Lewisham: the most irrational, irresponsible hospital to cut

To cut this well-performing hospital would be to reward failure and punish success.

I was born in Lewisham hospital. My mum was convinced that she’d eaten some dodgy mackerel, but it turned out to be contractions. She was rushed in, and both of us were pretty grateful for the kindness and expertise staff showed in helping a frightened mother deliver a safe birth. So when I heard that Lewisham might be losing most of its maternity and other key services to cuts, I decided to go back and visit.

But walking through the hospital’s glass doors in the bustling heart of South London, I was determined not to be sentimental. Months of covering health news for the Guardian taught me that some closures are inevitable. The left loses credibility by not recognising that. We must be prepared to accept uncomfortable truths. The problem is that this might just be the most irrational, irresponsible hospital to cut:

“Here we are bang in the middle of Lewisham, a real community hospital doing exactly what the government wants,” consultant physician John Miell tells me in the hospital canteen. “We have great health reports from objective sources and our finances are more sound than our neighbours. Now the government are ripping the heart out of this community… If they can close Lewisham, they can close anywhere.”

The facts back him up. Lewisham has ranked in the top forty hospitals in the country for the last four years, and its safeguarding services have just been marked excellent by Ofsted (pdf). Lewisham will not be closing services because of failure; it will be closing to protect other hospitals that are too expensive to close because of bad management and botched PFI contracts. As one doctor put it: “We are victims of our success”.

Matthew Kershaw, the man leading the review, makes no secret of this. He has recommended that Lewisham shut all acute services – children, intensive care and most of maternity – simply so that they don’t compete with others in the South London NHS Trust. It’s the worst example of top-down state control rewarding failure. Weren’t the government’s NHS reforms supposed to be about introducing competition to do exactly the opposite?

If the health secretary Jeremy Hunt agrees to these recommendations on 1 February (or before if rumours are believed that he wants to scupper the demonstration this Saturday), good performance will no longer guarantee any sort of protection against closure. As Lucy Mangan says, every hospital in the country will be at risk.

Doctors are also terrified that the consequences of shutting services in a poor, densely populated inner city area with a booming population and a high birth rate have not been thought through. Campaigners say that the changes will leave the local population of 750,000 with just one A&E department.

“Hospitals to the east and west of Lewisham are already full and have been passing their maternity patients to Lewisham,” says Louise Irvine, a local GP who is leading the Save Lewisham Hospital campaign, “The system is already not coping. People are going to die. That’s what we want Hunt to know. He has been duly warned.”

Doctors told me that the local Queen Elizabeth hospital was already transferring children out as far as Margate to cope with over demand. Mums trying to book Kings hospital for births are already being told there is no space. One GP talked about an appendix rupturing in A&E because they couldn’t be seen in time. These stories came from different local hospitals, but everyone felt their position was too precarious to go on the record.

Distance is another problem. Workers for the London Ambulance Service have informally raised concerns about the closure of Lewisham’s A&E department because they know that minutes determine lifetimes. Jos Bell is one local resident who became active in campaigning to save the hospital because of an experience she had a few years ago when she was taken ill and her pulse stopped:

“I wouldn’t have got to Woolwich (the nearest alternative hospital) in time… I would have died in the cab. People will be dropping on route. They are pioneering new treatments at Lewisham. They have saved my life more than once.”

Distance is a bigger problem in poorer areas where car ownership is relatively low. If Lewisham closes its emergency service, some people in Sydenham and Crystal Palace will have to travel for over an hour to get to recommended alternatives.

“For maternity users it’s going to be the most dangerous,” says Jessica Ormerod, a local mother and head of Lewisham’s maternity committee that represents mums in the borough, “They are already vulnerable. Some asylum seekers don’t have the bus fare to get there – at least they can walk to Lewisham.”

Doctors also raised problems of integration – supposedly another key rationale for the health reforms. Right now if a birth goes wrong unexpectedly, mum can be moved to an emergency service across the hall. But under the new proposals, there would be no facilities to do that. If a baby came out with its chord around its neck, patients would have to be transferred by ambulance across town with all the extra risk that brings. I shudder to think of my mum in this position. That could have been me or my little brother.

“We know that most safeguarding failures occur because of a break down between services as people fall through the gap,” says chair of Lewisham’s clinical commissioning group Helen Tattersfield, who maintains the same problem applies to vulnerable groups like self harmers who need social as well as medical support. “If this goes ahead I’ll have patients in five different hospitals and I won’t know they’ll be in the system. It’s a recipe for confusion.”

Kershaw insists that despite extensive consultation, no “viable alternative solutions or proposals been put forward" to solve the challenges faced by the South London Hospital Trust.

If this move made economic sense, perhaps he would have a point. But the Guardian has reported that Kershaw’s proposals would cost £195m to implement, and only deliver £19.5m savings a year. At a time when Lewisham has just invested millions in services that are doing well, this seems wasteful. If you have to close a hospital, why close the one that is doing best?

For many, this is a political decision. Lewisham is a poor area and as one doctor put it, “There is very little to lose when everyone votes Labour here anyway”. The alternative is to close hospitals in Conservative-held areas like Kent, and MPs like Iain Duncan Smith, Chris Grayling and Julian Lewis have already proven that even Tories can’t justify closures in their own backyard. Some call it “fiscal nimbyism”. Patients and doctors call it understanding the consequences when you’re close to them. Me and my mum can testify to that. 

Editor's note: This piece was edited on 22 January 2013. A reference to St Thomas's hospital had been included in error; this was removed.

A porter pushes resuscitation equipment down a corridor at Lewisham Hospital. Photograph: Getty Images

Rowenna Davis is Labour PPC for Southampton Itchen and a councillor for Peckham

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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.