the nurse, who returned multiple times to see that we were OK, to offer her help, to take us by the hand.

‘You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you,’ John Bunyan wrote. I will never be able to repay that nurse, except by writing these words and reminding her, if she should ever read them, that the grandson of Philip Heard, who died on 11 January 2013 at the Royal Berkshire Hospital in Reading, was helped immeasurably by you.

You were there for Granddad, there for me, there for Beryl and there for the thousands of other patients who have had the good fortune to cross paths with you; a tapestry of help, assistance and care that cannot be adequately measured but which should be more fully acknowledged.

Thank you.

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