Free-D

Salamanca’s hospitals have constantly been in the news recently – due to the continuing strikes. Many are critical of this industrial action which is apparently putting lives at risk. But who would want to work in such an environment, where the responsibilities at every level are so great, stress levels so high, and where there’s no such thing as a “regular day at the office”: rather a constant influx of unpleasant, and occasionally life threatening occurrences? Patients on the whole aren’t the easiest folk to deal with; tempers are often understandably short and demands frankly unreasonable. During the last few months I’ve had quite a lot to do with the Hospital Clinico, which has brought me into contact with many members of staff. It’s not an easy place to work; admissions usually resembles an extremely busy airport terminal. It’s obvious that nobody’s there for an easy ride. It’s equally obvious then that these strikes point to the fact that something has gone awry. Last week my wife gave birth to our first child at the Hospital Clinico, where she was constantly attended by midwives and paediatricians. The newborn was a little on the small side (looking not very different to the world’s most beautiful spider monkey), so both mother and child spent another seven days on the ward. Even royalty wouldn’t be allowed such a prodigiously long stay in a hospital bed in England! Something, however, that both English and Spanish hospitals do have in common is the terrifying aspect that midwives present. They’re a strange crew – wonderful, caring and extremely knowledgeable; it’s just that from an English point of view, it’s very hard to get rid of that Hattie Jacques image which matrons, midwives and senior nurses all share. But however afraid we men may be of them, we can’t deny that they’re among life’s’ true heroes. I’m not sure which presents the more daunting vision: a group of midwives or a cohort of Nazarenos. Whichever, I’ll always remember this week as being that of open backed hospital gowns, swaying cofradias with their pointed hoods filling the streets, and the shocking appearance of my baby girl, clay white and covered in vernix. I’ve learned in the last few days that new life is just as frightening, actually more frightening, than death itself. Life isn’t easy, it’s terrifying and demanding, and that’s something the staff in Salamanca’s Hospital Clinico face up to every day in all its material nastiness.
It seems like a small recompense then to listen seriously to any grievances they may have.