I owe everything to the NHS

In 1956 the NHS saved my life. I have often dressed up this statement, when seeking to impress new acquaintances, as extraordinary. But it occurs to me now that perhaps the most remarkable thing about it is how unremarkable it is.

Because hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, belong to the club of which I am unwittingly a member. People who would not be here, who would be voids, unborn, or with unlived lives. We are in every town, on every street: the living dead.

I am proud to be one of this multitude - not because I was sick, but because I am British. And, for all their flaws, there is one thing that the British, in election after election and poll after poll, have always overwhelmingly believed: that the NHS is a thoroughly Good Thing and must be protected at all costs. Its staff, too, need to be recognised for the incredible work they do, which is exactly the aim of the Evening Standard's Champions campaign.

But, as one of the living dead, I do not simply hold the strong belief that the NHS is a cornerstone of our society. My belief is passionate, unflinching, and lifelong. The NHS is a marvel that must be preserved, improved and generously funded out of the public purse so that it can offer equal treatment to rich and poor.

The fact that this is such an article of faith for me is not simply because the NHS saved me entirely free of charge. For someone from my background ("ordinary", or what in those days would be called working-class) there would have been no alternative, given our lack of resources, to a prompt, routine expiration.

I was born in Perivale NHS Maternity Hospital, a freak on several counts. I had a cleft, or harelip, but this was the least of my problems. The surgeons found solid blackness inside me where there should have been only shadow. I was diagnosed with Wilms' Tumour. I had to be operated on soon, or I would die. An operation of this kind, my parents were told, had never been undertaken on one so young, and they should prepare for the worst. I was baptised by the hospital priest before being wheeled into theatre.

To this day I bear the scars of my infant transfusions on my wrists and ankles, and a scar that stretches from my pelvis half way up my belly. I also have a scarred lip, of course, but that was dealt with later, cosmetically, by NHS surgeons who did a good enough job that I was hardly ever teased about it through my childhood. But the scars are constant reminders to me of what the NHS gave me - life.

As for my traumatic birth, my mother and I were in hospital for three months. Let's just do some accounting on that, Margaret Thatcher style. How much would it cost to look after a baby and his mother for three months? How much would it cost to save his life? How much would the reconstructive surgery on his face cost? I don't have a clue, because I never had to pay. In 1956 we decided as a society, more unequivocally than at any time before or since, that there were more important things than money, and that the life, and even the facial appearance, of a child was one of them.

Of course the NHS has changed an awful lot in the years since my birth. It costs much more to run, and with an ageing population, has a far greater burden thrust upon it. Nevertheless, if a baby were born in my condition today, he or she would probably be dealt with fairly routinely and the parents would get free counselling for the trauma of it all (and it was, I think, horribly traumatic, not only for me, but for my parents, particularly my mother).

However, it is hard not to think of the NHS nowadays as vaguely under threat. Not from lack of will - I am not cynical about the Government's desire to improve the health service. But from the sheer size and insatiability of it and the problems of managing such a complex institution. Vast amounts of money seem to be spent, and yet most people on the ground seem to notice little improvement and even deterioration. Anyone who has had to wait in an A and E reception knows there is a long way to go before, day-to-day, the system can be said to be working acceptably.

This is not purely through lack of funds, but I cannot believe that money does not have something to do with it. Is the solution to throw more money at it? Actually, yes, it is. Why? Because the misery of illness so outranks the marginal amount of happiness that disposable income can bring. I would accept 50 per cent income tax or more if I genuinely knew that the result would be a world-class health system. I suspect an awful lot of people would. However, the battle the Government has is to convince the public that the money is not simply being wasted.

Still, even with all its flaws, I remain pretty upbeat about the NHS. My father, who, unlike me, remains of modest means, recently had to go into hospital for a bypass. He was treated wonderfully and recovered quickly.

I wonder sometimes if it is a coincidence, given how I started my life, that my partner was, until recently, an intensive-care nurse. She has worked extensively in the state and private sectors. I know from what she says that for anything serious an NHS hospital is a far better place to be treated than a private one. At the state hospital you might get lousy food, a shared room and a long waiting list. But once you are there, your chances of being treated well are astonishingly good.

The NHS saved me once, and I shouldn't be surprised if, sooner or later, it saves me again. I salute it, from the ranks of the living dead, and pray that whatever else happens in this often blundering and disappointing country, it survives, prospers and grows - just as it has allowed me to do.