The NHS: A Sacred Cow Beyond Saving?
In the summer of 2023, my girlfriend was diagnosed with appendicitis. For the next two and a half months she was at the mercy of the National Health Service. These are my thoughts on Britain’s sacred cow.
After waiting for an ambulance that never arrived, we went to urgent treatment just down the road. We waited over ten hours until the doctor finally appeared. She was a portly woman with a chubby face who might have been comforting, if only she took us seriously.
She looked my girlfriend up and down, curled in a wheelchair, crying and sweating. I spoke on her behalf, explaining severe stomach pain and utter incapacity. The doctor nodded, then told her to get up. When she shook her head, I reiterated she could not stand. The doctor grabbed her arms, tugging and ordering her to be a “big girl.” Moaning, almost screaming, she struggled to her feet, and we were led to the treatment room.
After a brief chat with no blood tests, my girlfriend was misdiagnosed with a viral stomach infection and sent away with Buscopan. As we left, the doctor said, “Prove me right and don’t come back.” I had mentioned appendicitis, but she dismissed it.
Two days later, we were in hospital with a “likely burst” appendix. She was placed at the top of the surgical priority list around 5 am. I went home to sleep. Surgery was meant to happen before midday, but it didn't. She completed pre-op and signed forms. The hour came and passed.
And so began two and a half months of hell.
I was there almost every day. It was a third-world experience. Ward staff sat idle while I reminded them she needed a towel, painkillers, water. Her buzzer rang for half an hour before one of the NHS staff finally responded. Every day something worse; every individual less caring. I once mentioned her ordeal on X and someone replied that untreated appendicitis kills within about 48 hours—“prove me right.” I wish I were lying.
My experience is not isolated. Britain’s pride and joy, our greatest post-war achievement, our sacred cow, is a joke abroad. “Come back in 36 months,” runs a popular meme comparing US, Canadian, and British healthcare. Everyone knows someone whose life has been ruined by NHS failings. We chalk it up to isolated incidents, but what’s an anomaly that’s commonplace?
Recently, 25-year-old boxer Georgia O’Connor died of cancer. In a Facebook post she said:
“For 17 weeks … constant pain … going back and forth between Durham and Newcastle RVI A&E … Not one doctor took me seriously.”
She had colitis and PSC, well-known cancer risk factors, but “nobody listened.”
She wonders if earlier detection might have saved her.
In any other circumstances, my girlfriend would’ve died within 48 hours. Because nobody cared. Georgia O’Connor died at 25 because nobody cared enough to listen. That is the reality of the NHS.
Britain’s sacred cow is accorded infallibility. Criticism is blasphemy. Holy icons are plastered everywhere. We perform rituals to appease it. Every fault is blamed on underfunding. Every election, PM hopefuls universally vow to “fund the NHS.”
Currently, the NHS has a budget of £188.5 billion for 2023–24, accounting for about 11.3 percent of GDP. This places UK healthcare spending just above peer countries. Advocates point out comparisons: every 11 weeks, NHS spending matches building China’s Three Gorges Dam; every 150 days, it equals Russia’s defence budget; in just over a year, it parallels the cost of the Apollo Programme—statistics circulated widely under @DaysofNHS on X.
My uncle had a chronic, life-threatening heart condition in his youth. He remembers prompt, caring ambulance crews. “In my time, it was fantastic,” he insists—and I believe him.
But decline is inevitable when public services are insulated from market accountability, and NHS executives are painfully aware. There is a silent revolt within. Managers are stripped of agency, powerless to fix dysfunction, and many are leaving in droves.
On the frontline, policy compounds the problem. England caps domestic medical school places at 7,500 per year. These caps exclude international students. Consequently, 63 percent of new GMC registrants in 2022 trained abroad, and 46 percent of GP trainees are now international. The service grows, but marginal returns have turned negative.
Any centrism I held vanished in summer 2023.
What is “good” healthcare? I don’t know. But I do know that the NHS, as it operates now, is a third-world nightmare—one that would rather you fade away than be a bother. The more money we pump in, the worse it becomes. Most of us know this, even if we don’t say it. Our sacred cow is already dead. Let’s incinerate its corpse, scatter it to the wind, and free ourselves from this burden. Free treatment for all has made us equal—in misery. It’s time to move on.
Medical Opinion (R Author)
She obviously had appendicitis — a bacterial infection where the appendix becomes inflamed, fills with pus, and presses against surrounding tissue. As pressure builds, the blood supply is cut off and the tissue starts to die. If untreated, the appendix bursts, releasing bacteria into the abdominal cavity and causing peritonitis, which is a life-threatening infection of the lining of the abdomen. That’s what was happening inside her: escalating pain, systemic stress, and rising risk of sepsis.
The doctor inexplicably misdiagnosed this as a stomach virus — something that causes temporary cramping, nausea, or diarrhoea but doesn’t lead to localised inflammation, tissue death, or rupture. Instead of running blood tests, checking for specific pain responses, or ordering imaging (like an ultrasound or CT), the doctor did none of that. They guessed, and guessed wrong.
Worse, the doctor prescribed Buscopan, a smooth muscle relaxant used to relieve mild stomach cramps or irritable bowel symptoms. It doesn’t treat infections. In fact, in the case of appendicitis, it can mask symptoms just enough to delay diagnosis while the infection worsens. That’s exactly what happened here.
Within two days, her appendix likely burst. What could have been a straightforward surgery turned into a full-blown medical emergency — requiring hospitalisation, urgent surgery, and months of recovery from complications that were entirely preventable.
Here's how the medical notes would look:
Adult female presented to UTC with classic signs of acute appendicitis (severe abdominal pain, immobility, diaphoresis). No bloodwork or imaging performed; misdiagnosed as viral gastroenteritis and discharged. Re-presented 48 hours later with suspected perforated appendix. Emergency surgery delayed despite prioritisation. Postoperative course complicated by prolonged hospitalisation (>8 weeks), likely secondary to peritonitis, intra-abdominal sepsis, or wound complications. Documented failures in nursing care and response. Systemic and clinical failings at multiple levels.
