My biggest health shock? A hospital experience that shows the NHS can be saved

A trip to the diabetic clinic at my local hospital is guaranteed to have my blood pressure skyrocketing – especially when there’s a new consultant in town.

You never know what you’re going to get from that particular box of chocolates. I’ve had too many of those hard centres nobody likes, the ones that threaten to break your teeth.

Let me explain. I’ve been living with type-one diabetes (T1D) – a condition caused by a severely malfunctioning immune system – almost since birth, and over that time I’ve encountered a fair number of healthcare professionals with tin ears, and sometimes worse.

The problem is hardly confined to diabetes. One of the stark findings of the Amos review into maternity services was that women’s concerns were routinely ignored. Staff didn’t listen. Shamefully, this was often my wife’s experience.

The malaise runs deeper still. As an NHS super-user (I have other disabilities, too), I’ve seen it up close. When you are repeatedly ignored – or worse, treated like the bad kid at the back of the class wearing a dunce’s cap in some twisted Victorian schoolroom – it mangles your mind. It breeds fear, trepidation and no small amount of defensiveness.

But on this occasion, something unexpected happened.

“You know, you’ve got breathing room. You’re OK,” she said, studying my results. “You don’t need to obsess over it.”

Come again? Nobody had ever said that to me before. It felt like a lead weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

My shrink once asked how many times a day I checked my blood sugar. I pulled up the app. It said 130 times. The defensive habits of people like me are not irrational. They are learned. And the attitude of some healthcare professionals – because we’re not just talking about doctors – explains why.

A fellow T1D once had her book of blood sugar readings literally thrown at her by a consultant. “Well, that’s not good enough,” he snarled. What a (but you can guess). I’ve never experienced anything quite that extreme, but variations on the theme? Plenty of them.

Even the better ones often feel obliged to find something to criticise. Step even slightly outside the rigid orthodoxy of how T1Ds are supposed to behave and you earn a look that says “you kill puppies”, followed by a lecture.

Not this consultant. Instead, she said: “You know your body the best.”

Of course I do. But hearing it still mattered. When I decided – boldly – to be honest (T1Ds often lie for a quiet life) and admitted to doing something unorthodox, she didn’t flinch.

“It’s OK. You know what you’re doing. I can see that in your results,” she said.

At that point, I was tempted to ask my wife – who comes along to stop me getting too wired – to pinch me.

We then moved on to a more practical problem: a few too many recent dips into the low blood sugar red zone. Dangerous territory. She suggested a fix. I tried it immediately, because I trusted her. And it worked.

I’m now being woken up at 3am far less often by the app alarm screaming that my blood sugar is playing hell. Small victories matter when you’re living with a long-term, incurable condition.

Which brings me to the uncomfortable bit. Junior doctors are currently striking for more pay, smack in the middle of a nasty flu season. I don’t envy them. It’s a tough job. A lot of training. A lot of night shifts.

But if you want more money, you also have to earn it. That means listening to patients. It means following the example set by the consultant I saw. The same applies to other healthcare professionals, to NHS managers – and yes, to politicians, up to and including health secretary Wes Streeting.

Many people will bristle at this. We do listen. The hard truth is that many don’t. I’ve been on the receiving end too often. So has my family.

Fixing that – really fixing it – would go a long way towards fixing the NHS.