MERCIFULLY, I’ve not had any reason to use Scotland’s NHS (beyond routine appointments and vaccinations) for a number of years.

Last Thursday, I picked up my seven-year-old from school and it quickly became clear that our lucky health streak had come to an abrupt end.

She was in agony. The 10-minute walk home from school took much longer, as we stopped and started and she doubled over from acute pain in her stomach.

She said that it had started at the end of the school day. She had tried to tell the teacher but the teacher was otherwise engaged giving somebody a row, so she didn’t want to bother her.

I’ve never seen my daughter so distressed before. She wasn’t just sore, she was angry too. She was absolutely raging that I couldn’t soothe whatever it was that was causing her so much pain.

When we eventually got home I lay her down on the couch and phoned the doctor. I wasn’t expecting much. I’d read about how Covid has meant it’s impossible to get an appointment with your GP when you need one. The receptionist said the doctor would phone me back and, half an hour later, she did.

She told me to bring the wee one along to see her straight away. Our GP surgery is at the end of our road. I can see it from my house. But as I helped my daughter sit up to put her shoes on, she vomited from the pain of moving.

It was clear that walking to the GP was out of the question, so I carried her the whole way, all the time cursing myself for not having lifted anything heavier than a glass of wine or a bag of Hula Hoops for the last two years.

Upon arrival, the doctor declared that my deathly pale, furious wee Glaswegian girl didn’t look very well at all. After some poking and prodding she decided that we were either dealing with a nasty urine infection or appendicitis.

She told us to go home, take the first dose of the antibiotics she had prescribed (that my wonderful neighbour walked through the snow and sleet to pick up for me) and – if there was no improvement by 9pm – to take her straight to the hospital.

That time came and it was clear that she was getting worse. So I bundled her into a taxi and took her to the children’s A&E at the Queen Elizabeth University hospital.

Again, I was expecting long waits and frazzled staff. But it was seamless. We were taken straight in to be seen. The first doctor did some tests and cajoled my Calpol-resistant daughter to gobble a full dose. She explained the logistics of taking a urine sample and managed to raise the first smile of the night.

Another doctor walked us to the waiting bay, did all the tests and answered the (many) questions my seven-year-old had on her first visit to a hospital.

When my gallus wee girl advised the doctor that the baby she could hear crying was “probably constipated”, the doctor nodded solemnly and promised she would investigate.

A few hours, lots of tests and some apple juice and jelly later, a diagnosis of a urine infection was delivered and gratefully received.

Without me having to ask, they handed over different antibiotics than the GP had prescribed. This was the good stuff that it wouldn’t be a battle to convince my daughter to take. Florescent pink, bubble-gum scented and in all likelihood packed full of sugar, this was a medicine she could get on board with.

When we got home shortly after midnight the wee one fell into a deep sleep beside me. I poured a glass of red wine, purely for medicinal purposes.

I felt a similar sense of awe to that which I had experienced when I witnessed the logistical brilliance of the vaccine roll-out first-hand.

Despite the undeniable pressures the service is under, the whole process – from the first phone call to the person who was there to meet us at the doors of the hospital – was faultless.

I’m under no illusion that our experience is illustrative of everybody else’s.

We know that throughout the pandemic the NHS has come under enormous strain, as demand has increased and the workforce has experienced the same Covid-related staff absences as other public services. We didn’t need an ambulance and so thankfully didn’t face the same problems that others have had with long waiting times.

And my daughter’s ailment – though distressing and painful for her – wasn’t a serious one or complicated to diagnose.

But I still felt immensely grateful for their care and expertise. Our NHS is a glittering jewel in Scotland’s crown and we should do everything we can to not only support the service, but to properly appreciate and reward all the people who keep it running for the benefit of us all.