I’M not a religious person. But like many secular liberals I’ve always seen the NHS in semi-religious terms. To me, it’s long represented the best aspects of community, kindness, and mutual support. If I’m looking for something which speaks of the values of ‘love thy neighbour’ then the NHS is it. Our health service provides a bricks and mortar symbol to me of all that’s good and decent in society. Throughout my adult life I’ve cherished the NHS – not just politically, but also morally and emotionally – revered it, put it on a pedestal.

Until recently, I’ve only needed the NHS for short, sharp interventions – a tonsillectomy, an appendectomy, x-rays and stitches for injuries and accidents. I’ve never – until this summer – needed the NHS long-term. I’m now, though, into my fifth week of living and breathing the NHS, and much to my sadness my view of our health service has changed.

My rose-coloured spectacles have lost their optimistic tint. I still see our NHS as a national treasure – just a very flawed one. I still believe a universal health service is one of the best, most important creations of our society. The NHS still represents fairness and decency to me. But I no longer idolise it. I see its flaws and imperfections, and they worry me. For these shortcomings are fixable, and addressing them doesn’t just require money, but a change in how we see the NHS.

Let me explain what happened. Towards the end of July I was struck with a crippling pain in my back which made it impossible sometimes to stand or walk. It turned out to be kidney stones – perhaps one of the most unglamorous illnesses imaginable. Today, I prefer the term Renal Diamonds, as a condition this cruel needs a fitting title.

Kidney stones ripped me to pieces. Alternatively, the persistent pain is like a red hot razor slowly slicing slivers off your kidney, or a spear thrust through your body. The kidney stones prompted a kidney infection which could have finished me off. I was in hospital three times – the first time for seven days, hooked up to antibiotic drips and loaded with morphine. The antibiotics caused projectile vomiting. The morphine sent me crazy. Half the time I was like Regan, the possessed child in The Exorcist, either raving or puking.

Once the infection was under control I was released from hospital. But within a few days the pain was so severe again that I could hardly stand or walk. I returned to hospital for help with pain relief, and it's at this point that the scales started to fall from my eyes when it came to the NHS. Back in hospital, medics quickly established that the infection was no longer threatening and sent me home. The only problem was, I couldn’t get off the examination table. Standing was so painful I almost passed out. Walking was agony. One nurse said bluntly, ‘You’ve just got to get up and go home.’ I wanted to go home, I told her, I just couldn’t get up to do so.

I was left to my own devices. I found a wheelchair in a hallway. I was in too much pain to sit in it, so I used it as a makeshift walking frame to reach the exit, and waited for my wife to collect me. As I slumped outside, a real fear went through me. What if I was single? What if I’d no family to take care of me? How would I cope? How would I feed myself?

I didn’t know if I would be able to wash myself, or use the bathroom – thankfully, although recovery has been a struggle, those humiliations didn’t quite have to be faced.

Care shouldn’t end at the hospital door. Care shouldn’t just be about saving someone from an infection, it should be about ensuring quality of life when they face insurmountable pain. I felt a twinge of real sadness as my glittering NHS tarnished. God knows how many people are going home alone suffering in agony, or exhausting their loved ones with caring duties that should be carried out by a professional. Health and social care need to be properly, fully and seamlessly integrated in Scotland.

After my third hospital trip, with still no improvement when it came to pain, I even considered getting into debt to go private – something that my liberal brain would never have previously countenanced. If the pain hadn’t subsided considerably in recent days I’d be seeing private medics today.

My other concerns about the NHS are more minor, but still matter. I spent my time in Glasgow’s Queen Elizabeth University Hospital – which has been hit with controversy after controversy.

Nearly all the staff I encountered were truly remarkable – caring, kind, professional. I owe them a great deal. But not all were good, and some were awful. Two nurses appeared to not give a damn about patients, a handful of doctors had the bedside manner of Dracula. It does NHS staff no service to blanket them all as ‘angels’ and ‘heroes’. It’s patronising sentimentality which kills intelligent discussion about a vital public service. Just like in any profession, 95% of staff are wonderful, the rest shouldn’t really be in the job.

Evidently, the Covid crisis may partially explain some or all of my observations – however, while standards at the QEUH are good, there were avoidable failures. Vomit was left uncleaned in the toilet of my room for more than 24 hours. I bled onto sheets which weren’t changed for 36 hours.

It’s not money alone that will fix these problems. Political will is needed to refashion our health and social care system so it doesn’t just keep you alive, but ensures quality of life after release from hospital. Does medical training – particularly for doctors – focus enough on bedside manner? Is the QEUH just too big and unwieldy to run efficiently? The place is the size of a small town, so no wonder there’s mistakes made.

My criticisms aren’t meant to sound ungrateful. I’m extremely grateful. I can’t express my gratitude enough to the medics who cared for me. My criticisms exist because I love the NHS and I want it to be the very best it can be.

Our columns are a platform for writers to express their opinions. They do not necessarily represent the views of The Herald.