You made it to 70! Kind of…
You’re still one of the most efficient health systems in the world, the jewel
in our crown but all trophies atrophy and your eyes look tired and you’re not
sleeping as well as you used to.
At 25 I’ve seen too many people die, but at 70 you’ve seen so many live to transcend
sickness; your walls have weaved so many stories.
There’s still a glint in your eyes, I see it and your heart still beats multicultural
and myogenic in its magnificence.
So this is a love poem to you, us, to 70 more, my incredible colleagues, love
is for the brave.
We care too much, but not enough about ourselves to fight against this crisis
of yours: of underfunding and empty promises…
If you’re not angry you’re not paying attention, but I have learned anger and love do not have to be mutually exclusive.
We may be brave but underpaid, overworked so disengaged, disrespected, disempowered and vilified with our defiance devoured
And we’re told not to ‘make this political’…!
Your entire existence is political! Your arms are refuge. The taxes Hunt/Hancock
takes should be your life blood but you’re anaemic… hypovolaemic.
These Brexit wounds may heal but we won’t survive losing
you.
So this is a love poem to you NHS,
All this bursting, fizzing, caring love,
Quiet, hand-holding love,
Studious, dedicated, time-consuming, all-consuming love,
Yeah Love is for the brave, and I know you too can transcend this sickness.
To 70 more!