An open letter to The NHS RE: my ankle

Dear The NHS,

I like you. In fact, I love you. You’re brilliant. But sometimes, just as with all brilliant things, you’re shit. When I thought I had stomach-AIDS-super-cancer-of-doom you were good to me, though two (2) doctors did decide they wanted to get to know me a bit better than I normally known medical staff. You put me at ease, you saw to me quite quickly and it was all smooth sailing. Then the doctor told me I had some of the healthiest blood he’d ever seen, which made us both laugh (genuinely).

But there have been other times. Like back in November of 2008, when I crocked myself playing football. My ankle was quite clearly More Knackered than it had ever been before. It was a fucking balloon. I was hobbling at 0.000000302 metres an hour, such was the agony I was in. The doctor I saw took a quick look, squeezed some bits (not my anus this time) and told me to keep walking on it, and that I would be fine in six weeks.

Two and a half years later, after it’s been in pretty much constant pain, it’s just spazzed out on my while I was exercising and now it hurts a fair bit again. I only did intermediate maths at GCSE, but I think 2.5 years > six weeks. Correct me if I’m wrong.

But my complaint isn’t being misdiagnosed; it’s the fact that the young doctor who saw me was very clearly hugely overworked. He simply couldn’t afford to give me the time necessary if he wanted to try and help as many people as he could in the day. And I know why there were so many people there – I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, The NHS, but you offer your services for free.

I have a suggestion for you: why not try charging money for people to be cured by your voodoo? That way there wouldn’t be all those stupid poor people in the waiting room, slowing down my chance to see a medical profession and recklessly speeding up his diagnosis of my injury. Charge money for these treatments and I could have gone straight in and had all the time in the world with the doctor. We might have even had a cup of tea together.

Then I wouldn’t have re-crocked myself slightly.

Some may argue that poor people being unable to afford medical treatment would mean they’d, like, die or something. But… well… not to sound callous, but so what? ‘Poor people’ is an oxymoron if ever I’ve heard one. They’re not people. They’re barely-evolved apes wearing tracksuits. Let them die. For the good of my ankle, let them die.

Yours,

Annoyed And In Pain, Dorset

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