The NHS has me questioning my socialist beliefs, Part I: My pregnancy journey with the National Health Service

by cucumber martini

Pregnancy was not a magical journey. It was an arduous quest through the ravages of nausea, vomiting, heartburn, no recreational drug use, pants wetting, and hauling around a kicking demon in my uterus. It was draining. I desperately needed good medical support to alleviate my anxiety (sans Xanax) and guide me through the ups and downs of pregnancy. 

Coming from America, I expected a regular doctor at each appointment, clean facilities, helpful and friendly staff, and reassurance at every turn. Living in London and unable to pay £20k for a private delivery, I had to put my pregnancy in the hands of the NHS. While I laud universal healthcare and the medical professionals who work round the clock for peanuts, my pregnancy experience with the NHS put my socialist beliefs to the test. 

Being pregnant was one of the most vulnerable times of my life, and the NHS took that vulnerability and spilt a urine sample all over it. This article is the first in a two-part series documenting my antenatal and postnatal journey with the NHS. The first part will take you through my pregnancy and the support I received from the NHS. The second part will explore my delivery and post-care. Both had me wishing I had spent my non-existent life savings on private healthcare. 

Stop 1: Meeting the “Team“

The ability to talk to a doctor during pregnancy seems like the most basic service. Not with the NHS. Given their competing priorities, caring for the entire country, seeing a doctor is an immense privilege and an extreme rarity. 

Midwives were the main point of contact during my pregnancy. As a neurotic American who thinks death is always around the corner, my crunchy midwives could do nothing to reassure me. They couldn’t provide medical information besides how my urine looked and if my baby’s heart was beating (both important but still lacking). 

The most crucial part of any life-changing time is getting the proper medication. The answer is usually xanax, but I knew I probably shouldn’t lean on this when pregnant. I had plenty of questions for the midwives on medications I could take. Unfortunately, this was not in their all-natural purview. Anytime we veered beyond urine samples and the power of breastfeeding, the midwives grew distant. “Cold medicine recommendations?” “Ask your pharmacist.” “Are herbal teas ok?” “Ask your doctor (I don’t have a doctor, just a helpline and a 3-week waiting period).” “Anything for nausea?” “Hang in there!” “Anything to help the pain?” “Sleep on your side.” “I mean a pill.” “Oh no. No. No, no.” 

I was always welcomed with the same questions I had answered at my previous appointment. “What are you having?” “Oh, do you have a name?” Not the best interaction when you are seeking trust and connection (at this point, I had been seeing the same midwife for a few appointments). The midwife would then ask her routine questions that could have been efficiently asked with a simple “Has any of your information changed?” but instead took a half hour: “Is your address still….?”. “Do you smoke?”  In the last 5 minutes, we would get to the helpful bit, and they would measure the baby and listen to its heart. This whole process took about an hour every few weeks. It sucked the life out of me as if my baby didn’t already have that job covered. 

After my first midwife appointment, the midwife informed me I would get a new one. Then, after a few urine samples with the new one, I saw a different face at every appointment. The only comfort with this constant rotation of faces was it didn’t annoy me as much to answer the same questions every appointment.

Detour: Finding a Therapist

With no medication allowed (or none that the midwives knew of), I had to rely on therapy and crystals to help stabilise my mood. 

Flat-tire: Can’t get an appointment 

The pregnancy and ramshackle NHS exacerbated my anxiety. I filled out a request form to see an NHS neo-natal therapist. Ironically, it would be my attempt to alleviate my anxiety that would substantially increase it. 

I was made aware that my request to see a therapist had been answered by a mailed letter from the NHS letting me know of my upcoming appointment. I couldn’t make the pre-selected appointment as it had been two days prior. I tried calling and could not get through. I was eventually able to see a therapist weeks later after my nausea had subsided and my mental health began to normalize. I was immediately discharged from therapy after my first appointment. 

Stop 2: 12-week scan

We finally made it to 12-weeks. Before this, I prayed I wouldn’t miscarry (10% chance before 12-weeks). At this hall marker, you have your first ultrasound with the NHS. 

We arrived at the hospital and waited in a crowded waiting room. When we finally made it into one of the scan rooms, the technician was terse. “Pants down. Lower. Great.” Pressing hard, she moved around my belly, blandly naming the parts of the baby she was checking. Then we were done. I think it is supposed to be a moving moment when you first see your baby. For me, it was literally a moving moment. They were trying to boot us out as soon as the scan began. 

Stop 3: Vaccinations

In a rare moment of usefulness, a midwife directed me to get vaccinations to pass them to the baby. The midwife said to simply go to the hospital. I could just walk in. I had been to this hospital before, and nothing was ever easy. I was an hour late for an appointment I arrived for on time because of the maze-like campus and zero people knowing/giving a fuck where things are. 

So, I decided to be proactive and call beforehand to confirm where and when I could come in. I called the maternity ward. “We don’t do vaccines.” Transferred to the front desk. “What vaccines? Covid?” Transferred again. The fifth transfer took me to the pediatric ward. They dutifully told me they only looked after babies that had been born…They told me to go into the antenatal ward on a Tuesday or Thursday. 

On Tuesday, I went to the antenatal clinic, but no one knew where to get vaccines for unborn babies. After 10 minutes of looking around stupidly, a midwife walked us to the scans department. Because scans and vaccinations should be an obvious combination…By the time we arrived, the vaccination person had gone home. 

Car crash: Diarrhoea

When I got sick with diarrhoea and called the 24-hour helpline, I was connected with an apathetic woman who couldn’t care less if I was dying of cholera. She stated if the baby kicked, it was fine. No need to see a doctor and one wasn’t available anyway. I could call back tomorrow if I thought I was dying.

Stop 4: C-section appointment 

I only saw a doctor once I opted to have a c-section 30 weeks into pregnancy. 

When I arrived at the antenatal clinic for my c-section consultation, I was greeted by someone who was hating life more than my very pregnant self. “Where is your sample?” the woman at the front desk asked. Sample? “What sample?”. I looked around and again said I had an appointment and asked what sample. The woman said I had to get a sample and turned away. 

I stood there, hoping my awkwardness would shake someone into helpfulness. I was left standing until a fellow patient took pity on me and offered directions to a dark hallway with a flickering light. I needed to grab a cup, pee in it, and then tell the front desk I was ready for my appointment. 

In the U.S., there is a small door in the bathroom where you deposit your urine sample. In an NHS facility, you carry your urine around like Paris with Tinkerbell. While waiting (with my sample now in hand) to be seen, another sad soul entered the clinic and was verbally slapped for not having her sample. The woman stood confused, and I was elated to impart my wisdom to her. I escorted her to the darkened hallway. 

During my appointment, when selecting a date for the c-section, the doctor had to verify that the doctors would not be on strike…There is a possibility that when I give birth the doctors could be on strike?? My anxiety spirales.

At the end of my appointment, I asked the doctor if I could contact him for further questions. There was a long pause. “You can ask the doctor on duty the day of your c-section.” Hmm. “What if I have questions before that?” “You can try calling our helpline.” I already knew I had a better chance of my baby doing the Ready for It strut out of my vagina than reaching a doctor on the helpline. I eventually had follow-up questions and had to wait three weeks for a 15-minute phone appointment. 

Detour: Calling the Hospital

Each time the NHS calls, it says No Number ID. If you miss the call, you can’t call the number back. If they leave a message, there is no direct number to reach them. You must call the main hospital. When this happens, you might as well throw your phone in the Thames because you will never get through. When I got messages, I would pray they would call me back because I could not go through the emotional turmoil of calling the hospital or my local surgery and being on hold for hours or being transferred ten times before being hung up on.

Stop 5: The phlebotomist

When I met with the phlebotomist two days before my planned cesarean, our interaction was eerily similar to the one in the antenatal clinic before my consultation. “Where are your print-outs?” she asked. I had no idea what she was talking about. Back-and-forth ensued in which I repeatedly assured her I did hear her, and I still did not know what print-outs she was talking about. Thankfully, a kind-hearted colleague at the next desk showed me the way. Unfortunately, the woman escorted me to the antenatal clinic, where they predictably ignored her and refused to print the items. The woman eventually printed them herself, and we returned to the phlebotomist. 

Reaching my destination: In conclusion….

Pregnancy is already a traumatic experience (for me, at least), and the NHS made it into a horror film. I already had stretch mark scars forming on my stomach. I didn’t need emotional scarring as well. The journey leading up to the delivery of my daughter, however, proved to be only a taste of the miserable experience I would face after giving birth. All this being said, the absolute nightmare would be a system in which not everyone can afford to give birth if they choose to or are forced to (in some abortion-banning states) under a private healthcare system. 

The NHS may be a broken hot mess, but at least it is humane in its mission, offering free healthcare and medication to those in need. So, though I question some of the ways they allocate their resources and want to know who the fuck runs their operations team, I am still a socialist snowflake. My baby was also delivered happy and healthy!

Stay tuned for Part II of my pregnancy journey with the NHS.