Wasteful bureaucracy, hospital infections, staff discontent, (another) computer shambles, missed cancer treatment targets, postcode lotteries for prescriptions . . . the list goes on and on and on. If you'd arrived from another planet, you'd be forgiven for assuming that the National Health Service in Scotland is in a terminal condition. If the sun emerges briefly from the dark cloud of negative media coverage, it is usually to announce a "miracle" cure or "magic bullet" treatment. This is not simply some tabloid tendency. By my calculations, in the past two years The Herald has written 116 leaders about the NHS, of which I'm personally responsible for nearly half. Of those, 83 have been critical in some measure and just six have proffered bouquets. So for every "Reason to be in good heart: hi-tech treatment proves life-saver", there have been about 14 in the vein of "NHS must do better: mystery shoppers uncover catalogue of errors".

We offer absolutely no apology for this. It is a function of a quality newspaper to hold to account publicly-funded services. Part of the bonus of a state healthcare system free at the point of delivery is that it is patronised by the articulate (some would say whingeing) middle class, who expect the best. Try looking at American healthcare if you want to see what happens to a safety net system used only by the poor.

The Herald plays an important role in the delivery of a constant stream of constructive criticism of the health service, thanks largely to the intelligence, industry and instinctive sense of fairness of Helen Puttick, our health correspondent, and her colleagues. But inevitably, what must sometimes appear to be a Faustian pact between politicians and the media to undermine NHS morale produces a basic asymmetry in the way health issues are covered. This accounts for the gulf between predominantly negative public and largely positive private views of the NHS.

A few weeks ago another columnist in The Herald, Alf Young, poignantly described the simple humanity and sheer professionalism he encountered after his elderly mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Today I feel an urgent need to join in the chorus.

The essay about "What I did in My Summer Holidays" that schoolchildren will face shortly, I could have written in advance, or so I thought: a glorious fortnight house-sitting in Barbados, with nothing more strenuous in view than picking mangoes, watering orchids and flicking the odd hibiscus leaf from the pool. But spare your envy because I never got to the Caribbean. On July 1 our 21-year-old daughter fell off the Campsies and landed in an air ambulance. What happened in between reads like the sort of saga you encounter in magazines specialising in real-life tales that are stranger than fiction. It includes coming within an ace of being struck by lightning and a heroic boyfriend who spent three hours coaxing her in excruciatingly painful tiny steps the one mile to safety, while the rest of the family searched for them in vain. By the time the ambulance arrived, as well as a broken back and a badly sprained ankle, Laura was blue with hypothermia.

With cheerful efficiency, the female ambulance crew set about immobilising her and thawing her out, while summoning an air ambulance, which duly touched down on a nearby lawn a few minutes later. With a blend of military efficiency and boyish humour, they whisked our daughter into their "£5000 taxi" and in minutes she was being wheeled into the X-ray room at the Southern General in Glasgow.

At every stage in the chain between that sodden hillside and the high dependency ward of the Southern's Queen Elizabeth National Spinal Injuries Unit, she encountered the same mix of skill and sympathy. Whoever trains these people could teach the rest of the public services a thing or two.

Even so, the first few days were desperately difficult. With a highly unstable fracture, one false move could have rendered her a wheelchair user. Lying completely flat and still is hard enough but even the strongest analgesics seemed barely to touch the pain. She confided one night that "even crying hurts". It was hard to believe that this was the girl whose greatest reverse in life before this had been failing her driving test first time around.

With the rest of the family away to their holiday and Laura's planned research trip to Kenya abandoned, it was as if the two of us had been shipwrecked and were fighting for survival on a liferaft. Except we were never alone. The spinal injuries unit defies every negative stereotype of the NHS. It's a spacious airy modern building with a restful central courtyard and a huge gymnasium, decorated with posters featuring jolly disabled athletes participating in a variety of sports. But it is the staff who set the resolutely upbeat tone of the place.

In the days that followed we encountered an army of helping hands, including physiotherapists, occupational therapists, psychologists, dieticians and a nursing ratio of one to every two patients. Invariably, "patient" was a better description of the staff than their clients, whether it was the nurse who conjured up tea and toast in the wee sma' hours or the ambulance ladies from Balfron who phoned again and again to ask after her progress.

There were moments of black humour. While one daughter lay immobilised in hospital, the other constantly tested our blood pressure with a bombardment of texts and e-mails from New Zealand, describing her latest adrenalin fix: black-water rafting, skydiving and, on one occasion, the news that she was about to jump off a 140ft crane.

Within three weeks, Laura was told she was to be fitted with a back brace. The next day she appeared unsteadily on crutches, wearing what appeared to be a cross between armour and a suicide-bomber's outfit. This carapace allowed her to come home, where we contentedly pottered about like a pair of great aunts, making tea and tackling The Herald crossword. The device is apparently called an Airback 2000, which reminds us of Harry Potter's broomsticks. But while the rest of the world was welcoming "the boy who lived", I can only feel grateful for "the girl who lived" and the health service that put her back together again.

Music is cathartic. I had found Nigel Kennedy's simple little tune for Stephane Grappelli, Melody in the Wind, running through my head, because it reminds me less of wind than the simple miracle of breathing in and out. But I only came to terms with what might have happened when Laura opened a daft card from her half-brother and Gloria Gaynor's voice belted out the words: "I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give and I'll survive, I will survive."

One final thought. "Common good" implies a society in which everyone has a duty to promote the welfare of the community as a whole, as well as the right to benefit from that welfare. It is hard to imagine a better embodiment of a good society than Britain's National Health Service. Doubtless, next week I'll be back to criticising and cajoling it, but only in the hope of making it even better than it is. I come to praise the NHS, not to bury it.