The Business of Death: Why the UK Healthcare System is Breaking Its Workers

For six years, I worked in the healthcare industry. It was a career that made me see the world through a different lens — sometimes rewarding, but often revealing things that aren’t spoken about enough. Some days I left with a big smile; other shifts made me want to sit in a dark room for days. It took a long time to realise that my career choice was slowly destroying my mental health.

The Business of Death

Something many people find hard to get used to in healthcare is the reality of death. You can spend months or years caring for someone every day, spending more time with them than your own family, and then suddenly — they are just gone.

The harsh truth is that these facilities are businesses. When someone dies in a care home, there’s no time to grieve — the bed is filled by a new resident within 24 to 48 hours. Training warns you not to get attached, but we’re human. If you don’t care when someone passes, you shouldn’t work in healthcare.

2020: The World Goes Silent

Everything changed in 2020. I was a support worker in a complex care home when the pandemic hit, and for a moment, the world felt silent. We could only follow the guidance given and hope for the best; it is almost impossible to make a person who suffers from dementia follow social distancing.

I remember one Friday, it was such a hot day. I was wearing a face mask, a plastic face shield, gloves, and an apron. We had to remove our PPE every time we left a room and put on a new set before entering another. We had just tested a resident who came back positive, and we were told to move them to the top floor, previously an unused floor that was now the “Covid ward.”

Once we had moved this resident to the “Covid Ward,” I headed back to the lift. I looked through the glass in the doors. I saw people lying in beds, alive but very unwell. Two doors before the lift, I saw a bed with a white sheet completely covering it. There was a body under it. My manager told me the lady had passed away the night before, but no one was available to collect her. In the UK, if someone dies, the body is usually collected within 2 to 4 hours. But everything was so crazy and busy that she was left there overnight in the heat, with no refrigeration. That was the first time I truly realised: this is really bad.

The Lady in Room 8

I remember a woman in Room 8 whom people called “difficult.” She wasn’t difficult; if you took the time to listen, she was actually quite pleasant. That Friday, she was so upset, crying and saying she couldn’t face how the world had changed, and said she wished she could just take her own life. She had been tested that morning and was negative.

On Sunday, I saw my neighbour (who was also my colleague) while taking out the bins. She told me the lady from Room 8 had died on Saturday of COVID-19. I still don’t understand how. She was negative on Friday and in relatively good health, yet her death certificate would say COVID-19. I can’t help but remember our last conversation.

The Breaking Point

I lasted half the pandemic before quitting. It was more than trauma; it was the industry. In the UK, 12 to 15-hour shifts are common. After having my baby, I realised the industry rarely accommodates personal life. To manage, I worked nights — 8pm to 8am — then handled the morning school run. It took a massive toll on me.

Then there is the pay. The pay is awful. You clock in and do not stop for 12 hours, sometimes with only two staff members for a building of 72 apartments, handling pad changes, food, and medication. When you look at your payslip at the end of the month, you constantly question your path.

Healthcare workers deserve so much more. After the pandemic, I did return to work within healthcare, doing occasional shifts with an agency, but I soon again realised that I couldn’t keep giving my mental health to a system that didn’t have room for me to be human.

I’m hoping to continue writing my stories about all the years I worked in healthcare and share them with everyone.