I read today that some people find that receptionists put people off seeing their doctor when something is wrong. By heaving to reveal symptoms whilst in a lengthy queue in the health centre or even on the phone. I totally get that.
I was certainly embarrassed when, a few years ago, I purchased a product called Anusol. I’d rather not go in to specific details of what the product is for (have a guess) but when someone I knew rather well happened to be next to me in the queue, it was probably a bit of a giveaway.
Even the act of speaking to a receptionist is a result in my local surgery, given the near impossibility of getting an appointment with a GP. A few years ago, I had a minor growth – don’t worry: nothing serious – on a very delicate part of my body, or rather very near two parts of my body. I found myself having to explain, as quietly as I could manage, what the problem was. My quietly is everyone else’s loudly, so I suspect everyone had a good laugh before having to outline the nature of their own conditions.
I would not be too bothered to describe conditions like the flu, but if I was suffering from, say, erectile disfunction, which is of course impossible and quite out of the question, can you imagine explaining that one in the surgery?
“How can I help you?”
“Well, I am having issues in the privates department. (Whispers.) Erectile disfunction.”
“Erectile what?”
“Erectile disfunction.”
“Oh, you can’t get it up. Ha ha. Just take a seat and the doctor will be with you in a moment.”
And I turn only to see my next door neighbour, half the local football team and the local vicar. Luckily, this has not happened yet, but it is the stuff of nightmares.
Us men are undoubtedly worse than women about seeing the doctor. I discovered a year later that I had broken my ankle playing football (“It’s only a sprain!”) when I noticed the joint was making a very loud cracking sound every time I walk anywhere. “Why didn’t you go to A&E?” “I didn’t think it was anything serious.” I even put off treatment for a hernia for many years in case – and I am not proud of this – it was something serious. Just leave it, hope it goes away and then get it seen to when it’s too late. Men, eh?
I have been guilty of assuming that the role of receptionist was to ensure you could not see a GP when you wanted one and if you really, really insisted, there might be an appointment in three weeks with a locum. If you are very lucky. “It’s more than my job’s worth to give you an appointment,” I imagined her saying. “Don’t you know how busy our doctors are? If they keep treating people, the whole system will grind to a halt.
On balance, it’s probably worth explaining those awkward symptoms because the alternative might be to die, if only of embarrassment.
