It is at times like this I can truly appreciate health workers

Pulse editor-in-chief Jaimie Kaffash pens a tribute to GPs and NHS health workers following the passing of his father earlier this month

I have been lucky. I am turning 45 very soon, and I have faced very little bereavement in my life. My family suffered the most horrific tragedy before I was born, but I have ‘only’ (for want of a better word) faced the death of grandparents when I was really young, and – while I have known good people who have died – no one really close to me has passed away.

Until earlier this month, when my dad died. Again, I am under no illusion that I have been unlucky. He was 98 and, while he had suffered from dementia for more than 12 years, he had been able to remain at home and never turned aggressive (well, not worse than when I forgot to record Neighbours for him in 1995 – true story).

On Christmas Eve, we were a little worried about the cold he developed. He had ridden many colds over the last couple of years, but this one was sufficiently bad that my mum called 111, who automatically called the paramedics. They seemed fairly unconcerned but – like the out-of-hours GP we called to get an antibiotics prescription just in case for Christmas Day – they took us seriously, never making us feel guilty for calling emergency services about a cold (albeit in a 98-year-old man). 

He seemed to be getting better, but on 28 December, my mum phoned to say she was calling the paramedics again, as he just didn’t seem right. This time, however, the paramedics called me to tell me he was in his last days.

At 98, this news is never a shock, but it still sent a chill down me. At this moment, priorities changed. It wasn’t a case of treating him to keep him alive. It became a case of making sure he had the best passing. Until then, I don’t think I was truly aware just how important this was. And while the state of the NHS has rightly been a huge focus, I can honestly say that the treatment my dad and the family received after this was immaculate.

We had medication prescribed immediately, and the mobile numbers (!) of the district nurses to administer it. I was in awe of the palliative care team, who knew when to break protocol to alleviate any potential suffering, and sent a temporary hospital bed. The Marie Curie nurses, who – due to a respite home closing, in another signal of the state of the care service – were able to come round daily to clean my dad.

And then we had the family doctor, in the truest sense of the word. My dad had been a patient at the same practice for 60 years. When I took him down to the practice earlier last year to get his Covid vaccination, the practice manager said in a stage whisper ‘we are not supposed to have favourites, but this is our favourite patient’. His GP of 44 years visited him at home. This was nominally to help with the death certification, but I strongly suspect it was to say goodbye. Afterwards, we spoke, and he told me my dad really was one of the practice’s favourite patients.

We saw so many health workers in those two weeks after he was put into palliative care at home, and – even if they were short with the family, which was not always unwarranted – they were without exception as respectful as possible to my dad. And even when the Marie Curie team came round after he died, they treated him with the utmost respect and gentleness. Considering my dad was the politest man, even right up until his death, this seemed apt.

The state of the NHS is indefensible. But all those working in it, including GPs, deserve all the praise they get. My dad had the perfect death – at home, surrounded by family, comfortable, never in pain and supported throughout. This gave us one weekend where – despite his advanced Alzheimer’s – he was able to say goodbye to his family with an eloquence he hadn’t had for years due to his condition. And this was possible in large part due to the care he received. So let me say thank you to you all.

Jaimie Kaffash is editor-in-chief of Pulse