You may need to sit down before you read what follows. I have just returned from a GP appointment. A GP appointment with an actual GP in a health centre. Not a telephone appointment, not an ‘Ask My GP’ message: an appointment in a surgery. I hardly knew what to do. But I knew one thing: I had 10 minutes in which to do it.
It was in three parts. First, my knee and toe knack, the latter of which is certainly arthritis and the former is probably. X Rays will be required before I learn what can’t be done, which is next to nothing. Basically, it’s keep on exercising regardless of the pain because a) it will help and b) the pain ain’t going away.
Next, an unusual spot on my skin. He’s pretty sure it isn’t cancer but I’m to keep an eye on it in case it turns a funny colour. I’ve saved the worst until last.
My ten minutes was already up. I could tell from the GP’s body language. I had previously written to him to give him the heads up. This is what I said:
“The cricketer Ben Stokes has suffered from mental health issues by way of panic attacks and anxiety. To deal with it, he’s been seeing a clinical psychologist. I’ve had panic attacks, anxiety and worst of all severe clinical depression. Can I see one, too, please?”
If the GP has fallen about laughing, I wouldn’t have blamed him, but the look on his face said it all.
“He went private, didn’t he?” I added. The GP nodded in confirmation.
“I’m afraid we don’t have time to discuss this matter today”, he explained, the appointment time having already expired. “I’ll be happy to make a separate appointment to discuss what can be done, which is fuck all.” He didn’t really say the last bit, nor did he recommend that I sold a kidney in order to buy treatment from a parasitic private provider, which may in truth be the only option. At least he didn’t suggest six weeks of well-meaning counselling which doesn’t even touch the surface. Perhaps, I should take the hint, shut up, stop feeling sorry for myself, pull myself together and settle for a life of more of the same?
At least I wasn’t expecting much from today. I knew I had ten minutes to make my case before the gong went and explaining to a GP I had never previously met my issues of over 50 years never had much of a chance of succeeding. If you don’t expect much, they say, you will never be disappointed. Broadly speaking, I think that’s true but every setback chips away at the very heart of me and I fear that soon I won’t have much fight left.
He was a really nice bloke, the GP. He examined my knees and toe thoroughly, he convinced me I don’t have skin cancer in less than ten seconds and wasn’t allowed the time to deal my mental health. Situation normal in today’s NHS.
You can stand up again now. I’ve finished my whinge. Well, almost. The final thing is the music. The surgery played Smooth Radio over the speakers. Even I’m not sick enough to listen to that crap.
