I’m nearly 40 years old and I have a six-year medical degree, a BSc, an MD and membership of the Royal College of Surgeons. I also have two children, debts which make me sick with worry each month, a marriage which is likely over and a good going stomach ulcer. I work part-time but that involves a 100-mile round trip, three-hour commute and being away from my children for 48 hours every week because I can’t afford to live close enough to the hospital. I work 60 hours a week in order to make my part-time arrangement work.
I can’t afford to attend the conferences and courses I need to in order to make consultant. I can’t afford the last exam I need to do. I can’t afford my General Medical Council fees, my medical defence insurance or my membership of the Royal College of Surgeons that I worked so hard to earn. I can’t afford the petrol to drive to work each day.
This year I have been screamed at, spat at and kicked. I have physically removed excrement from someone who needed that help. I have cut off people’s legs. I have told people that the most important person in the world to them is dying. I have told people that they are dying. I have told a woman her child may not survive. I have not eaten or drunk anything over a 13-hour period more times than I can remember. This year, once a week, I have woken up on the floor cold, jittery, anxious, hungry and traumatised by the things I have seen and the things I have had to do.