The National Health Service is a large organisation whose new goal is to keep patients away from doctors wherever possible. There’s a large system and set of procedures in place to ensure this goal is met, and a fearsome array of nurses whose aim is to wear down your resistance and will to see a doctor.
My campaign to see a doctor started on Friday. I lay in bed feeling sorry for myself.
On day two,I went on a recon mission to one health centre and explained my symptoms to a nurse.
Me: “I have symptoms V and W. It’s unbearable.”
Nurse: “You have V and W? What about X and Y?”
“No X, and no Y. But V is really unbearably painful.”
“What about Z? Have you been feeling any Z?”
“No Z that I can think of.”
“Hmm. Well V and W can be serious, but not without X, Y or Z. Take some painkillers.”
I wanted to see a doctor. I wanted a doctor to give me prescription medicine. That would have made eveything better.
Campaign continued on days two and three with moaning and lying in bed in acute agony, plotting and scheming my next move.
By campaign day four, new tactics had been devised. With a call to a different health centre with emphasis on words like “agony” and “emergency”, I secured an appointment with a real life proper doctor. But the wiley receptionist twisted and turned, dodged and weaved. She stripped away my colourful descriptions and pared me back to symptoms V and W. I was downgraded to seeing a nurse.
I arrived for my appointment with the nurse, and cited symptoms V and W. Unprompted, I hinted at X, Y and Z. I looked gravely concerned, desperate, in agony.
Bingo – my amateur dramatics got me upgraded to seeing a doctor at short notice. Within five minutes I had been prescribed some anti-biotics. Before I’d even collected them from the pharmacy, I was feeling better. I fought the NHS, and I won.