Tag Archives: doctor

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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I told you I was ill

I knew actually leaving the house would yield results – one doctor’s appointment later (obviously not for me, as I have the iron constitution of a bull (made of iron)) and there’s a whole new subject to talk inanely about: hypochondria.

It is another one of those facets of life that I will rip on people incessantly about, yet am guilty of myself. From my girlfriend today, whose “definite brain cancer that will make my very soul explode” actually turned out to be a bit of a boo-boo on her knee, to my “definitely got cancer, going to die of it, tell my Mum ‘hello’” which turned out to be more a spot of me being a massive unhealthy twat, there are some fun stories to get out of this strange phenomenon. It’s made even more fun by the fact that it’s borne entirely out of our endless fear of mortality (well, not entirely, as insane media reporting and general idiocy play big parts too, but you get the point).

My example up there brought about three things: one, a general feeling of malaise in the period where I was waiting on test results and generally trying to get on with being a uni student; two, a doctor’s finger up my bum; and three, another doctor – who didn’t believe me when I told him about the last one/fancied me – violating me too. Safe to say, it wasn’t a high point in my life, and having an ultrasound in a room full of female student nurses was the icing on a particularly embarrassing (but tasty) cake. And why did I do it? I have no idea. The fact I was leading an unhealthy lifestyle, as I still am, never even occurred to me, as I simply convinced myself I was definitely going to die within the week.

Case two saw me convinced my kidneys were about to explode in a shower of pissy vinegar, covering my friends in their diseased goodness. On visiting the walk-in clinic (register with your local GP, kids), I was informed it was actually a chronic back strain, natch.

You want to feel relieved that you’re not dying; that you are actually going to live a long, fat life. But this relief is tempered by the fact that you feel like a massive plum for wasting the time of the medical professionals and for scaring yourself and your friends/loved ones so much. Isn’t it, ANNA?

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