Mattia De Luca writes about her eye-opening first hospital stay in the UK since moving here
IMAGE BY CANVA
It isn’t news to anyone that the NHS is in trouble. We can all see and feel it. For immigrants, women and LGBTQIA+ people, hospital visits can be particularly difficult. Foreigners are faced with paying upwards of £776 per year, for every year of their visas. Medical misogyny, transphobia, homophobia, racism and ableism are all evidence of a failed system. I don’t want to pen a massive rant about the state of the NHS. It’s all more complicated and nuanced than that.
On 8 June, I found myself in the A&E waiting room of a London hospital with what later turned out to be appendicitis. It marked my first proper hospital stay since I immigrated here. I’m an Italian/Australian transgender woman and, given the current state of affairs, I was scared. Luckily, I had my girlfriend by my side and a Paddington Bear quote in mind for how I’d approach things: “If we’re kind and polite, the world will be right.”
The next nine days were an eye-opening and shocking rollercoaster. I was seen by amazing staff, and others who were clearly checked out. It took two A&E visits of over eight hours each, and two clinic visits to be admitted. I was told I’d be going into surgery the next morning, but my slot kept being pushed back. I had no food or water for 27.5 hours before they removed my appendix around 1:40am. The bed I stayed in was under a broken window, stuck open and letting in the cold. Days after surgery I was back in the hospital with a post-operative infection.
It was the second A&E visit that felt the most frighteningly dangerous. That night, none of the staff knew whether I was transitioning male to female or female to male. I later learned what had started this confusion – a triage nurse had noted me as a female transgender patient presenting with abdominal pain. In other words, they thought I had bad period pain.
After a four-hour wait, I was given painkillers. By this time, I was screaming in pain. Two hours later, a doctor told me: “There were traces of blood in your urine. This is normal for someone who’s just had their period.” When I explained that I’d never had a period because I’m trans, he seemed perplexed. It was only when they did a CT and they could see my insides that they realised I’m transgender, born male. They had to stop the CT midway for me to sign a legal document saying I wasn’t pregnant though. This confusion could have led to test results being misread and a serious misdiagnosis.
Amid all the scariness and frustration, I was faced with an unexpectedly sad reality. I decided I’d ask “How are you?” with the best smile I could muster to every member of staff I spoke to. The most common reply? “Nobody ever asks me that.” The second time I asked one nurse, he told me that his brother had died that morning. I thought to myself: how can I expect someone to look after me if they aren’t okay themselves?
It’s exhausting to be misgendered, having to continuously come out and advocate for myself, while already in physical pain. Having to pay the NHS in order to get my visa makes all these things even more difficult. It’s also hard to be familiar with the pros and cons of healthcare systems in other countries. Everyone has to pay in the US, and in Italy and Australia it’s subsidised or free. NHS doctors and nurses are up against unimaginable challenges, that they are not to be blamed for: lack of funding, unmanageable surgery schedules, and long wait times. When some staff members are totally checked out, it doesn’t help anyone. And when this happens, it is usually women, LGBTQIA+ people and other marginalised communities who feel unheard or misunderstood.
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