In Sickness and in Health: A good hospital can make a world of difference

Earlier this year, Rebecca’s husband Nick was hit by a car and seriously injured. Here, in one of a series of columns, she writes about the aftermath of his accident

Milton Keynes Hospital (Charlie Forgham-Bailey)

I love a noticeboard. My favourites are the ones in libraries, packed with cards covered in continental hand-writing offering babysitting, bassoon lessons and everything in between.

I read every word of the man-with-a-van A4 pages that have frills of tear-off phone numbers at the bottom. Cornershop windows fulfil the noticeboard role if the library is shut, and while there can be rich pickings in supermarkets, the through traffic of shoppers sadly doesn’t allow me much time for a thorough appreciation.

Hospitals are a bit of a find for a noticeboard nerd. Ebola information sheets and long lists of different religious holidays make a nice change from swimming lessons and cleaning ladies. There was one sign at Northwick Park Hospital, which Nick has just left, that always caught my eye. “Would you recommend this hospital to friends and family?” it read, in close proximity to the A&E department. I can’t imagine that anyone rushing there because they’d just lopped off a finger would be too fussed about its customer-satisfaction rating, but, for the record, I would very much recommend this hospital to friends, family and strangers as a place that helped the brain-injured man in my life with its skill and kindness.

I can say this now without looking like a terrible crawler as Nick’s six-month stint in the regional rehabilitation unit (RRU) is up, and I’m not trying to curry favour with staff (who, with their no-nonsense ways, would have no truck with that anyway). I don’t doubt that in a hospital so vast that there will be horror stories. But I will always be grateful to every member of staff who helped coax Nick from the aftermath of a coma into a semblance of the man that I love.

Aideen, Sarah, Kat, Margaret, Anne, Rita, Rob, Floyd, Sajit - and the others that I can’t name here because it would take up the rest of the i paper – thank you. Thank you for putting up with me at my most terrified and territorial. Thank you for calming Nick when he was at his most hysterical and for treating him as a person, rather than a broken up bundle of flesh and bone.

Having said that, I have to settle a couple of scores. Namely, with my bête noir - the hospital WHSmith. Why is this place so wheelchair unfriendly? Why does it sell fabric softener but no washing powder? Oh WHSmith, you have been a thorn in my side, but I suppose this is the place to apologise for using Nick’s wheelchair as a battering ram against your most in-the-way cardboard displays. The lifts are also complete bastards, being not only glacially slow, but quick to dish out electric shocks.

Still, lifts and retail outlets apart, I salute you, Northwick Park RRU, from your noticeboards to your no-stone-left-unturned approach to looking after Nick. Would I recommend this hospital? Yes. It saved my husband’s – and, I rather think, my – life.