A mere three and a half weeks after a series of blood tests, a GP from our local medical centre – I hesitate to call him my GP since I have never met him – calls to let me know the results. I had asked the medical centre that I would prefer the GP to call sometime after 9.00 am so obviously he calls at 8.30 am. “How are you? he begins, cheerily. I’m ready for this because that’s what pretty well everyone says when beginning a conversation. “As well as anyone who has been sweating on a phone call after getting a message to my condition will require “further investigations”, I reply. He goes on to explain that it’s probably nothing serious – famous last words? – but that I’ll need loads more blood tests now, and a scan, “to rules things out”. That’s it, then. Bound to be cancer or some such fatal disease. Still it’s got to be done.
We then talk about lifestyle and potential changes to it. I explain that it’s all very well to talk about lifestyle changes, I point out, getting fitter and all the rest of it, but I’m clinically depressed. And I have ADHD. Sometimes – quite a lot of times, actually – it’s all I can do to walk to the car to drive somewhere, never mind walk somewhere. “The NHS has nothing for me,” I tell him. “I feel abandoned.” I’m a little tearful by now. Politely, I hasten to add, he takes exception to my remarks.
There are plenty of options for me, he says. Resources that can help me improve my mental health. He asks what I am looking for. For what feels like the millionth time, I repeat what I have said to every GP I have ever had, that I’d welcome some therapy. Not a few weeks of counselling which I find about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle. I’m encouraged now and he runs through my options. The medical centre has a ‘mental health nurse’ – “she’s brilliant” – and there are “on-line resources”. Yes, I know that. But therapy? Not a chance. “You won’t get to see a psychiatrist”.
“So there’s nothing, really?” I volunteer. “Oh, there are,” he continues. “I’ll send you some links.” Then comes the clincher (and here I paraphrase): “You’ll have to sort everything out yourself. It’s all up to you.” Quelle surprise. Same as it ever was.
The GP tells me to arrange my next set of blood tests and he will sort out the scans for me, so at least my physical health, or lack of it as the case may be, is being dealt with. But mental health? Good luck with that.
I mumble something about that to the GP, although I can sense he is trying to wind up the call. I’ve been on the phone to him for over 15 minutes now and I’m pretty sure they only allow for 10 minute appointments. So then I say it: “It’s as if the NHS regards mental health rather as my father and my grandparents did when they told me to stop moaning and feeling sorry for myself because there were plenty of people in a worse position than me.” I might as well be talking backwards. GPs are brilliant at ending appointments, especially on the phone. In the old days when you actually got to see a GP – ask your parents, kids – they would stand up and walk to the door when they wanted you out and show you the way back to the waiting room. This one winds up the appointment so quickly I don’t even notice. In the blink of an eye, it’s all over.
I feel like an ungrateful bastard. This GP has made the effort to call me up and he’s patiently explained to this patient, in medical language that I don’t understand, that there’s something wrong and he needs to find out what it is. But I’ve told him, as I tell every other GP, that I need help to deal with my depression and now, following the recent diagnosis, the ADHD I’ve always had. And all the resources the NHS can offer me add up to the sum of fuck all, as us doctors call it.
So, that’s that and for this situation I can thank David Cameron, aided and abetted by Nick Clegg, Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and now Rishi Sunak for the NHS we have today, one stripped of a personal touch, riddled with delay and devoid of meaningful mental health care. Hopefully, everything’ll turn out fine this time, but what a palaver.
