Kirsty Bosley: We're lucky to have the NHS

Sitting in a bay at A&E with my friend, awaiting the result of a brain scan, we heard what sounded like all hell breaking loose in the bay next door.

"GET OFF ME! DON'T COME BY ME WITH THAT! YOU'RE NOT DOING IT!" screamed a frantic person in panicked tones. Me and my pal looked at one another and shot worried glances to the curtain concealing us. We were sure a furious person was set to burst in, fists flying, determined to never have to feel the sharp sting of a blood test needle. Noises of scuffling followed, along with a lot of shouting.

As the man yelled, a strong voice boomed even louder. In matronly tones, she shouted: "THIS IS A HOSPITAL! NOT THE PUB!"

We looked at one another again with that impressed look on our faces that you have when you throw rubbish at a bin from three sofa lengths away and it goes straight in. "I WON'T HAVE YOU ACTING LIKE THAT IN HERE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" the woman yelled amid the bumping and bashing, and that was the last we heard from that furious man.

After a few moments, the woman came by to apologise for the noise. "He broke my fingernail!" she told us, holding it up for us to see. Security had arrived, but she assured the man she'd got it in hand by demonstrating playfully her restraining method on him. That little bundle of energy almost took the huge man off his feet. Any silly ideas we'd had of inflating the rubber gloves or pressing the red button on the wall to see what would happen quickly evaporated. Not that we'd ever be that bonkers. Certainly not now, with this powerhouse on the ward.

"Sorry about that," she said, apologetically. "I'm not putting up with it though, with other people here. It's not fair, and it's not happening on my ward!"

It was midnight and we'd been in the hospital, doing a whole load of nothing, for almost four hours. On the whole it was a terribly miserable experience, and not just because we'd spent most of it wondering whether my mate had suffered a stroke.

This woman blasting out of nowhere to set everything running like clockwork, whipping everything into shape, was the most uplifting moment of the whole night. Up until that point, everything had been quite badly handled.

It started off in the general waiting area. Britain's Got Talent was booming through the telly, which made us want to pull our own ears off (but then I'd be waiting for medical attention too). After my mate explained his symptoms to the fourth person, and again answering all of the same questions, we were back in the purgatory of the main waiting room. An elderly woman was sitting alone in a hospital wheelchair. She was crying in pain and writhing in discomfort, which meant she was sliding forward off her chair.

The woman behind the desk said that the she next, but the doctor called someone else. The woman was crying out louder, and still no one came to check on her.

By the fifth cry of: "Oh please, hurry! It's burning!" I couldn't take it any more and went over to try and offer her a shoulder, or an ear.

Or tell me to get lost. She seemed really glad to see me – or anyone – that was willing to listen to what she had to say. Once me and my poorly friend had helped shift her further back into her wheelchair, to take the weight off her painful legs, she sighed a slight relief. No one else seemed to be interested in ensuring she stay calm in her moment of need, and she was very much alone.

She told me how her legs were so sore it felt like they were on fire. "I can handle pain, I really can, but this is too much!" she told me, crying. I asked if there was anyone with her and she said there wasn't, and that she needed someone to find out when they'd be helping her.

I approached the desk tentatively to ask the receptionist whether this woman was next, as she was so obviously in agony. I expected something more than a stern telling off.

"We know the patient!" she snapped, "and we're dealing with it! The doctor will see her when she can!" I bit my tongue so as not to remind her that we, in this waiting room, were people and not numbers. Yes, she's a patient. But she's also an elderly woman, upset and alone. I know you can't hold hands with everyone there and tell them they'll be OK, but a little bit of compassion really cannot be that difficult to muster?

For all I knew, this woman was a regular. Maybe she came in all the time, complaining and moaning. Perhaps she was overreacting. But then surely that's something that needs to be acknowledged in itself. It's certainly not worth reprimanding me for just trying to help. It's what anyone would do.

I returned to the woman in the wheelchair and held her arm to calm her until it was her time to see the doctor. Her feet were wrapped up in bandages, and the doctor – a cold and unhappy looking woman – asked abruptly if she could walk. She replied she couldn't, and the doctor's eyes turned to me.

"Are you with her?" she barked, and I sort-of cocked my head because I didn't intend to be, but now I was. "Not really, I'm just sitting with her because she's clearly distressed," I replied. The woman was wheeled away without another word being said. My friend meanwhile sat behind us, possibly having a stroke, the likelihood of permanent brain damage ever increasing with every act that took to the BGT stage.

Of all of the people we'd seen during our seven hours in A&E, the staff were the most interesting. Far more fascinating than the accidents and emergencies. I found it incredible to see how the two, strong women I'd met in the hospital dealt with the pressures and challenges they faced on their shift. One handled the stresses with positivity, fairness and good humour. The other, on face value, was much less kindly.

In the bay, we asked the woman with the broken nail whether this was standard late night business. "Thursday night, Saturday night, Tuesday day time. It's like this all the time" she said, smiling.

Well thank goodness we have you, I thought, a compassionate, understanding woman with the most powerful restraining hold I've ever seen.

As a wrestling fan, that's quite a title to bestow. For all of its flaws, I have to give thanks to the good people that make up the NHS. We'd rather be seen in seven hours than not be seen at all. And the smiles, jokes and compassion we found after fighting through the gatekeepers made the time there so much easier.

Just please, no more Britain's Got Talent. Please!