When I cast my mind back to May 2020 – when the No.10 staff sat drinking wine in the Prime Minister’s garden – I remember one of my patients.

He was on my ward – assumedly a Covid-free one – and needed some bloods taken. As I collected his samples, he was talking and jesting about nurses being vampires. I pretended I hadn’t heard this joke before, and laughed along.

Three hours later, this man – who was in his 40s – had a respiratory and then cardiac arrest. A nursing assistant noticed him gasping for air and his lips turning blue. It was then that I saw this man’s eyes turn from petrified into nothingness.

He was no longer breathing. The policy just released by the Trust was to don PPE – such as a full gown, goggles and an air-tight mask – before commencing CPR.  

As professionals, we know that every second lost decreases chances of survival. While some staff frantically tried to put on PPE, others made a split-second decision to start CPR.

The patient didn’t survive, and the bleak reality had set in that in our attempt to save this man’s life, we put our own lives at risk. This would be our new reality; split-second decisions that could mean life or death to patients or ourselves. We cried together in the staff room afterwards, then wiped our tears and got back to work.  

There was collective fear in the air. A fight towards the unknown. I never knew if watching a patient taking their last breath after losing the battle to Covid-19 would soon result in a colleague, friend, or me being in the same position. 

The public were still clapping for us on Thursdays, to show thanks, meanwhile, I feared death whenever I put on my uniform.

I was forced to live with a sinking reality that my best was no longer good enough, and a realisation that my life was in danger because the Government had failed to act and protect the public, and NHS workers. 

Things had got so bad, and PPE stocks were running so low, that masks that were out of date, damaged, and essentially as effective as holding your breath, were used as alternatives to airtight medical grade options. 

Reports from papers at the time said that NHS staff were being attacked for their lanyards by members of the public in order to use them so they could skip the queue for the supermarket.  

That’s why, when I heard Tory MP Michael Fabricant’s comments, defending the party at No.10, with the excuse that the Prime Minister ‘felt sorry’ for his hardworking staff, I felt furious and deflated.

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While the NHS was already over capacity and staff lived apart from families, putting in 60+ hour weeks to cover staff shortages, only to be greeted at home by the Government’s announcements of daily Covid-19 deaths, it is incomprehensible that they were allowed a party because the prime minister ‘felt sorry’ for them. What about my colleagues? What about me? 

Although we were thanked by the public with donations of food and claps, the Government snubbed an NHS bonus or pay rise above 3%.

Being in my 20s, without children, it was assumed by seniors that I would be OK looking after Covid-positive patients. I was regularly asked whether I had kids, or was looking after any vulnerable people at home: ‘No? OK, you can move to the Covid-19 ward.’

I felt like a lamb being thrown to slaughter. 

But it wasn’t just NHS workers who were having a hard time and making sacrifices – it was all of us. 

Losing loved ones, lockdown, working from home, unemployment, only shopping for essentials, social isolation; the list goes on. Collectively, we experienced the most surreal and frightening moment in modern times.  

And during that time of fear and uncertainty, many of us looked towards MPs for guidance. However, what has become more and more apparent is that, while the general public gave up their lives to stick to the rules, it seems that many in the Government who implemented them were the first to break them. 

Now, is it any wonder there is discontent with the public and its government? 

While some enjoyed leisurely work meetings with wine and lenient social distancing, my experience at work over that period isn’t something I’ll look back on with fondness.  

It isn’t that I’m particularly jealous of the cheese they had for their work meeting; just that I vividly remember my difficulties in getting a food shop in, before my next 13-hour shift started.  

I was petrified that if I had joined the 100 person-long queue outside the supermarket, I would inadvertently infect someone vulnerable; so my diet consisted of coffee, frozen vegetables and gravy.

And, what made it worse was that I felt unable to turn to anyone for support – members of the public on social media were quick to point out that this is what we signed up for.

However, while I knew I would get called upon during a public health crisis, I didn’t know I’d be expected to do it wearing a bin bag.  

I didn’t know that the new common practice would be to let patients die alone, instead of being by their side and holding their hand, because we only had a certain number of masks for the day.  

I didn’t know that hearing a patient say goodbye to their family, using my own personal mobile phone for a video call,  would stay cemented in my mind, taunting me whenever I thought the PTSD I was suffering as a result of the pandemic was subsiding. 

On that day in May, while they laughed and joked in beautifully-kept gardens, it was my day off. I remember it being a gorgeous sunny day, one that would usually be spent with friends on the beach, or having a family barbeque. But I wasn’t allowed to.

I’ve risked my life. And so, for Michael Fabricant to suggest the Government were ‘working hard’, is deeply insulting.  

My mental health is in bits, with services boasting an 18 month waiting list due to the £8.6bn funding decrease to the NHS for 2021-2022. I’ve been afraid at work – for my safety, for my colleague’s safety, and for the patients who now face the aftermath of a poorly managed institution. 

At least I can look back in years to come, knowing I didn’t lack integrity, resilience or perseverance – unlike this Government, who I will remember with great shame.

While I cried to myself before starting work in May 2020, they seem to have broken the rules they imposed on us.

But my service to the NHS will not be in vain. We are here, we are your NHS, and we will always care for you. 

Shannon O’Sullivan is an NHS nurse and activist with NHS Workers Say No, a grassroots collective of NHS workers from across the UK fighting for pay justice across the health service – and for patient and staff safety.

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