Where I Live

We are social creatures. But the more crowded into cities we are, it seems that we become less and less social. We pack ourselves into buses and tubes, avoiding eye contact as we hope to get to work without the complication of acknowledging the humanity of the the eight million other people who live in this city. We live in flats and tower blocks for years, sometimes decades, without know the names of our neighbours. The more we are isolated, the more we reach out. Facebook, twitter, dating sites and blogs (ironically) often times become substitutes for actually having to participate in our physical community. These outlets are wonderful tools that can supplement our experiences. They allow us to share our thoughts and ideas with others. But I fear that we risk them becoming replacements for actual human contact.
I have always longed for a sense of belonging to a community. As a young child in East Los Angeles, I day dreamed of places like Mayberry. Small towns where everybody knew and helped each other. The kinds of places where, when a neighbour knew you were not well, a casserole would appear. If you where down, somebody would notice and "pop by for a cuppa".
The more that I looked and longed for this, the further away it seemed to be. That is until the day I was duped into moving onto a leaky, broken down old, wooden boat. Duped? Yes duped by my wonderful, impetuous wife. You see, she had spotted a boat with a for rent sign on it and decided that it would be a great place to live. Her challenge was making me think that it was my idea. So she called me and asked me if I would like to meet her after work, go for a nice walk and perhaps dinner.
I took the bait and whilst walking along the canal she "saw" a boat for rent. Her words were something to the effect of "hey Pat, look at that. Haven't you always wanted to live on a boat". Her ruse worked. It was now my idea. I took out my mobile and made the deal over the phone. I remember coming into the boat for the first time. I was slightly horrified. The ceiling was too low, nothing really worked right, it smelled "boaty", and it had a chemical toilet. It was something like a backyard shed and a caravan without wheels. What the hell I thought. I moved to London to experience change. Throwing caution and all logic to the wind, we set up home
. I remember the first night like it was yesterday. We decided to have a nice, civilised dinner al fresco on the tow path. Along came a pair of the campest gay dudes that I have ever met. Our new neighbours. "If you would like to pop by for drinks later darlings, we'd love to have you". "We won't die if you don't". What an invite! We finished up dinner and took our remaining wine to their boat. There was no turning back after this. We were down the rabbit hole. That night was magic. We met neighbours and new friends. We drank wine and talked until three in the morning.
In one evening we seemed to learn the intimate details of dear friends, who a few hours earlier, were perfect strangers. This didn't stop. This area quickly blossomed in our hearts. The people who live in here are a unique diverse mix of artists, lawyers, charity workers, builders and every other occupation that one finds in a typical community. But there seems to be a difference. The people themselves are different. A wonderful eclectic mix of beautiful self proclaimed societal misfits. Living here is like nothing that I could ever conceive. It is like a family. That is a terribly euphemistic phrase, but it is true. Our doors are always open to one another. The people here freely give the most precious of commodities, their time and compassion. My neighbours are open and accepting. I recall a neighbour coming by and asking for a hug. She began crying as we hugged. We didn't even discuss what had made her sad. She just needed a hug.
I love this place. I love it completely. That means that living on a boat sometimes gets on my nerves. The people can get on my nerves. I certainly get on theirs! But that's what make my love of this place so complete, it is real here.
One does give up something when moving on to a tiny boat in a community of about 50 people. What is given up is not necessarily privacy, space, a garden or conveniences. What is given up, what I have given up, is that veil I wear outside. When I walk through the gates and lock them behind me, I know I am home. I can be the real me to any and everybody in this place. That does not mean that I will not be judged. On the contrary. I will be judged, honestly lovingly and by people who have a stake in my holistic well being. So by accident, or serendipity if you will, I have found my community. It certainly is not Mayberry, but it is home. I hope and pray that this place will be my home for a very long time.

A day out with the EDL

I am very intersted in organisations that polite society refer to as "Extremist Groups". What makes and extremist group? Is it their stated goals, or is it the fact that they have opinions that most of us do not agree understand or cannot cope with?
It is quite easy to sit amongst our educated peers and discuss the plight of indigenous groups in far away exotic places. It makes many of us feel good to discuss the evils of corporate and government imperialism and how these entities destroy the lives and cultures of people. What if those people are not in a far off exotic land? What if they are here? What if they look and talk like us? What if they are English?
I recently spent a day with the English Defense League. This group has been demonised by the press. Their recent planned march was outlawed by the police and they were forced to have a static demonstration on an otherwise deserted street.
The EDL are ridiculed and mocked by many educated Britons. This is not without reason. In the EDL there are "foot soldiers" who, for the most part, loud thuggish and intimidating beer swilling hooligans. They are the "S.A." of the movement. What I wanted to find out is what happens when one peels back this veneer of football hooligans and looks at the real EDL.
I arrived at the gathering point just outside of Liverpool Street Station on a nice Saturday afternoon. I new I was in the right place as soon as I got off of the tube. The station was crawling with police.
Several hundred members of the EDL were gathering outside of the pub. If we took away the t-shirts and banners, the crowd looked like any other gathering before a football match. Old friends were meeting. People were joking with each other and it seemed like any other day at the pub. However as the crowd grew the energy changed.
I walked up to the first person that looked interesting to me and started asking questions. I explained without pretense that I was there to find out what the EDL was about. I told him that I was there to ask questions, learn and listen without bias to what they had to say. I was able to talk to a few people before I was spotted by one of their leaders who took (at first a very suspicious) interest into my inquiries.
I asked people why they were there. To a person, there answer was that they were worried that their culture was disappearing. That outside cultures were coming into this country and changing the traditional English way of life. Folks I spoke to were saddened by new "foreign" people moving into their traditional homelands and pushing out people who have lived there for centuries. Tower Hamlets was the focus of their frustration this day. I had little difficulty asking people questions and getting heartfelt honest responses from EDL members and supporters. It seemed that they were happy to be listened to.
Many of the peole I spoke with felt that the EDL was not given fair play by the mainstream media. However, I feel that is not the fault of the mainstream media. The commercial media is biased. Their goal is to sell advertising by showing sensational topics. "If it bleeds, it leads". Too many EDL members and supporters only add fuel to the fire.
While I was in the pub updating my notes, a group of EDL members took a keen interest in what I was doing. A large shaved head guy who described himself as a foot soldier for the EDL came to my table, invaded my personal space and asked what I was writing. I explained to him what I was doing, told him that he was welcome to look at my notes and that he didn't need to get so close to me to ask questions and perhaps he forgot his reading glasses (I have doubts to his literacy however). He explained to me that some of the people at his table thought that I might be a spy for and anti fascist organisation and he wanted to make sure that I wasn't. His mission was that of intimidation.
Outside of the pub two drunken young men in pig masks were dancing, drinking and playing up. Several people had EDL shirts that said "fuck Islam". Songs were sung accusing the Prophet Mohamed of being a paedophile.
These are the kinds of displays the that media feeds upon. If the EDL has a cogent message that they want to get across, this type of dunked idiocy has to be stopped by their leaders.
In fairness to the people who organised the event there were several people in high viz vests that were there to control there own members' behaviour. These people liaised with the police and encourage the crowd to behave. They had their work cut out for them but, to their credit, they did do a good job.
The only problems at the gathering point started when counter demonstrators showed up and started throwing flash bang bombs and missiles into the crowd. Once again, the organisers worked hard to keep the crowd from devouring the small group of counter demonstrators. The police decided to kettle the EDL. For the most part the EDL behaved well at the rally point. It was the outsiders who caused any trouble there.
The crowd was allowed to go to the protest area. Along the path, more organisers stood along side the police and helped to keep the order. The route to the demonstration, and the point itself, was along largely deserted commercial streets. No counter demonstrators where seen. Again the crowd behaved.
When EDL founder Stephen Lennon spoke, he spoke of democracy, free elections and safe streets.The EDL supporters stated that they were disgusted that arranged marriages and female genital mutilation were being practised by foreigners in "our country". Any sane person is disgusted by this happening anywhere in the world. I heard no racist chants. In fact, I saw Star of David flag, a Gay Rights flag and more that one person of non white heritage supporting the EDL in the crowd. There were a couple of trouble makers at the demonstration point who threw missiles and flash bang bombs at the police and press corps. By this time I was standing with the press corps and the majority of them were wearing helmets.
After the protest the crowd was led to the Tower Bridge and once again kettled by police for about 40 minutes bt police before they were allowed to leave.
I think the majority of arrests occured when a bus carryng EDL members broke down outside Stepney Green Tube station.
When I talked with supporters of the EDL, many of them wanted their idea of a "Traditional England" back. Than England is gone. They wanted people who come here to abide by British Laws and customs. They were offended by the possibility of areas in England having Shar'ia courts. I myself have read Islamist literature advocating Shar'ia courts in primarily Islamic areas such as Tower Hamlets and I am offended my it.
I wanted answers to questions when I decided to write this. I wanted to give a voice to people who's oppinions are drowned out by thugs in their own organisations and a biased self serving commercial media who only want to sell papers.
What I think I have done is create more questions for myself. I want to continue studying and writing about this subject. I will continue studying and writing about groups like the EDL. I promised to give them fair play. I will attend the next EDL protest and speak with and listen to the people who are the focus of the EDL's anger and frustration.

Oui Chef!

I recently lived a dream that I had dreamed and ached for for many years. I became a chef. A real working chef in one of the best places in the world to cook. London.
When I trained under Chef Roberto Argentina in California, I fell in love with professional cooking. What started as a lark, inspired by watching too much Anthony Bourdain and Gordon Ramsay, turned into to something that infected my soul.
Chef Roberto was passionate, emotional, sometimes angry but always an artist. When I left his kitchen I knew how to hold a knife, plate a dish and shut my mouth. I also learned a lot of fundamentals. But shutting up was the hardest to learn. It has paid off.
One of the reasons that I came to London was to cook. When I first got here, I took a none cooking job to pay the bills. One day Jemma said; "Go cook. You came here to cook. Just quit work and go cook". Everything I was taught to think as a husband, father and provider told me that I should just stay at the job, enjoy the unattainable idea of being a proper chef as a fantasy and do nothing too dangerous.
But Jemma cared enough to say it and mean it. My brother and sister in law encouraged me. I came to London to take risks and find the "real me". The next day I quit working at the hospital and started looking for a chef gig.
After trolling ceaselessly through the job postings I got a call from the head chef of a soon to be opening restaurant in London Bridge. I went to the interview and was hired as a commis chef.
My first couple of weeks of "cheffing" had nothing to do with cooking. The restaurant was a building site. The stoves and refrigerators were bought used at an auction. In short, they were grungy, sticky, smelly and dirty. My days were spent with the French sous chef scrubbing sanitizing re cleaning, loading vans and carrying equipment up stairs.
After a lot of hard, dirty work, opening day was close. One of the most exciting thing ever said to me was "when you come tomorrow, bring your knives". My brother Gordon and my wife Jemma bought me some really kick ass Wusthof professional knives (kinda like buying a Porsche for a 16 year old).
We spent days prepping, chopping, pealing and cleaning. Always cleaning. I learned the magic of jus. A proper veal au jus sauce takes days of simmering, skimming, watching and loving. Chef Jake would make us tell the jus that we loved it. But the more you love the jus, the more beautiful it becomes.
Our first night was friends and family night. I was lucky enough to secure an invitation for Jemma, Aarti and Gordon. I was scheduled to work my first long shift (7:00am to midnight). I was so nervous. The feeling in my gut before service can can be compared to getting married, having a child or trying to kiss that girl for the first time.
Then the unthinkable happened. Jake told me "your station is up front tonight Pat". What? Up front? In an open kitchen where paying customers actually see you cooking their food? I was really nervous.
When we opened, the place was packed with a lot of London's movers and shakers. Everybody was a VIP. We were on stage and I had a speaking part. The biggest VIPs in my heart were Jemma, Aarti and Gordon. I couldn't wait to see them.
Guests kept coming up to the pass to take pictures of the kitchen and the chefs. Then a moment that has been etched in my heart happened. Jemma came to the pass to take my picture. I was beaming.
I prepped and cooked my ass off that day. I felt like I was way out of my league. I was on the line with two incredible chefs making real gourmet food. They made it fun. These guys couldn't stop screwing around. They were working like dogs and at the same time, totally screwing around and having fun. I was more in love with cooking than ever. I had my first taste of hard core, front line, high pressure cooking.
Everybody in the kitchen was great. The chefs were all patient and eager to teach. Everybody was a real team. Sometimes it felt like it was us against the world and look out world.
I got to stay at my station in the kitchen. I had become a proper chef. The fact that I was the oldest guy in the kitchen (by an average of 15 years) and the lowest ranked chef was only more a source of pride for me. I made the journey and won.
One of the downfalls of professional cooking is that it takes a long time in the business to make decent cash. I'm not a rich ex-pat with deep pockets so I had to leave the kitchen. I was gutted.
Working in the kitchen, the camaraderie, the love and support in my endeavor from my loved ones has been one of the most beautiful blessings in my life and I have no regrets.
At the expense of sounding cliche' I will say find your dream. Do something crazy. Defy conventional wisdom. Your bank account may not grow, but you will be richer.
Thank you Jake!!

My Neighborhood

I love London. I am "in love" with London. It is a living, breathing place. There are people here from all over the world. People of every race, religion, culture and economic status. They all live together (not always in harmony, but together) in this over crowded, expensive, noisy, dirty wonderful beautiful place.
My neighborhood is in South London. Camberwell to be exact. One night at a club a young posh, drunk London woman asked me where I lived. When I told her that it was Camberwell, she called it a "proper shit hole". Well sister, it stopped being a shit hole the second you left.
Camberwell is a working class area full of immigrants. Myself included. The number 12 bus is a mini United Nations. Get on that bus in the morning and you will hear languages from all over the world. African dialects, Polish, Hindi, Urdu, Italian, Chinese dialects, Jamaican Pigeon, Spanish and English. All of these folks pack the number 12 bus to go into central London for work. The majority of these folks don't look like the are going into offices in Whitehall or Parliament.
Camberwell's streets are packed with an assortment of shops. At first glance, every other shop appears to be either a dodgy chicken and kebab place or a hair dresser. But look closer. The main road, Walworth Road, is full of clothing stores, cleaners, small markets, appliance stores, health food stores, butcher shops and any other type of business that a small town needs to survive. Most of these store are independent, locally owned family affairs. The shop keepers represent the wide number variety of cultures and cater to their specific tastes and needs. This helps make Camberwell a diverse and exciting place to live and explore. You can get Turkish groceries, Thai food, Chinese herbal medicine and African food here.
The one thing that I can say that I actually hate about my neighborhood is the amount of gambling halls and betting parlors. Between my street and the Elephant and Castle tube station there are no less than seven of these places. This is in a distance of about one half mile. I had mentioned that most business on Walworth road were locally owned family establishments, these gambling halls are not. They have no real stake in the community. If they fail, they just lock their doors, fire the staff and chalk it all up to a business loss.
I am a fan of free enterprise and I believe in free choice. But these gambling halls sole reason for saturating a working class neighborhood is to separate the poor and working class of my neighborhood from their money. They offer bright and shiny false hope to poor men (yes usually men inhabit these places). These black holes take money out of the community and repay its citizens with husbands and fathers who's non-disposable income is quickly disposed of. These places need to be zoned out of existence.
There is an area of Camberwell called East Street where, for six days a week, vendors set up stalls selling anything from fresh vegetables and Halal meat to blue jeans and knock off Gucci purses. East Street is alive with all kinds of people crammed into a small area hawking products, buying products, haggling, arguing, laughing and living. People of many races, religions and cultures all work together on East Street. You have to see it to believe it.
If you were to give Camberwell a quick glance you may come to the conclusion that it is a dirty, poor place, full of hard people. It is an easy mistake to make. Camberwell is packed. There are many people here who have just arrived from other countries and are in different stages of culture shock. I think a lot of people go into defense mode. It has to be quite a shock to be in a village in Nigeria one week and then in a city of eight million people (most of which don't speak your language) the next week.
People aren't always going to smile at you as you pass them on the street. This ain't Mayberry. But behind the stoic veneer of foreign faces there are people. People with families and children, parents and grandparents who they love. People who brought their families here for a better life.
Camberwell is full of people who just want to live their lives as best as they can. It is an active community with theatres, libraries, volunteer opportunities and places of worship. It is a place where, women from the African Methodist Church walk down the street dressed in their brightly colored head dresses along side women in hijabs. It is a place alive with dreams and aspirations. A place where people, above all, try.
Is Camberwell posh? Is it on the cover of any glossy European travel brochures? No. But Camberwell is real, it is alive and now it's home.

Old Dogs, New tricks

Why are you moving to London? Why did you move here? Isn't London cold rainy and expensive? Isn't California warm and full of movie stars? These are questions that I have been asked over the past two years or so since I decided to come here.
Other questions were asked. Questions from friends who have known and loved me long enough to not worry about offending me or hurting my feelings. What are you running away from? Are you trying to become someone who you aren't? Yes I am trying to become someone different. Not someone who I'm not, but someone who I always knew I was.
I am sometimes a weak and frightened man. Lets get that straight from the get go. I am a creature of habit but also incredibly impetious. A million times in my life I have tried, failed, quit and screwed up. Plans, jobs, ideas, anything that I tried to do to become the person that I knew was on the inside failed because of my own lack of real courage. I am changing that and taking charge.
I think that there is someone inside all of us who we really want to become. We let too many things get in the way of that. Too many obsticles, crutches and comfort zones. I had bored my loved ones at home with my "big plans and ideas". They all knew who they thought the real Pat was. Anytime I wanted to make a real change in my life, I allowed artificial boundries to wall me in. I had assumed that people knew the old Pat, with all of his history and bad habits and would not allow the new or the real Pat to evolve. I guess I needed a blank canvas.
This is not an indictment on my dearest of friends and family. Just the opposite. This is more of a revelation of my weaknesses and downfalls. Be that as it may, I had to reach deep inside and find the real me. The person who I knew I was and the person that I was not allowing myself to be in the states. I am trying that here. I am focusing on things that I have always wanted to. It sounds selfish, contrived and small minded perhaps but for once in my life I am trying to create the person who I want to be. It is odd to say "create the person who i want to be". This isn't easy and everything comes with a price. I only hope that it is worth it.
I don't know what is at the end of this adventure. I know that it is not failure again however. In the three months that I have been here so much has happened. There is no turning back. I am going to become the Pat who I always knew I was. I just hope I like like him.
If I can offer some unsolicited advice, that would be to take chances, do something crazy.
This blog has been one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. Thank you for putting up with it.

One Way Tickets

Everything was sold, given away or in storage. Our daughter Meagan was living with her fiance and Ryan was working at the bakery and "couch surfing" until he found a place.
My brother Robby had a Halloween/birthday/going away party for us that was great. Many many of our friends showed up and even a couple of people who I had not seen in over twenty years. My sister Kathie even came out from Indiana. I can't describe how wonderfully surreal it is to see ones friends in ghoulish make up and filled with beer, some near tears, saying "I love you dude, good luck". I was more than choked up myself. It kinda felt like the final nail in the coffin.
We stayed at Robbie's for the last few days and the kids came to see us the morning we left. It was so hard to say goodbye to my kids. Ryan is 18 and Meagan is 21. I still refer to them as my babies. When we pulled up to the terminal at LAX, half of me wanted to make a u-turn and the other half wanted to bolt to the ticket counter without kissing my brother goodbye.
Airports are weird places. They are the places where grandmothers see grand babies for the first time. They are the places where we greet our returning soldiers when they come home. They are also the places where we see people for the last time, often without knowing it. When you kiss someone goodbye at the airport, remember it.
The flight was a blur and customs was a breeze. When we got to the airport, our friends Barbara and Nadeem picked us up. This is the same Barbara who was working with Jemma at the Grove High School. She made the leap across the pond a few months earlier.
Gordon and Aarti were waiting for us with open arms at their home. They both let us know (and continue to do so) that we were welcome and at home with them. Without there support, encouragement and love, this adventure would never have happened. They are mentors to both Jemma and I.
It seems like we just took our luggage upstairs and set it on the bed and we were off. Literally. Within an hour or so after arriving, we were on the bus, Oyster cards in hand, on our way to Borough Market. We wasted no time in starting our adventure. All I remember about that trip was getting snapped at by a vendor for touching his cheese. I just looked at him with that "duh" look on my face and stumbled off. I think I was a tad bit punchy.
The very next day we were off with Aarti and Gordon to a fundraiser for a friend of theirs who is raising money for a school he is helping to build in Uganda. Forty eight hours and I think that we still hadn't unpacked.
The first week was a blur. We had to get bank accounts, register with a GP and look for work. Gordon advised us to chill out and not be in such a hurry but I just wanted to get established. Until I got my ducks in a row, I wouldn't feel like I was really here. One of the first things I did was sign up with an employment agency. I was working within a week after registering.
One of the great things about coming out here is family and friends. We didn't land on Ellis Island with our suitcases and a few pennies in our pockets. We have family and friends here. Dear friends like Barbara and Nadeem and old friends like James and Ian up north. All of these people greeted us with open arms.
Aarti and Gordon are amazing people. They are kind and warm. They had a really cool thing going on before we came. And for no other reason than because they love us, they opened their home and their lives to us. That is a really nice feeling. Some of their friends have become our friends. Aarti's family has become part of our family. Gordon and Aarti have exposed us to so much of what life has to offer on this cold and wet island. They are socially active and conscious. We debate, cook, drink wine and watch movies (and yes....East Enders) together. When I say debate, I don't mean "how 'bout them Dodgers" kind of debates. Be warned, if you want to debate either Gordon or Aarti, come prepared and be prepared to have your point of view challenged and perhaps changed. Do not bring a knife to a gun fight. Aarti's got "guns"!!!
The beginning of this journey has been wonderful. It has also been bitter sweet. Not a minute goes by when I don't think of my "babies" back home. I miss them so much. Remember, when you kiss somebody goodbye, be it at the airport or your brother's driveway you better mean it and remember it.

NHS

I am going to digress from the time line format of my blog to talk about something that is of great interest to me, The National Health Service. Those of you out there that are my conservative friends should get out your poison pens because this is going to be contrary to many of your beliefs. If I do my job correctly I hope I will open your eyes and cause you to think just a little differently. Perhaps I will even nudge you across a threshold and down that slippery slope that you fear so much.
I spent much of my adult life as a strict political conservative. I voted for both Bushes both times. Hell in 1992 I voted for Pat Buchanan in the primaries. But even when I was at my most conservative, I was for socialized medicine. Yes I said socialized. We should call it what it is.
Many of my friends and loved ones know that I came from a financially poor family. Really poor. Five kids in a two bedroom house, buying shoes at Thrifty's, welfare and food stamp poor. As children if we got hurt or sick it usually meant a trip to "County USC Medical Center" in Boyle Heights Los Angeles. For my none Angeleno friend, County USC is a hospital where the poor and uninsured go. It is understaffed and underfunded. The Doctors and staff are dedicated but over worked. As soon as their time is done most choose to move on to higher paying positions. The service is substandard. Even third world.
When I was 22 years old Jemma rushed me there for an unknown ailment. We drove from Pasadena, past Huntington Memorial Hospital (which is a first class hospital primarily for the insured). I could barley walk. My joints were incredibly painful. I was the sickest that I could ever remember being. I was scared and thought that I might even die. I laid on a gurney for 18 hours in terrible pain before I was even seen by the person who took my vitals. An old Korean lady on the gurney next to me died before she was admitted. This is how we treat uninsured people in America.
I mentioned that I have always been pro socialized medicine. I wont pretend to be unbiased. I have studied and listened to the debate in the United States over health care reform. I listened to many conservative pundits describe socialized medicine as evil, Draconian, and of pour quality. Intellectual giants on the right such as Sarah Palin have even said that if America has socialized medicine, or Obamacare, there will be "death panels". Government appointed pencil pushers who decide if you grandma lives or dies. In my opinion Obama's plan is wishy washy and lacks true leadership. He doesn't go far enough.
When we moved to London I wanted to find a job fast. Well I kinda needed to find a job fast. I dropped my CV off at an agency that helps to staff two of the local hospitals, Guys and Saint Thomas'. The agency called me the next day and said that if I agreed to and passed a criminal records check that they may be able to get me a position at St. Thomas' Hospital. I passed the test. I guess Scotland Yard doesn't have the phone number to the South Pasadena Police Department (just kidding).
The assignment was working in the "materials management" division. Basically it involves collecting medical supplies from the sub-basement and delivering them to the wards. These are supplies such as syringes, IV tubing, tracheotomy tubes and even body bags. I guess Sarah Palin is partially correct, people do die under socialized medicine. The assignment is pretty physical. We have to move the carts full of products through the labyrinth of a sub-basement to the different wings and once there, we have to take these carts up elevators to the wards. All of the other support departments at the hospitals are trying to do the same thing at the same time in a hospital is hundreds of years old. It is congested and everyone is competing for space. This is about as blue collar of a job that I have ever seen. It really is hard work.
I am a history buff and an arm chair sociologist. I was, and am, fascinated by this place. It is ancient. The basement area has all of these really cool brick walled corridors. There are hidden places all over. The hospital is directly across the Thames from Parliament. A lot of the building is below water level.
As old as this complex is, it is undergoing constant modernization. Workers are all over the place stringing cable, jack hammering and spending a lot of tax payer's money to keep this place the first class facility that the citizens of London deserve and pay for.
One of the first things that struck me was the dedication of the staff. I am not talking about just the clinical staff. I will get to them later. The folks I am talking about are the ones who take out rubbish, mop floors, haul clean and dirty sheets around, the food people, porters, and the materials management people. These are the people that I fight with for elevator space at 8:00am. These are some of the most dedicated people that I have ever seen. I have sat around the lunch table and heard these guys talk about why they do what they do. It ain't for the money, it is because they care. The people that I work with are as diverse as the United Nations, male & female, White, Black, and Asian.
When we talk about heroes, we often talk about soldiers, firefighters and world leaders as examples of heroes and many are. But someone who sat on a crowded bus in the rain at 6:00 am to come to a cold damp basement and pick through seemingly endless boxes of medical tubes and gizmos and hump them through a Victorian maze and do it right is just as much a hero in my opinion. Remember, this isn't just taking stuff from point a to point b. They have to know what the product is, if they don't people will die. These people know that they can make more money elsewhere. The do it because they want to be here. I do not believe that these folks are are at the bottom of any food chain or the bottom rung of a ladder. They are the foundation of a world class organization. No structure can exist without a foundation. Here in the U.K. they are actually treated with respect, though they deserve much much more.
Working in the wards gives one an incredible insight into how the clinical staff works with patients. One of the fears in the US when it comes to socialized medicine is the quality of doctors, nurses and other clinical staff. These people the best that I have seen. They are hard working, team players, dedicated and empathetic beyond belief. I often work in some of the pediatric intensive care wards. There are some really sick babies there and it can be heartbreaking. Every time I walk into these wards I see worried, sad and desperate parents. Parents whose children might (and some do) die. But what I also see is first class people with first class modern equipment doing their best to make these babies and children well. There are play areas for the older kids. Musicians come in and play guitar and sing with the kids. I see nurses holding and feeding babies as if they are their own. Any sadness that the suffering I see is outweighed by the miracles that happen here daily. The wards are run efficiently by head nurses called sisters and matrons. These are the NCOs of the hospital world. They know where everything is, how its done and how to bust chops. They are incredible people.
What I don't see at St. Thomas' Hospital is a billing department. I don't see financial councilors working on payment plans with parents whose children are on life support. I don't see overburdened parents worrying about how they are going to pay a bill.
This place is not perfect. There are downfalls. There are few private rooms. Some rooms don't have T.V.s. Shit, I think that is it.
Ronald Reagan once said that America can be that "city on the hill", that it is "morning in America". As Americans, we pride ourselves on being the best at so many things. We are now and have been looked up to by the rest of the world for so many things. We are compassionate, caring, charitable and loving. We are smart. We should be smart enough to know when something is broken. Our health care system is broken. I hear health care workers that I know in the US complain about "welfare mothers" and "illegals" taking advantage of "our system". Illegals with no insurance clogging the emergency room because they have a sniffle. If those unwashed poor had access to socialized medicine, they could go to a doctor and receive preventative medicine.
Taxes are high here. The VAT is over 17%. Some of that goes to health care. Everybody pays. Even the unpleasant, un-pretty "illegals" that we see in London. Everybody expects and pays for top quality first world health care. There is no "County USC Medical Center". In fact, County USC Medical Center deserves the same funding and dedication from the US Government that St. Thomas' Hospital gets from the British Government and the British people.
We can't take what the U.K. has and just put it into implementation in America, but we can use it as an example.
The first thing we need to do is take out the profit motive for hospitals and health care in general. Many of us have seen the video of a cab dropping an old lady off on skid row in front of a homeless shelter. That lady was still sick. She was in her backless hospital gown. She was dumped there because she couldn't pay her bill. That is a crime. I talk a lot with the people at work. I am often asked about the American Health care system. The Brits are perplexed that we let sick people die because they don't have money. Did you hear what I just said, WE LET SICK PEOPLE DIE IN AMERICA BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE MONEY!!!
My conservative friends, the next time you feel like "they" are taking advantage of the system in America, I want you to go and tell an uninsured, critically ill child's mom and dad that their hurting baby, the love of their life deserves second best because they don't have insurance. I want to go with you and watch you look into their eyes when you say it. Then I want you to turn the tables, put yourself in their shoes and think about that when you kiss your own baby goodnight.