We should be able to sue the NHS

This culture of secrecy and gagging orders needs to be changed.

There are few more divisive political topics than the NHS. Those interfering with it risk the wrath of keyboard warriors, campaigners, journalists and politicians.

At the extremes, there are views that we are either dangerously nudging towards privatisation, or sleep walking into low quality "socialised" health provision that is far below the average standard of care within the developed world.

But regardless of which side of the political divide you sit on, it is hard to deny that the NHS needs to up its game.

However at the top of both camps’ hitlist are lawyers, it seems. “Ambulance chasers” lining their pockets on tax payers’ money, fleecing the NHS for every last penny when things go wrong. Because of this it seems anyone bringing a case against the NHS feels guilty for doing so, or, worse, treacherous.

But should that be the case?  No one else has the political will to change the NHS for the better. One could argue we are in a catch 22 situation where a decade of Labour "investment" is followed by a few more years of partial privatisation and Tory tinkering. None of which confronts the main problems faced by the NHS: massive institutional failings.

As a lawyer who has experienced the very best of NHS care when I severed my spinal cord during a motorcycle accident, it saddens me that now the NHS is stuck between a rock and a hard place, where politicians seem unable to tackle the institutions’ problems head on.

Alongside waste and poor distribution of resources, another major failing is at the frontline. While the NHS is staffed by compassionate, caring and committed workers, there are huge understaffing problems and many are locked into a system that breeds institutional negligence and huge, catastrophic mistakes. That’s why lawyers step in - as an important check and balance to try and raise standards of care within the NHS by investigating wrong doing, highlighting malpractice, negligence and failed systems.

This is not a small issue. Data shows that NHS negligence claims are on the increase - by 20 per cent year-on-year and 80 per cent since 2008. That’s a monumental £19bn bill – one fifth of the NHS budget. This is to service claims made by over 16,000 patients and families of those bereaved. These are voters of both political persuasions – left and right.

So are these costs purely to line the pockets of ambulance chasing scum or is this money compensation for patients and families who have suffered horrendous, life changing, often preventable incidents?

Month on month at Fletchers Solicitors, we are contacted about hundreds of new clinical negligence cases. These are terrible cases of people who have been denied basic care, such as food or water, suffered catastrophic injuries from simple surgical errors, right through to repeated and systematic failure to diagnose symptoms of preventable yet life-threatening illnesses.

While the individual stories are of course tragic the cost to the exchequer is also appalling. The fact of the matter is that the bulk of the £19bn cost could be dramatically reduced if the NHS’ culture of secrecy and gagging orders were changed in favour of a more open and honest approach to dealing with negligence investigations.

The majority of costs are not for compensation but proportional to the time taken to investigate the facts of the case and establish guilt. Claims against the NHS take longer than any other industry, and accrue more costs as a result.  Often cases take three times as long when most private sector businesses would have admitted guilt at a much earlier stage. An accountable NHS could shave tens of billions of its legal bill.

So should we sue the NHS? In a perfect world the medical negligence marketplace would be small and compensation would be given to people who deserved it.

Today there is now a large legal market which ultimately feeds off a sometimes disorganised and chaotic NHS. It’s our view, however, that the most important consideration for legal action against the NHS is that families whose lives have been destroyed by failings can in some way rebuild them again using their compensation.  Yes, it’s controversial but we’ve been very open and honest about the state of the NHS and our role in it. In fact, we are running a campaign to determine opinion about litigation, and we’re starting a debate to gauge the public mood around whether suing the NHS is ethical.

Ed Fletcher is the chief executive of Fletchers Solicitors

More information on the campaign can be found via its Facebook page.

 
Photograph: Getty Images

Ed Fletcher is the chief executive of Fletchers Solicitors

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For 19 minutes, I thought I had won the lottery

The agonising minutes spent figuring out my mistake paired beautifully with hard, low wisdom tooth throbs.

Nineteen minutes ago, I was a millionaire. In my head, I’d bought a house and grillz that say “I’m fine now thanks”, in diamonds. I’d had my wisdom tooth (which I’ve been waiting months for the NHS to pull the hell out of my skull) removed privately. Drunk on sudden wealth, I’d considered emailing everyone who’s ever wronged me a picture of my arse. There I was, a rich woman wondering how to take a butt selfie. Life was magnificent.

Now I’m lying face-down on my bed. I’m wearing a grease-stained t-shirt and my room smells of cheese. I hear a “grrrrk” as my cat jumps onto the bed. He walks around on my back for a bit, then settles down, reinstating my place in the food chain: sub-cat. My phone rings. I fumble around for it with all the zeal of a slug with ME. Limply, I hold it to my ear.

“Hi,” I say.

“You haven’t won anything, have you” says my dad. It isn’t a question.

“I have not.”

“Ah. Never mind then eh?”

I make a sound that’s just pained vowels. It isn’t a groan. A groan is too human. This is pure animal.

“What? Stop mumbling, I can’t hear you.”

“I’m lying on my face,” I mumble.

“Well sit up then.”

“Can’t. The cat’s on my back.”

In my defence, the National Lottery website is confusing. Plus, I play the lottery once a year max. The chain of events which led me to believe, for nineteen otherworldly minutes, that I’d won £1 million in the EuroMillions can only be described as a Kafkaesque loop of ineptitude. It is both difficult and boring to explain. I bought a EuroMillions ticket, online, on a whim. Yeah, I suffer from whims. While checking the results, I took a couple of wrong turns that led me to a page that said, “you have winning matches in one draw”. Apparently something called a “millionaire maker code” had just won me a million quid.

A

Million

Quid.

I stared at the words and numbers for a solid minute. The lingering odour of the cheese omelette I’d just eaten was, all of a sudden, so much less tragic. I once slammed a finger in a door, and the pain was so intense that I nearly passed out. This, right now, was a fun version of that finger-in-door light-headedness. It was like being punched by good. Sure, there was a level on which I knew I’d made a mistake; that this could not be. People don’t just win £1 million. Well they do, but I don’t. It’s the sort of thing that happens to people called Pauline, from Wrexham. I am not Pauline from Wrexham. God I wish I was Pauline from Wrexham.

Even so, I started spending money in my head. Suddenly, London property was affordable. It’s incredible how quickly you can shrug off everyone else’s housing crisis woe, when you think you have £1m. No wonder rich people vote Conservative. I was imaginary rich for nineteen minutes (I know it was nineteen minutes because the National Lottery website kindly times how much of your life you’ve wasted on it) and turned at least 40 per cent evil.

But, in need of a second opinion on whether or not I was – evil or not - rich, I phoned my dad.

“This is going to sound weird,” I said, “but I think I’ve won £1 million.”

“You haven’t won £1 million,” he said. There was a decided lack of anything resembling excitement in his voice. It was like speaking to an accountant tired of explaining pyramid schemes to financial Don Quixotes.

“No!” I said, “I entered the EuroMillions and I checked my results and this thing has come up saying I’ve won something but it’s really confusing and…”

Saying it out loud (and my how articulately) clinched it: my enemies were not going to be looking at butt selfies any time soon. The agonising minutes spent figuring out my mistake paired beautifully with hard, low wisdom tooth throbs.

“Call me back in a few minutes,” I told my dad, halfway though the world’s saddest equation.

Now here I am, below a cat, trying to explain my stupidity and failing, due to stupidity.  

 

“If it’s any consolation,” my dad says, “I thought about it, and I’m pretty sure winning the lottery would’ve ruined your life.”

“No,” I say, cheese omelette-scented breath warming my face, “it would’ve made my life insanely good.”

I feel the cat purr. I can relate. For nineteen minutes, I was happy too. 

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.