THE HAIRY BIKERS: DAVE MYERS

THE HAIRY BIKERS: DAVE MYERS

Dear NHS, an Apology

Dear NHS,

I’m afraid to say I was a bit of a twat and a drain on resources when I was a child. For this I must apologise. I was born in 1957 and it really started before then. My mother went to see Dr Morrison, a serious Scottish GP (I incidentally thought he was Dr Finlay), who was working in my hometown of Barrow-in-Furness. She was diagnosed with an ovarian cyst. She duly presented herself at North Lonsdale Hospital, only to be told, ‘Well Mrs Myers, it’s the biggest bloody ovarian cyst I have ever seen. You’re pregnant – it’s not a cyst!’

I was to be my mother’s first child at 41 and she was over the moon; I, at this point, was none the wiser as I was just a chuffing cyst. She had high blood pressure and was confined to hospital for the last ten weeks of her pregnancy; I feel no guilt for this, as I had nothing to do with it – it was my dad’s fault.

Nevertheless, thanks to the NHS, I was duly delivered by Caesarean section some nine months later. As my mother always said, Caesarean babies are more intelligent. My dad, however, got a bollocking when my mother got home as she realised that, during the ten weeks she had been in hospital, he hadn’t changed the sheets. But for my birth, I thank you.

The first time I troubled you on my own account was when I was two years old. I can remember being food-obsessed even then. My mam’s fishcakes were the best. They were made from hake, with lots of buttery mash with white pepper and were covered in those orange breadcrumbs that you can see from space. Then they were smothered in an equally fluorescing cheese sauce … ooh, I can taste them now. As Mam cooked, I sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with my wind-up clockwork monkey that beat a drum. I sucked the key in anticipation, then, with a massive suck and a drool, the wing-nut-shaped key slid down my throat or, more accurately, got stuck right across, I believe, my windpipe.

‘Mam, I’ve swallered the qwey.’

‘What have you swallowed?’

‘A qwey.’

Looking down, she saw my much-chewed box of Crayola crayons.

‘Ah you’ve swallowed a crayon; don’t worry, it’ll melt and you’ll pass it.’

‘Nay, the qwey!’ I remonstrated, pointing at the empty keyhole in the toy monkey’s backside.

She went hysterical and realised that one bad move could see me choke. ‘Put that bloody monkey down and come with me.’

She shepherded me out of the back yard and down to Mr Gibson, the local chemist. Mr Gibson, a wise old soul, said, ‘Oh shit, get him in my car.’

A car! Wow, this was so worth it. I had never been in a car before – this was 1960 and we were a motorbike and sidecar family. The car was amazing and it didn’t even matter that I had to listen to my mother howling. Though I knew that the monkey was no good without the key, which was my big worry.

I’ve got vague memories of the hospital. I was kept in overnight, given a general anaesthetic and they removed the key with forceps. I was in a ward with other kids, lots of whom had had their tonsils out. Like them, I got loads of free ice cream to soothe my throat. On the locker next to me was the key and there was a little X-ray picture of it stuck in my throat. I was overjoyed – what an adventure! I returned home, this time sadly on the bus. When I got home I headed straight for the toy box, only to find that my drum virtuoso monkey had been put in the bin for my own good. So thumbs down for the parents, but a big thank you to the NHS.

The NHS was there throughout my childhood. There was the time I tried to build an aeroplane out of a wooden crate and old scrap. I was seven at the time. The backyard wall was about two metres high. I hauled my plane onto the wall and I was sure that as I pulled back on the joystick – well, an old toilet brush – I would soar over the rooftops. I rocked backwards and forwards until I plunged to the concrete yard. My dad picked me out of the wreckage and put me on the back of his motorbike and rode again to North Lonsdale Hospital. I was put back together with two splinted and plastered thumbs. I worried all the way home how I was going to wipe my bum. Thank you, NHS.

The next year, I was back with a broken nose when one of the kids in the backstreet put a fishing cane through the front spokes of my tricycle as I rode along. I pitchpoled over the handlebars and broke my hooter. This time there was a lot of blood. Back to North Lonsdale. I came home taped up, complete with two black eyes. I don’t think it ruined my good looks though. My mam said I ended up with a Roman nose … roamin’ all over me face! Thank you again, NHS.

There were two other occasions for which I have to thank the NHS for their help. One was when I was about ten years old. Ecstatic at completing my homework, I jumped up with glee, landed and impaled my foot on a pencil. I was skewered. My dad, with his northern grit, simply pulled out the pencil. The lead broke off and was left embedded deep in my ankle. Some weeks passed and my foot started to abscess, so I was admitted for an operation to remove the lead. This time I got a really big bandage and stitches. As I danced on Strictly Come Dancing, I thanked the NHS for saving my foot.

The second time, when I was twelve years old, I was properly rushed to hospital and my life was saved. I’d had really bad stomach ache. Oh, how I whinged, moaned and complained. My mother, never really Florence Nightingale, put my condition down to the fact that I had just eaten loads of mushy peas and cheap sausages.

‘Jump up and down, son, it’ll break the wind. Have a big fart and you’ll feel better.’

Being obedient, I bounced up and down like Tigger, which wasn’t easy, given my recently repaired foot. I jumped and then the pain suddenly got worse. I had bounced until my appendix had burst. Dr Morrison appeared within the hour. He was serious and phoned for an ambulance. As I was stretchered out of the house, the street came to watch. I had quite a crowd; I loved that, and I haven’t changed really. During this bells and blue-lit journey, the great ambulance man kept his eye on me. I was worried people could see me as I was going along but he said the glass was magic.

‘You can see out, but from the outside it just looks black.’

I thought this was brilliant. I remember being prepped for the operation – at this time I didn’t know what peritonitis was, but I heard the word mentioned. I had the pre-med injection and loved it. I thought that it must feel like this being Batman. This certainly set me up for a good time during the seventies and art school!

The next morning, I woke up sore but feeling very important and the wonderful nurses treated me like a prince. I thought that they must know that things were hard at home, as during this time my mam was ill with multiple sclerosis. I thought that they were being extra nice to me but they weren’t – they were angels like this to all the kids.

I was fascinated by a lad with a catheter and a bag. I asked him what was going on.

‘It’s just me piss bag. I can empty it myself, you know.’

I wonder what happened to him?

After a day or so, I got transferred to a convalescent hospital in a village called Aldingham. This place was like a stately home. To a child from a red-brick two-up, two-down, whose horizons went as far as the backstreet, this was heaven. The food was great and every day I could go onto the beach. The downside was that twice a day I had to have antibiotic injections of penicillin and streptomycin. These names are engraved in my memory over fifty years later. Back then, these were big injections and the syringe seemed huge, and yes, it hurt. One nurse was more at home playing darts down the pub than dealing sensitively with a vulnerable youngster; I dreaded her doing the jabs. My arse ended up like a battered mango.

This was when I learned not to call the surgeon ‘doctor’, as they were called mister. Two of the grown-ups were talking; they were discussing the various merits of the two surgeons who worked at North Lonsdale Hospital. They said Mr Daniels preferred butterfly stitches or clips, which were easy to remove, and when he did do stitches they were small and tidy. The other, Mr Easton, they said doubled up with his stitches, which were massive, and he didn’t believe in clips. I didn’t know which surgeon had dealt with me. So, with trepidation, I looked down at the clipboard hooked at the foot of the bed. I was one of Mr Easton’s patients. I pulled down my pyjamas and looked at the huge plaster. I wondered with horror what lay beneath.

I counted down the days – good food, horrible injections, nice people – and then the time came to remove the stitches. I panicked – how on earth do they get this industrial-sized plaster off my belly? I soon found out, as my hated nemesis, the dart-playing nurse, gave me a snarly smile and ripped it off. I did a little wee.

I looked down. My belly looked like Frankenstein’s head. I was a bit of a plump child but surely my chubby little belly didn’t need to be sewn together like a ripped rugby ball. It hurt getting the stitches out. Thank you, the NHS, for saving my life.

To conclude, I really do mean a big thank you to the NHS. Throughout my childhood you were always there for me, you listened and never let me down. I grew up thinking it was my right to be looked after and to be healthy. How lucky was I. Thanks to you I am still here.

Let’s bring back the times when the NHS was financed properly, appointments were easy to get and waiting times were short. I hope we learn from this grim situation and the huge dependency we have experienced with coronavirus that we must allow the NHS to grow, and to continue to be the envy of the world it always has been.

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