Shaun

I used to think the hardest part about watching someone you love go through cancer was the fear. Sitting in Christie Hospital while my mum had her chemo, I thought nothing could be worse than not knowing if the next scan would bring good news or bad. But there was something else that got to me just as much: seeing how much difference the right healthcare assistant could make to her day.

There was this one lad, Craig, who worked on her ward. He'd check on her between the nurses' rounds, help her to the bathroom when she felt dizzy, bring her extra blankets when the treatment left her shivering. Nothing medical, nothing he needed years of training for, but it mattered. Mum always perked up when Craig was on shift. When I asked him how he'd got into the work, he said it was a Level 3 course at college, then an apprenticeship through the trust. Made it sound straightforward.

After Mum died in 2021, I knew I wanted to do something like what Craig did. I'd been working with my dad's scaffolding business since I left school, good money, solid work, but it never felt like it meant anything. I kept thinking about Craig checking on Mum, how something so simple had made those horrible days a bit more bearable. I was 23, old enough to know what I wanted, and what I wanted was to help people the way Craig had helped us.

I went down to Wigan and Leigh College in early 2022, asked about their Health and Social Care Level 3 programme. The woman at reception was lovely, gave me all the leaflets, said it was exactly what I needed to get started as a healthcare assistant. When I asked about enrollment, she said the programme was full for September. I asked about January intake – full as well. Thing was, when she took me for a quick tour, I counted at least four empty classrooms in the health department. Computer stations with dust on the keyboards, whiteboards that hadn't been used in weeks. When I mentioned this, she just shrugged and said, "There is no funding for additional cohorts this year."

Fair enough, I thought. Budgets are tight everywhere. So I tried a different route. Went straight to Wrightington, Wigan and Leigh NHS Foundation Trust, asked about healthcare assistant apprenticeships. The HR manager, Janet, was honest with me. Said they'd love to take on more apprentices, but Health Education England had cut their training allocation by 40%. They could only take six new apprentices instead of the usual fifteen. "The budget has been cut," she said, like she'd had to explain this to a lot of people recently.

I thought about applying for nursing at University of Central Lancashire instead. Got accepted, decent grades from my A-levels I'd done part-time. But when it came to funding, I was told the NHS bursary places were oversubscribed. The university could offer me a regular student loan, but £27,000 debt for a job that started at £22,000 didn't make sense when I had a girlfriend and rent to pay.

Spent months trying to get through to Health Education England North West. Every number I called led to another department, every department led to another answerphone. Finally got through to someone in workforce planning who told me straight: "The Treasury has capped our budget, there's simply no funding for additional training places this year." She sounded tired, like she'd been saying the same thing all day.

That's when I started paying attention to things I'd walked past a hundred times before. The Wigan Health Education Centre is on my route to my warehouse job – I'd taken a temporary position to pay the bills while I figured out my next move. Modern building, purpose-built for training, with big windows you can see through. Every morning, I'd glance in as I walked past. Most of the training rooms were empty. Not just quiet – actually empty. Simulation wards with mannequins under dust covers. Computer labs with the chairs stacked on the desks.

I started asking around my estate, casual conversations with neighbors. Turns out I wasn't the only one who'd tried to get into healthcare training. There was Amy from two streets over, wanted to be a mental health support worker, turned away from the same college course. Dave, whose wife works at the hospital, applied for a healthcare apprenticeship, got the same story about cut allocations. Sarah, who'd been caring for her disabled son for years and wanted to make it her career, couldn't get onto any training programme despite having more practical experience than most graduates.

By the time I'd counted them, I had twelve people within walking distance of my house who wanted healthcare training and had been turned away. Twelve. Not because they weren't qualified, not because they wouldn't be good at it, but because someone in London had decided there wasn't enough money to train them.

But that's what didn't make sense. The training centre was there. The people were there. The NHS trusts were crying out for staff. What exactly was it that "there was no money" for? The building already existed. The equipment was already bought. The college had qualified teachers sitting in empty classrooms.

I started to understand something I'd never questioned before. When Janet at the trust said "the budget has been cut," she was talking about money that comes from the government. When the college said "there is no funding," they meant funding that comes from the government. When Health Education England said "the Treasury has capped our budget," they were talking about the same source.

But here's what I couldn't get my head around: the government that told all these people there wasn't enough money is the same government that issues the money. They print the notes, they mint the coins, they create pounds when they spend them into existence. The idea that they could "run out" of pounds made about as much sense as a football referee running out of goals to award.

The real question was never whether the money existed. The real question was whether the people existed – they did. Whether the skills could be taught – they could. Whether the training facilities were available – they were. Whether the NHS needed more healthcare assistants – it desperately did.

What I learned was that "there is no money" isn't a fact about the economy. It's a choice made by people who had alternatives. They could have funded those training places. They chose not to. They could have connected willing people to meaningful work. They chose not to. The limit was never the money. The limit was the willingness to spend it into the places and people who needed it.

I'm still here, still watching those empty training rooms every morning on my way to the warehouse. Still living in the same house with my girlfriend, still keeping racing pigeons in the back garden. But I understand now that what happened to me isn't my story alone. It's the story of every constituency where people and needs exist side by side while someone in Westminster says the cupboard is bare.