Paul Sinha

Paul Sinha

On 26 July 1990, on what was a small, barely adequate television screen, I watched the first day of the first Test between England and India with my dad by my side. It had been an uneventful day’s action thus far. Predictably enough, England’s openers faced little to concern them from the tepid Indian bowling attack. Then Graham Gooch edged one. The collective hearts of the Tebbit-ignoring father and son leapt with joy.

The joy was momentary.

The wicket keeper, Kiran More, dropped a chance that was easier than the questions on Tipping Point. ‘Out!’ exclaimed my dad from his hospital bed.

‘I’m afraid not, Dad,’ I replied, ‘More’s actually dropped it.’

‘What an idiot,’ my dad continued, with the characteristic frustration and sadness that India’s touring team regularly seemed to evoke. ‘Just mark my words, Gooch will get a double-century – or even a triple.’

‘Well, since you’re coming home today, at least we’ll watch the rest of the match on a proper TV.’

‘Good point. What a month.’

‘Yes, Dad. What a month.’

And as we pondered India’s failure to capitalise on the easiest opportunity imaginable, a cardiac nurse at King’s College Hospital, Camberwell, came in to take my dad’s blood pressure and give him clear discharge information. And I, soon to be a second-year medical student, nodded sagely and pretended to understand. It really had been quite a month.

A few weeks before, I’d been on the cusp of the biggest adventure of my life. I’d just passed my first-year medical exams at the third time of asking. My dad, fuelled by massive generosity and overwhelming relief, had decided that I needed a holiday. That holiday was to utilise a Delta Airlines unlimited-flights, one-month pass and Have Fun in the USA.

I had spent sleepless nights trying to formulate an itinerary and at last I’d solved the conundrum. New York to Miami to Key West to New Orleans to Los Angeles to San Francisco to Chicago to New York. (Incidentally, it had not occurred to me at the time that the fact that I was not yet twenty-one would be problematic. This trip was never going to realise all the ambitions of a travelling twenty-year-old.)

I’d only been in New York four days when the family friends with whom I’d been staying had news for me. Tomorrow’s flight was not going to Miami; I’d already been booked on a flight to London. My dad had had what was described as ‘a major cardiac event’ and was currently in Intensive Care at King’s College Hospital. I had a mum and a sister – and, of course, a dad – who really needed me back home.

Most of the next four weeks were something of a blur. It had been quite clear that my dad had been boasting about ‘my son, the medical student’, given the degree to which the calm and courteously professional nursing and medical staff insisted on talking to me on the misjudged understanding that I was something of an expert on cardiology.

As a matter of urgency, my dad needed a bypass operation. And my hazy memory places these rather dramatic six hours as starting on a Monday or Tuesday afternoon. Of course, we should’ve stayed at home and waited for news. But it was the summer holidays and, quite frankly, my mum, my sister and I had very little to do. After all, what could be more fun than sitting in a relatives’ room, waiting to find out if your dad was going to live or die?

What I do remember was the patient kindness of auxiliary staff, who may have lacked the glittering academic achievements of their medical colleagues but certainly lacked for nothing in intuitive empathy. And that day, they needed to be at the top of their game. While emerging from general anaesthesia at the end of a lengthy cardiac bypass operation, my dad had a cardiac arrest.

Looking back, the next forty-five minutes were the most significant forty-five minutes of my life. Years later, as a junior hospital doctor, I would take part in many such attempts to resuscitate patients. The results were not always spectacular.

I never met any members of the arrest team that day and I’ve never met any of them since. What I do know is, at the age of fifty, my dad was on the brink of death. And thanks to their skills, hard work and determination, that death didn’t happen on their watch. My dad, thirty years on, is still loving life.

I have no idea where I’d be without that cardiac arrest team. Everything that I’ve achieved has been fuelled by the emotional and financial generosity of my parents. Medical education aside, this was my first major NHS experience and it defined who I am today.

It’s something of a miracle to still be alive thirty years after a cardiac arrest. The problems have never gone away and, in 2020, my dad had what felt like his one billionth cardiac operation. Every new presentation has been greeted with a benign smile and a ‘Come on then, Dr Sinha, let’s sort you out’ attitude from a rotating roster of skilled professionals.

On 14 December 2019, I got married. I got married to a man. In 1990, if someone had told me that, in thirty years’ time, this would happen, and – rather than be upset or irate, or dead – my dad would be drinking whisky all day with a massive smile on his face and a life-affirming determination to meet as many of my friends as humanly possible, it’s fair to say that, at the very least, I’d have been mildly sceptical.

As I write these words, every day I’ve been video-calling my mum and dad, making sure that they’re currently emotionally strong enough for the coronavirus lockdown. Strong enough? They are, at this stage, used to peril. And I don’t think it has ever slipped my dad’s mind. He’s ready for whatever the global pandemic throws at him. Because he knows that, in July 1990, the NHS played an absolute blinder – enabling him to become a grandad, a father-in-law to two men, and husband for what is now fifty-two years.

I now have my own NHS issues, thanks to a recent diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. When I go to my consultations, I take the time to breathe in and look around. This may not be my line of work any more, but it is the NHS that has made sure that my Parkinson’s is a fight that I embark on with the support of both parents. And for that, many thanks.

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