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Further Confessions of a GP
Benjamin Daniels
Benjamin Daniels is back. He may be older, wiser and more experienced, but his patients are no less outrageous.Drawing on his time working as a medical student, a locum, and a general practitioner, Dr Daniels would like to introduce you to …The old age pensioner who can’t keep his hands to himself.The teenager convinced that he lost his virginity and caught HIV sometime between leaving a bar and waking up in a kebab shop.A female patient Dr Daniels recognises from his younger, bachelor years.The woman whose mobile phone turns up in an unexpected place.A Jack Russell with a bizarre foot fetish.Crackhead Kenny.Not to mention the super nurses, anxious parents, hypochondriacs, jumpy medical students and kaleidoscope of care workers that make up Dr Daniels’ daily shift.Further Confessions of a GP is the eagerly anticipated follow-up to the bestselling Confessions of a GP. With more eyebrow-raising stories from the world of general practice, Dr Daniels will once again amuse, shock and surprise.You’ll never feel the same about going to the doctor again…



Further Confessions of a GP
DR BENJAMIN DANIELS



Disclaimer (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
The events described in this book are based on my experiences as a GP. For obvious reasons of privacy and confidentiality I have made certain changes, altered identifying features and fictionalised some aspects. Nonetheless, it remains an honest reflection of life as a doctor in Britain today. This is what it’s like. These things really happen!
This book is dedicated to my family and to coffee. If it wasn’t for my family the book would have been finished a year earlier. If it wasn’t for coffee, it wouldn’t have been finished at all.

Contents
Title Page (#ufa40295f-37c3-55cd-a043-69f79f2a5695)
Disclaimer
Dedication (#u5cbf62b8-99da-595b-b0e9-33ace4afe08a)
Introduction

First day
Sarah
Crackhead Kenny I
Maggie I
Brian and Deidre
Maggie II
Communication skills
Maggie III
Maggie IV
Can’t be too careful
Crackhead Kenny II
Army medical I
Tummy aches
Glass test
Mr Lorenzo
Pseudoseizures
Antibiotic resistance
Diabetes
Tarig I
Is the quality of NHS care really declining?
Jimmy Savile
Nathan
Army medical II
Betty Ferrari
Smelly bum
Tarig II
Should we know how much health care costs?
Danni I
The NHS, the envy of the world?
Don’t look down
Mrs Patrick
Danni II
Unnoticed
Man flu
Medical students
Taking benefits away from addicts
Stuck in the middle
Danni III
Funny X-ray
The coroner
Mr Goodson
Mr Raymond
Hannah
Ted
Should we name and shame doctors who make mistakes?
Pseudocyesis
Playing God
Simon
Removing patients from lists
Bravery
Foreign bodies
Retrieving the gerbil
The chemical cosh
Medical science
Gastric bypass
Karen’s baby
Notes
Nurses I
Nurses II
Paradise
Yes/No
David
Hospital deaths
Sinbad
John
How doctors die
Rita
Neighbours
Letter to myself, 10 years ago
Further Confessions of a GP is part of the bestselling ‘Confessions Series’. Also available
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Dr Benjamin Daniels
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher

Introduction (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
‘Oh, and just one more thing, Doc, before I go. I’m reading this book …’ With that my patient pulled out a copy of Confessions of a GP from his bag. ‘Have you read it?’
‘No,’ I lied, then added bravely, ‘Is it any good?’.
‘It’s all right, I suppose. Could definitely be a lot funnier and the author comes across as a bit of a self-righteous prat at times. I’ll lend it to you once I’ve finished it, if you like?’
‘Nah, you’re all right.’
I wrote Confessions of a GP a few years ago, all about my experiences as a newly qualified GP. Partly due to the witty anecdotes and insightful social commentary, but mostly due to the extremely low pricing of the ebook version, it sold surprisingly well, and so I decided to write this sequel. I penned the first book while working as a nomadic locum doctor. I have now settled as a partner in an inner city practice and I also work a regular shift each week in our local A&E department.
These are my further confessions.

First day (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
‘You’re not Dr Bailey.’
‘No, Dr Bailey’s wife had a stroke yesterday and he is taking some time off to help care for her.’
‘But who’s going to look after me?’
‘Well, I’m going to be looking after Dr Bailey’s patients while he’s away.’
‘You’re no good,’ Mrs Patrick huffed, looking me up and down. ‘You don’t even know me. I always see Dr Bailey. When’s he coming back?’
‘I don’t know. His wife is really quite poorly.’
Mrs Patrick tutted loudly and I was left wondering if she was more upset with me for not being Dr Bailey, or Dr Bailey’s wife for selfishly having a stroke.
‘Might I be able to help at all? What’s brought you into the doctor’s surgery today?’
By this stage I was rather hoping that her obvious lack of faith in my abilities would lead to a short and easy consultation, but unfortunately Mrs Patrick sat glued to the seat for another 30 minutes. An endless array of intolerable sufferings were described in gruesome detail, but before allowing me to offer any possible solutions, she would curtly remind me that I couldn’t possibly help and how dreadful it was that Dr Bailey had left her in the lurch like this.
Most of the morning’s patients offered a little more sympathy for Dr Bailey’s predicament, but none seemed to consider me a worthy understudy. By the time I drove off on my first visit of my new job, I was feeling thoroughly demoralised.
My visit took me to a small house set back from the main road. An elderly gentleman with a warm face greeted me at the door with such an affectionate welcome that I was encouraged to believe that I might finally have met a patient who viewed me to be of some worth. As I reached out for a formal handshake, he clutched my hand in both of his and took an eternity to let go.
‘We so appreciate you coming out to see us what with it being your first day, Dr Daniels. My wife is upstairs. Are you going to bring her down?’
‘Erm, what do you mean bring her down?’
‘She can’t really manage the stairs these days, so Dr Bailey always carries her down to the lounge.’
My face must have given away my surprise and the kind old gent apologetically attempted to take back his request. ‘Well if you’re not able to manage her, Dr Daniels, I’m sure …’
‘No no,’ I interrupted. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.’ I was determined to match the feats of the mighty Dr Bailey on at least one occasion today.
Mrs Alexander didn’t weigh a great deal, but it wasn’t easy hoisting her up into a fireman’s hold and then navigating the narrow winding staircase. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a technique advised on the ‘Lifting and Handling’ course I was forced to go on before I was allowed to qualify as a doctor. As I finally lowered Mrs Alexander on to the sofa, I tried not to look too exhausted by the whole ordeal.
‘Right, what can I do for you then Mrs Alexander?’
‘I’m all bunged up again, Doctor. I haven’t opened my bowels for two weeks.’
As I started to list the various laxatives and suppositories I could prescribe, Mr Alexander politely interrupted me.
‘None of those work for my wife, Dr Daniels. That’s why Dr Bailey has to clear it out himself.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We put a towel down on the carpet here and Elsie lies down on it. We’ve got some spare gloves and Vaseline in the cupboard and Dr Bailey just puts his finger in and clears all the hard stuff out. He says it’s the only way once it gets to this stage.’
Before I could think of any way to object, Mr Alexander had neatly laid out the towel and Mrs Alexander was hitching up her nightie.
‘I think these gloves will fit,’ he said as he offered me a pair of medium-sized marigolds.
I had smugly managed to avoid ever having to do a manual evacuation up until now. I can vividly recall the occasion when one of the consultant surgeons made all the medical students in his team stand in a line with our hands held out in front of us. He walked up and down inspecting our outstretched fingers, searching for the slimmest and daintiest of digits to clear out the particularly tightly packed rectum that he had waiting to be evacuated of its hardened contents. I can still recall the relief I felt as I looked down at my short podgy fingers and then compared them to the delicate little hands of the Japanese girl standing to my left. I could almost smell her terror growing as she realised that the consultant was studying her beautiful slim fingers with some excitement. As he led her away to meet her fate, I looked down at my ugly, portly fingers and offered them an instant and unconditional pardon for their fat clumsiness and for all the tasks of dexterity for which they had previously failed me.
My luck had clearly run out though, today. There was no elegant-fingered Japanese medical student to save me this time, so I donned the gloves, took a deep breath and got stuck in. The urge to gag was almost overwhelming as I methodically used my index finger to pick out the rock-hard lumps that were blocking Mrs Alexander’s rectum. As I probed my finger further and further into the depths of her lower bowel, I finally managed to break through that last solid stubborn layer of rigid faeces. There was an ominous rumbling, an almighty stench and then the satisfying passage of soft stool leaking past my finger. I could see Mrs Alexander’s tight, distended abdomen deflating before my eyes.
It was an oddly satisfying experience and I gave myself a metaphorical pat on the back for having finally matched up to the lofty achievements of the wonderful Dr Bailey. I made a swift exit, and as Mr Alexander got on with cleaning up the results of my handiwork, I hurried back to the relative sanctity of the surgery.
As I walked through the door, the receptionist was holding the phone and covering the mouthpiece with her hand.
‘It’s Mr Alexander on the phone. He’s not very happy with you,’ she whispered.
‘Bloody hell! What more do these people want from me?’
‘Apparently Mrs Alexander is stuck in the lounge because you carried her downstairs but forgot to take her back up to her bedroom again before you left. You’ll have to pop back in on your way home tonight. They keep asking me when Dr Bailey is coming back …’
That was over three years ago now. Despite my disastrous first day, when Dr Bailey decided he wasn’t going to return, the surgery offered to keep me on as his permanent replacement. Initially, I was reluctant to give up my nomadic locum lifestyle, but with advancing years, I craved some stability and decided to stay. I soon found this quirky little GP surgery and its patients growing on me, and I’ve been here ever since.

Sarah (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
When Sarah walked in she looked familiar, but I couldn’t work out why. It was only my first week at the new surgery, so she hadn’t been to see me previously as a patient. I was going to suggest that we might somehow know each other, but before I had the chance, she launched into a long monologue relating her constipation and dodgy bowel symptoms in some detail. Suddenly, I remembered where we had met before. She was the sister of a girl that my friend Pete had gone out with about 15 years ago. We had met a few times, and I can clearly recall that I once went to a party at her house and made a very drunken and unsuccessful attempt to chat her up. After being very unsubtly rebuffed, I’d decided to drown my sorrows by drinking some more and ended up vomiting into her empty bathtub. As if that wasn’t bad enough, for some reason I then concluded that despite the bath vomit I was still in with a good shot with Sarah after all, and made another doomed attempt to chat her up. A good memory is a must for a career in medicine, but at times like this I really wish my powers of recollection weren’t quite so efficient.
With Sarah not appearing to remember me, it was tempting to ignore our previous acquaintance and continue the consultation in the normal way. However, I couldn’t believe that she wouldn’t remember me at some point and so I really needed to find an appropriate moment to mention that I wasn’t the anonymous doctor she thought I was. I was just considering how best to broach the subject when my hand was forced
‘Doctor, do you think you should have a look at them?’
‘Sorry?’ I had been miles away and completely missed the last couple of things Sarah had been telling me.
‘My piles, Doctor. I think you might need to take a look.’
Now was the time, I really needed to come clean.
‘Sarah, I could have a look at your piles, but I think you need to know that we have in fact met before.’
Sarah looked at me puzzled. ‘But I thought you were the new doctor?’
‘Yes, I am, but I think we actually met some years ago. You’ve a sister called Jeanette and she was going out with my friend Pete for a bit.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said. Her face lit up, clearly remembering Pete, but then she frowned as she looked me up and down, still having no clue at all as to where I fitted in.
This was getting really painful. I waited a bit, hoping that Sarah would remember me without further prompting, but unable to bear the awkwardness any longer I started to fill in the gaps.
‘I used to live with Pete and we met a few times …’
Suddenly, Sarah threw her hand over her mouth as the penny finally dropped.
‘Oh my god. You’re that bloke who tried to … and then you vomited in my … and then you tried again to …’
By this point Sarah was clearly remembering me with some horror. If she was trying to conceal her overwhelming feeling of disgust, she was doing an extremely poor job.
‘And they let you become a doctor?’ she added finally, with a combination of surprise and dismay.
‘Er, yeah … I mean, well, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’
Thankfully, drunken vomiting in inappropriate places and failed attempts at seduction are not considered exclusion criteria for graduating from medical school. If they were I think there would be a massive world shortage of doctors and absolutely no orthopaedic surgeons whatsoever.
When I was simply the anonymous new doctor, Sarah had been only too happy to describe to me her bowel movements in bewildering detail and had no qualms about presenting to me the haemorrhoids protruding from her backside. Now that I had been exposed as the drunken idiot who once tried to chat her up after vomiting in her bathtub, she seemed less enamoured with the idea.
‘Maybe it would be better if I waited for Dr Bailey to come back. I mean, I’ve known him for years. You know, as like a doctor rather than someone who … well, you know.’
By this point, I already knew that Dr Bailey wasn’t coming back, but before I had the chance to explain that, Sarah was out the door. In fact, her getaway was almost as quick as the one she’d made 15 years ago when we last met.

Crackhead Kenny I (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
It was 4 a.m. and I had just given myself a little hit of coffee and chocolate in an attempt to help drag myself through those last few painful hours of an A&E night shift. The caffeine was giving me palpitations and an odd buzzing sensation, but not successfully eradicating the overwhelming hazy blur of exhaustion. It had only been an hour since I had necked two cans of Red Bull, but I just needed one more coffee to help me muster the energy to see my next patient.
Despite having one wrist handcuffed to a prison officer and the other hand chained to the metal frame of the trolley, Kenny was, metaphorically, bouncing off the ceiling. The prison officer’s grey and expressionless face was in stark contrast to his prisoner’s, whose beaming grin and intense shining eyes were almost mesmerising. It was apparent that the drugs market within our local prison could provide stimulants considerably stronger than my vending-machine coffee and out-of-date Twix bar.
Kenny reached out his cuffed hand, but I paused. There is something about someone being handcuffed that makes me automatically think he must be horrendously dangerous. If I took his hand would he somehow be able to slip out of his cuffs and take me hostage? Being taken hostage by a drug-crazed prisoner is a scenario I would handle particularly badly. Looking Kenny up and down, I realised that my sleep deprivation was making me paranoid. Kenny really didn’t look very dangerous. He was scruffy and scrawny, but his missing teeth didn’t inhibit his childlike smile. I reached out my hand and he gave me a warm and enthusiastic handshake.
‘I’m Kenny, but all my friends call me Crackhead Kenny.’
‘I’m Dr Ben, but all my friends call me Big Nose Benny.’
I instantly regretted the informality of my response, but I often find myself slightly less reserved during the early hours of the morning. It’s as if patient-doctor etiquette has a vaguely different set of rules at night. Either that or I simply become increasingly inappropriate the more sleep deprived I become.
‘I reckon my nickname trumps yours,’ Kenny declared triumphantly.
‘I suppose, but you’ll have to change yours when you stop taking crack. I’ll always have a big nose.’
‘True,’ he nodded. ‘But I reckon I’ll always be Crackhead Kenny,’ he added ruefully
I wanted to ask Kenny why he was in prison, but it was none of my business really, so instead I stuck with the more conventional question of why he was in hospital.
‘Well, I fell over and these clowns are covering their arses, so they wanted me in here for a check over.’
I looked over to the prison officer for some sort of response but his face remained expressionless. I wondered exactly what it would take to prise any sort of emotion out of him.
I started scanning Kenny’s medical record and noticed with some surprise his date of birth.
‘We’ve got exactly the same birthday.’
Kenny looked at me oddly.
‘We were both born on 6 March 1977.’
‘We’re time twins!’ Kenny shouted enthusiastically.
‘Yes, we are,’ I replied smiling, unable not to be caught up in Kenny’s infectious drug-induced gusto.
‘I tell you another thing we’ve got in common, Dr Ben. As a boy I always dreamed of being a doctor. I wanted to do something good with my life. I really wanted to help people and make them better. I also liked the idea of driving a nice car and flirting with lots of sexy nurses.’ He gave me a wink. ‘Although I think I might have left it a little late now,’ he added ruefully.
‘It’s never too late to flirt with the nurses, Kenny, but I’d give our charge nurse Barry a wide birth. He’s a grumpy old bugger.’
‘Yeah, I spotted him on my way in. Perhaps a career in medicine isn’t for me after all.’
Maybe it was just too much emotion caused by lack of sleep, but I couldn’t help but feel a connection with Kenny. Sharing a date of birth is fairly insignificant really, in the big scheme of things, but at four in the morning during our peculiar substance-enhanced encounter, it seemed to hold some meaning.
I imagined us both as small babies, beginning our lives on that same day. We would have started off similarly enough as two equally innocent infant boys, new and full of potential. Our first steps and first words would have coincided and at some point during our childhoods we both decided that we wanted to be doctors. What had ebbed away at Kenny’s potential while mine was being steadfastly encouraged?
After giving Kenny a quick check over, I wandered out to the nurses’ station where Barry the charge nurse was slumped in his chair looking unshakably miserable. I told him about the connection I’d made with my time twin and reflected on why and how our lives had taken such different paths.
‘He’s just a smack head who happens to share your birthday. Stop being a sentimental twat and get some work done. Most importantly, get him discharged before he comes down off whatever he’s taken and starts kicking off.’
As I finished writing up his notes, the prison officer walked Kenny out of the department to his waiting van. ‘My carriage awaits!’ he exclaimed giving me a regal wave with his non-cuffed hand. ‘See ya later, Big Nose Benny.’
‘Nice meeting you, Crackhead Kenny.’

Maggie I (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
‘It’s my leg, Doctor. It doesn’t really do what I want it to do. It’s as if it’s not really part of me any more.’ Maggie tried to crack a smile but I could see she was really scared.
‘Right, let’s have a look then.’
Maggie was quite right. Her left leg wasn’t doing what it was supposed to be doing. She could sort of move it, but her coordination was shot and she had resorted to walking with a stick.
‘I’m walking like an old lady, but I’m only 56. It just came on over the weekend and it’s getting worse.’
Maggie was clearly looking for some reassurance, but the truth was that I was worried too.
‘We need to get this looked into,’ I said, stating the obvious.
I’d met Maggie a few times, but usually only when she was accompanying her husband for his blood pressure appointments.
‘Any medical problems in the past?’ I asked as I scanned through her notes.
‘No, I’m fit as a flea. Well, I had breast cancer in 2003, but that’s long gone. It can’t be anything to do with that.’
I looked up from my computer screen and she held my gaze. I was trying to find words that might be both reassuring and honest, but before I could even open my mouth, Maggie was crying.
‘The breast cancer’s all gone,’ she blubbed, trying to convince herself more than convince me. ‘They discharged me from the clinic five years ago.’
‘It may well be nothing to do with the breast cancer, but let’s just get some tests done.’
Maggie clearly needed to see a specialist and have a scan. She didn’t really need to be admitted to hospital that morning, but then it wasn’t appropriate to make her wait two weeks for an outpatient appointment either. When stuck with this sort of quandary, I generally default to the ‘What would I want if it was me?’ option. This turned the decision into a bit of a no-brainer and I phoned the medical consultant on call who agreed that she should go straight up to the hospital.
Sometimes it’s really satisfying to get a diagnosis right, but I took no pleasure in having my suspicions confirmed this time. Maggie’s leg symptoms were due to her breast cancer returning. It had already spread extensively and it was lesions in the brain that were causing her leg symptoms. After being told the result of the scan she was discharged with some steroids.
Maggie had still been in a state of shock when they’d given her the diagnosis in hospital, so she made an appointment with me to go over a few things. First of all she wanted to know how the cancer had lain dormant for all those years before coming back. I would like to have been able to answer that question, but the truth was I just didn’t know. It wasn’t something she’d done wrong; it was just one of those awful facts about cancer. Sometimes we think we have beaten it, yet somehow this horrible disease has a dirty habit of reappearing. Maggie hadn’t even noticed a breast lump, but by the time she had her scan there were cancerous lesions in her liver, bones and brain. The cancer specialist offered her some chemotherapy that might temporarily shrink the tumours, but he made it very clear that he could offer her no cure.
‘What now?’ was her next question.
Again, this was a hard one to answer. ‘We’ll get the palliative care nurses involved and will always make sure that you’re never in pain or distress with the symptoms. You might remain stable and fairly well for some time …’
‘But basically I’m going to die.’
I thought about trying to counter that remark with something upbeat and positive, but in reality Maggie was right. She was going to die and I couldn’t say anything that would change that fact. I stayed quiet, handed her a tissue and put my hand on her hand. We sat in silence for a few moments while she sobbed. After she left, I made myself a quick cup of tea, splashed some cold water on my face and pulled myself together enough to see my next patient.

Brian and Deidre (#u305ef69c-c570-58ae-a7fc-8c02eeb06cd6)
Every couple of months or so the surgery shuts for an afternoon and we have some sort of educational session. It’s an attempt to keep us up to date and make us better doctors. The most recent education afternoon was on the topic of sexual health. A lady with a colourful silk scarf and ethnic sandals was talking to us about the importance of sexual identity.
‘How often do you see your patients as sexual beings?’ she asked. ‘How often do you consider how the medications you prescribe might affect the sexuality of your patients?’ I had to admit that the answer to both of these questions was ‘never’. I knew that some medications could affect libido and erections, but I tended to avoid discussing it with patients if I could. This was all going to change from now on, though, I decided. The sex therapist lady was right. There was no point lowering a patient’s blood pressure if I was going to ruin his relationship because my drugs were inhibiting his erections.
The first chance to demonstrate my newfound sensitivity came the very next day. Brian had come in for a review of his blood pressure medication. I know it’s wrong to pigeonhole, but I always felt like Brian looked like the perfect stereotype of a bus driver: mid-50s, with mutton-chop sideburns and an ever-expanding beer belly. His faded white shirt always had large yellow sweat patches in his armpits and was open at the neck to reveal a big gold chain that matched his sovereign rings. Brian was accompanied by his wife Deidre, and although they always came to see me together, I had the impression that their relationship was often strained. With my new approach, perhaps I could help?
‘Brian, some men find that beta-blocker medication like the one you’re taking for your blood pressure can affect their ability to have erections. Do you ever find this to be a problem?’
‘Well, funny you should say that, Doctor. Me and the wife here have been struggling to manage in the bedroom department for some time. When we’re alone together I just can’t seem to get the little fella to stand to attention these days.’
Wow, I think to myself. What a breakthrough. The nice sex therapist lady was right. We do need to talk more about sex with our patients. Perhaps I can make a real difference to Brian and Deidre’s relationship. Perhaps the sexual frustration is the reason why they’re always bickering.
‘Mind you, I do still get erections though, Doctor,’ Brian said, interrupting my thought process.
‘This young lass got on the bus last Tuesday. It was a right warm day if you remember and, cor blimey Dr Daniels, you should have seen her! Gorgeous she was. Legs this long and a little top that didn’t leave much to the imagination if you catch my drift …’
Brian went on to explain in some detail each item of his young passenger’s clothing, and the relative part of her anatomy that was exposed as a result. ‘Rock solid I was, Doctor. Could barely keep the bus on the road! I could see her in my rear-view mirror and I had wood from the stop outside Boots on the high road all the way to the leisure centre past South Street. That’s five stops, and I got caught at the lights just before the bridge. I really don’t think it’s the blood pressure tablets that are the problem, Doctor. I think it might be Deidre. She’s not the woman she was. Just doesn’t really do it for me any more.’
Deidre had been sitting quietly up until now, but I could sense her rising fury. ‘Don’t you worry, Dr Daniels, erection or no erection, Brian doesn’t do a great deal for me either these days. In fact, he never really did. Even when we were young I always had a lot more fun on my own, if you know what I mean.’
Brian and Deidre went on to describe each other’s inadequacies in the bedroom department in some detail. To make things even more awkward, they didn’t speak directly to each other but instead spoke to me as if the other wasn’t present. I sank as deeply as I possibly could into my chair and cursed myself for turning what could have been a nice simple consultation into something so toe-curlingly awkward that I wished the ground would swallow me up. I tried to think of some useful interjections, but I was well out of my depth with this one, so instead I sat excruciatingly silent until Brian and Deidre decided that I had heard enough and left.
My brief attempt at viewing my patients as ‘sexual beings’ was well and truly over.

Maggie II (#ulink_844c2018-412e-5b17-afd8-e9d9b4cdf303)
Maggie had come back to see me after seeing the cancer specialist again.
‘He was very nice, but he soon discharged me when I decided that I wasn’t going to have any chemotherapy.’
‘How are you coping?’
‘Everyone keeps telling me how brave I am. They tell me I’m a fighter and that I’m strong. I’m fucking dying and they just talk to me about staying positive. The problem is, Dr Daniels, I’m not that brave or strong or positive. Right now I’m scared. In fact, I’m thoroughly terrified. It’s as if I’m not allowed to admit it to anyone because I have to be so godforsaking brave the whole bloody time.’
‘It’s okay. You’re allowed to be scared.’
‘How about fucking terrified?’
‘Yup, that too.’
‘I’m all right when people are around or when I’m busy, but when everyone else is out and I’m alone in the house, I can’t stop myself from wondering about the end. How will it be? Will I be in pain? Will it be next week or still months away? Will I stop breathing first or will it be my heart that stops? Will I already be in a coma or will I feel myself dying? I need to have some power over this. Sometimes I wish I could piss off to Switzerland and end it all now. I just want to wrestle back control over this whole sodding thing.’
Regardless of the person with the cancer, the same clichés seem to recur time and time again. One of which is sufferers of the disease being universally thought of as ‘brave’. The public image is of ‘brave’ cancer sufferers heroically running marathons while defiantly sporting their chemotherapy-induced baldness. It’s as if the brave label arrives the moment you are diagnosed with cancer and you’re not allowed to be anything else. Reality TV personality Jade Goody morphed from being a national hate figure to being some sort of serene martyr the moment she was given her cancer diagnosis. In fact, such was the furore when she died that some people were calling for cervical cancer to be renamed ‘Jade Goody disease’. I thought I was going to have to start telling people that their smear revealed some abnormal Jade Goody cells on their cervix or that the Goody had spread to their liver. Jesus, as if breaking bad news isn’t hard enough already!
It wasn’t that Maggie was any less brave than anyone else. She was having a thoroughly normal reaction to the knowledge that she was going to die. We hadn’t really known each other well before her diagnosis, but she seemed to have acquired an immense trust in me since I spotted that she had cancer. To be fair, it wasn’t some sort of clever diagnosis worthy of House, but she clearly appreciated me sending her straight into hospital that first afternoon. There was no cure, but we were going to do everything we could to ‘keep her comfortable’. There’s another classic cancer cliché that Maggie hates.

Communication skills (#ulink_17458b14-f213-5ed7-afd5-77db3baf9c45)
Once a year our surgery sends out hundreds of anonymous patient satisfaction questionnaires. It always makes me feel a little under scrutiny, but overall I can’t dismiss the potential value of finding out what my patients really think about me. Some of the questions are about general matters, such as telephone access and how long it takes to get an appointment. Others are more directly targeted towards the patient’s interactions with the doctor, and contributors are specifically invited to comment on the experience of their most recent consultation.
When the collated results are emailed to me, I eagerly read them through. Being a good doctor isn’t just about being popular, but I can’t pretend that I wouldn’t feel thoroughly demoralised if all my patients reported in their questionnaires that they hated me!
This year, the first question asked whether the doctor helped them feel at ease. Phew, 85 per cent of my patients felt I had done this. The second question was whether the patient felt that their concerns had been listened to: 83 per cent scored me highly on this one. A further 88 per cent of the respondents were impressed with my ability to communicate with them. It was a relief that I was scoring well, but I was only reaching the average scores that most GPs achieve on these standardised surveys. Despite the regular pounding we get in the media, overall satisfaction in GP services remains consistently high.
The final question asked if the patients felt that their last consultation had helped lead to an improvement in their physical or mental health. On this I scored 40 per cent. Ouch! That meant for the majority of my patients, although they were put at ease, had their concerns listened to and were well communicated with, their actual health was no better off after seeing me than it was before.
This might seem like an epic failure, but actually it is a very accurate description of what a doctor does. The famous French writer Voltaire said that ‘the art of medicine consists in amusing the patient while nature cures the disease’. I would add that nature sometimes makes them worse too, but ultimately our role is often to offer a distraction while time and the miraculous natural healing abilities of the human body work their magic. Some of my patients are very aware of the limits of my therapeutic abilities, but others seem to feel that I should be performing miracles. Regardless of their expectations of my curative powers, every patient expects me to be nice to them.
It sounds obvious really, and of course it is, but a huge proportion of complaints against doctors aren’t about medical errors leading to ill health, but rather about doctors communicating poorly or not listening. One of my colleagues in A&E tells me that he always makes an effort to be ridiculously attentive to his patients however exhausted or frustrated he feels. Regardless of how rude, demanding and ungrateful the patient, he makes a huge show of bending over backwards to be gregariously charming. ‘Speaking to patients is like acting,’ he told me. ‘The only difference between me and a film star is that I’m too short, fat and bald for Hollywood.’ I try to follow his advice, but often my acting lets me down. It can be hard to be incessantly charming for an entire 12-hour night shift, but when I do manage it, my patients love me, regardless of how little I actually improve their health. This is why medicine is so often described by those in the profession as an art rather than as a science.
Having established the overwhelming importance of good communication skills when interacting with patients, it can be astonishing to witness some health-care professionals doing it so badly. Most catastrophic is when they have absolutely no idea how bad they are. Perhaps the oddest example I ever came across was as a student sitting in with a vascular surgeon. A nervous-looking gent in his 60s shuffled in with some smoking-related damage to the arteries in his legs. The very pompous surgeon asked him if he was still smoking. Defensively, the gent reassured the doctor that he had cut down from 20 cigarettes per day to just five. ‘Hmm,’ said the surgeon. ‘That’s hardly the greatest of achievements now is it? If I was a rapist who used to rape 20 women a day, but I had just recently cut down to raping just five women a day, I’d still be a horrible little rapist now wouldn’t I?’ The poor patient simply nodded aghast and I meanwhile had to pick my chin up off the floor. Perhaps it helped the patient in question give up those last five cigarettes, but even so, I’m not sure it could ever be recommended as a suitable technique for offering health promotion.
My personal worst moment of communication was about eight hours into a busy A&E shift some years ago. Corresponding to each patient sitting in the waiting room was a small set of paper notes headed with their name and the medical complaint that had brought them into the emergency department. Hour after hour, the routine was the same: I would pick up the top set of notes from the endless pile, walk into the noisy waiting room and shout out their name. For some reason, on this one occasion, instead of calling out the name, I shouted out the patient’s medical complaint instead.
‘SWOLLEN FACE,’ I bellowed at the top of my voice.
I was absolutely mortified as this was a terrible, if accidental, breach of patient confidentiality. Oddly enough, though, the patients didn’t seem to bat an eyelid and up stood a gentleman at the back of the waiting room with an impressively swollen face. He then proceeded to trudge unperturbed through into the treatment area. My terrible violation of his privacy had gone completely unnoticed, although I do wonder whether if I had shouted out ‘TWISTED TESTICLE’ or ‘FOREIGN OBJECT IN ANUS’ to a full waiting room, the fallout might have been rather more noticeable.
It’s not just doctors who can be so horrendously insensitive. I once heard of a young couple going to have the all-important 20-week ultrasound scan of their first pregnancy. The sonographer performing the scan apparently kept looking at the screen while ‘tut-tutting’ loudly and shaking her head. The understandably anxious parents-to-be asked what was wrong. However, the sonographer replied that she couldn’t possibly say, but that she would book them an appointment with the consultant for a few weeks’ time. The dad at this point, in his own words, ‘lost it a bit’ and demanded the sonographer tell them what she could see. Astonishingly, her response was, ‘Well, you know those funny people you sometimes see in the street? You know like those Oompa Loompa midgets in that Willy Wonka film. Well I think your baby might be one of those.’ The disgusted parents demanded to see the consultant straight away who quickly reassured them that the scan was in fact normal and also reassured them that the sonographer wouldn’t be doing any more baby scans!

Maggie III (#ulink_8ca65700-c4fc-5fb6-8a43-299ad41b9a14)
Maggie phones me up quite often in the middle of the day when she finds herself alone and scared. I’m honoured that she confides in me, but I can’t deny that I find our conversations difficult. I can’t make everything fine with a prescription or a referral to a specialist. I spent so many years studying how to make people better that I still find it hard to accept that some patients are only going to get worse.
‘How are things?’
It always seems an awkward question to ask someone who is dying. It’s not like she’s going to say, ‘Brilliant thanks, Doc’, but I’m yet to find a more appropriate way of opening a conversation with her, so I stick with it.
‘Actually, Dr Daniels, I think I’ve found a bit of peace with it all. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not happy about dying from cancer. Far from it. If truth be told, I would love to have a few more years to wander about the place, but in the big scheme of things I can’t really complain about the life I’ve had. There have been ups and downs, but mostly ups, and I did always say that I never really planned to get old. In fact, I’d have made the most appalling cantankerous geriatric, so all in all it’s probably for the best that I won’t be around to see that through!’
‘Well, that’s one way to look at it.’
‘I’m worried about my husband Tony, though. He’s not really handling things very well. He just can’t really accept that I’m on my way out. He keeps looking up things on the internet trying to find miracle cures. Now believe me, I’d fucking love a miracle cure, but I’m no idiot. These quacks are just after our money and I know that my cancer can’t just vanish with a few vitamin pills and an Indian head massage. I just want to spend this last time I have with people I love around me. I don’t want to be chasing miracles that don’t exist.’
‘Have you told Tony how you feel?’
‘I can’t bear to crush his hope. He needs hope to deal with this. It is his focus and at the moment it’s the only thing driving him on. The latest one is this bloody ridiculous essential oils diet. I have to drink these oils he’s bought on the internet and then mix them with organic celery and carrot juice. It’s not exactly what I’d choose as my last supper, I can tell you. When he’s out I get my daughter to sneak me in some fried chicken and doughnuts!’
‘I think you need to tell Tony how you feel. You need to be really honest with him.’
‘My husband’s not one of those sorts of men, Dr Daniels. He doesn’t really like to talk about his feelings. I’m sure he’d just clam up.’
‘Funnily enough, my wife might say the same about me, Maggie, but here we are talking about some quite intimate, personal things. Sometimes you just have to try and see what happens.’
‘I’ll give it a go over the weekend and give you a ring on Monday to let you know how it goes.’

Maggie IV (#ulink_47c3a790-ce8c-53e1-adfe-d15603f8dd73)
‘Hello, I’m here to see Maggie.’
‘Come on in, Doctor. She’s just having a facial done, but go on through as the make-up girl is just finishing up.’
It seemed odd to think of Maggie having a facial. I always considered her a robust Yorkshire lass and had never associated her with beauty regimes. As I entered the room, Maggie was getting the last of her blusher applied. I’m no expert on such matters, but it looked a bit overdone to me. Her cheeks were excessively rosy and her lips a dazzling ruby red. The young girl applying it looked up and gave me a smile. ‘The family are coming to visit soon so we want her to look nice, don’t we?’ She added those final dabs of blusher with genuine pride, although I did rather wonder if there might be good reason why she only applied make-up to the deceased rather than to the living.
Despite the make-up girl’s best efforts, Maggie still had the yellow tinge all corpses seem to have. I’d come to complete the paperwork, and as the last doctor to see her alive I was supposed to do a final examination of her body. Maggie had been at the undertakers since Saturday afternoon and it was now Monday morning. If my examination revealed anything other than a diagnosis of death, something had gone very, very wrong.
I nodded at the undertaker to confirm that it was definitely Maggie lying on the metal trolley in front of me. I left my stethoscope in my bag, but stuck on some gloves and had a prod between her ribs on the left side of her chest to make sure she didn’t have a pacemaker fitted. I knew Maggie’s medical history well enough to know she didn’t have one, but I checked just in case. We are always told that cremating a body with a pacemaker still inside can blow up the crematorium. I imagine this is in fact a bit of an exaggeration and it’s more likely that the grieving relatives don’t really want to find the remnants of charred batteries while spreading the deceased’s ashes over her favourite rose bushes in the back garden.
I did mention to the undertaker that Maggie had had a silicone breast implant following her mastectomy some years before. There is no risk that the implants will blow up the crematorium, but they do leave a damaging sticky goo on the walls of the incinerator. Nowadays, most undertakers will remove them, which was an idea that tickled Maggie when she was alive. She told me she had suggested to her husband that he put her implant on the mantelpiece next to the urn containing her ashes, but apparently he hadn’t found it funny.
I was going to miss Maggie. She had an amazing spirit that shone through and she always made me smile however gloomy our discussions. For all the amazing medical breakthroughs of modern years, once she received her diagnosis, all we ended up offering her were steroids and morphine. Both are cheap old-fashioned drugs that we’ve been using for decades. In their defence, the morphine gave her a pain-free death and the steroids probably gave her an extra couple of weeks. Maggie had promised me that she would try to open up to her husband, talk about her feelings and say goodbye to him. In the end, her condition deteriorated very quickly and just two days after she made me that promise she was gone.
For those last few weeks I was Maggie’s confidant. I was someone outside the family to whom she could talk and on whom she could rely when she was in genuine need. It isn’t something ever taught at medical school. It can’t be measured or turned into a government target, but for those six weeks Maggie was my most important patient and although I was unable to cure her or prevent her death, nothing could make me feel more like a doctor than giving her my time.
When I’d heard the news of her death, I’d phoned her husband Tony to offer my condolences. I’d suggested that once the funeral was dealt with, he might want to pop in and have a chat. He didn’t take me up on the offer, but a couple of weeks later he did leave an envelope for me at the reception. It was a photograph of Maggie looking young and carefree. Her head was tilted back and she was laughing at something. It really did capture her spirit beautifully. On the back it just said, ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, love Maggie and Tony.’

Can’t be too careful (#ulink_bb00d384-85ff-5725-858a-7ce4132c2f17)
Tracey’s entrance was never quiet. Buggy, shopping and three boisterous children piled into my room in a swirl of chaos.
‘’Allo again, Doc,’ Tracey chirped cheerily. ‘You must be sick of the sight of us, eh?’
‘Not at all,’ I fibbed back. ‘So what brings you in today?’
‘Well, it’s all of us really,’ and with that Tracey listed various transient minor ailments that seemed to be causing her and her brood great concern.
‘This one’s the worst,’ she said, pointing at her son Bradley who was jumping most energetically off my couch. ‘He’s really poorly. Not himself at all. He’s right off colour, he is. We was up the ’ospital all Saturday with him. ’Ad to call an ambulance and everything, but after nearly four hours waiting around in A&E they just said he had a virus and sent us home with paracetamol.’
Tracey spends a lot of time requesting medical attention. It seems that however many times either I or the other doctors offer reassurance, she needs more and will seek out medical help at the drop of a hat. I don’t begrudge Tracey her frequent attendances. Well, if I’m honest, at the time I often do, but in the cold light of day I can accept that she is trying to be the best mum she can be. She worries about her children like all parents do, and she doesn’t have the means to alleviate this anxiety without a trip to the doctor. For the last few years, I haven’t really paid much heed to Tracey’s frequent visits, but her name had now cropped up on our list of patients who attend A&E too frequently.
As we all know, the NHS has no spare money and one of the directives for saving funds is to persuade our patients to stop going to the hospital so often. For each attendance at the emergency department around £70 is charged to the NHS, and that cost doesn’t change much whether the treatment is simply some gentle reassurance, as in the case of Tracey, or if 10 doctors wrestle to save your life after getting knocked down by a bus. Our GP surgery gets paid £65 a year to look after Tracey however many times she comes in. The simple logic is, therefore, that for minor ailments it is much cheaper for Tracey to see us at the GP surgery than for her to go to A&E. It also frees up time for the emergency doctors to see patients needing genuine emergency care! That is why my bosses were telling me to make an ‘action plan’ with Tracey in an attempt to prevent her from visiting the hospital so often.
After painstakingly reassuring Tracey that she and her children were going to survive the morning, I decided there was no time like the present and I was going to make the ‘action plan’ with her this very visit. We discussed all sorts of options to reduce her hospital attendances. I started by suggesting that she phoned the surgery rather than dial 999.
‘But sometimes I ain’t got no credit on my phone,’ she replied.
‘You could also take a taxi to the surgery rather than keep calling ambulances to go to A&E.’
‘Taxi! How can I afford a bloody taxi?’
Finally, I proposed waiting for minor ailments to get better on their own, rather than instantly rushing to find a doctor.
‘Thing is, Doctor, you can’t be too careful,’ she replied.
I printed out a copy of our ‘action plan’ and handed it to Tracey, but if I’m honest I didn’t think it was going to make a great deal of difference to Tracey’s attendance rate. It’s easy to view frequent attendees like Tracey as time-wasters and malingerers, but the truth is that from this side of the fence it is very easy to label which emergency hospital attendances are appropriate and which aren’t. GPs like me have the benefit of many years of medical training behind us to back up our decisions as to whether a patient needs to be seen in hospital – and we still often get it wrong! Tracey has no real support network and so she falls back on the medical profession. She is simply trying her hardest to keep herself and her family safe and for that I have to respect her.
I know that I’ll get more letters from up above telling me that Tracey and her family attend A&E too often, but I think we just have to accept that some of the more vulnerable people in our society seek out our services to compensate for the lack of local support around them. However frustrating this can be for medical staff and the accountants trying to balance the books, I can’t see any real alternative. If an attempt is made to try to ration Tracey’s medical visits, my big fear is that she would stay at home for that one genuine emergency that really needed our help.

Crackhead Kenny II (#ulink_1debb9a5-4901-54fa-a313-003c1c1d7da9)
I didn’t initially recognise Kenny when he came to see me. It had been a few months since he’d been a patient I’d seen high as a kite and handcuffed to a prison officer in A&E. We were now in the very different context of my GP surgery on a drizzly Monday afternoon. Kenny seemed very different too. His face looked greyer and older in the daylight, and although he tried to manage a smile, without the aid of his narcotic buzz he had lost his infectious grin.
‘I wanted to come and see you ’cos you was nice to me that time when we met in the casualty department.’
‘Oh, how did you know I worked here?’
‘Well, since I’ve been out, I’ve been back to A&E a few times. I was asking after you and that big Scottish male nurse told me you worked here as a GP, so here I am.’
I tried to muster a smile, but I could tell that having Kenny as a regular patient was going to be hard work. I could just imagine Barry the charge nurse thinking it hilarious to direct Kenny to me.
‘How long have you been out of prison?’
‘Nearly a month now. I’m staying at a friend’s, but I’m going to get myself sorted out this time. No more smack for me, Dr Ben. I’m going clean for good this time.’
‘Great, so are you involved with the drug and alcohol team? Are they doing a rehab programme with you?’
‘No, Doctor. They’re all useless there. I won’t ’ave nothing to do with them. You’re the only doctor I trust. That’s why I’m here. I want you to help me.’
I like being told that I’m a good doctor and even though I knew that Kenny was after something, I couldn’t help but feel flattered by his compliments however loaded they might have been. I’m sure one of the reasons that I wanted to be a doctor was some sort of unhealthy need to be liked. Many medics are, like me, constantly searching to be appreciated, and some patients can’t help but try to manipulate that flaw at times. When I first started as a GP, my trainer told me that wanting to be loved by everyone is an admirable trait in a Labrador or a prostitute, but it doesn’t make for a good doctor. I had a feeling that Kenny was going to prove this to be true.
‘I really want to make it work this time, Dr Ben. If I can just get off the crack I can get myself a place to live and a job and most importantly back in touch with my little girl. She needs her dad.’
Kenny looked up at a scribbled picture on my wall that my eldest had drawn for me.
‘If you’ve got kids, Dr Ben, you’ll understand how important it is that I stay off the crack right now.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, still waiting for the but …
‘But I just need something to get me off the crack. Just to settle me down a bit and stop me losing it. Not much … Just a few Diazzies and some Temazzies and Zoppies. In prison they gave me Pregabbies, so I could do with a few of those.’
Patients who take meds for their weak bladder or high blood pressure tend not to have pet names for their tablets. When someone affectionately shortens the names of their medications, it always worries me. Diazzies are diazepam, temazzies are temazepam and zoppies are zopiclone. The meds that Kenny were asking for are all addictive and can cause a sort of spaced-out stupor when abused. Pregabbies are pregabalin, which are a type of painkiller, but they can be crushed up and injected to cause a high.
‘Kenny, what’s the point of coming off one drug and replacing it with another? If you really want me to help you and you want to clean up, we need to work out a programme of getting you off all drugs. It’s the only way.’
Kenny had been working hard to pull on my heartstrings, but as soon as it seemed that I might not prescribe him what he wanted, his lip started to curl and his voice was on the rise: ‘But I came to see you ’cos I thought you were gonna help me.’ He scowled at me.
‘Come on, Kenny, we both know that there is no point in me prescribing new addictive drugs to take up the job of the old addictive drugs. You need a proper supervised detox as an inpatient.’
‘But I want to come off the crack today. There’s a wait for detox, so that’s why I need a little something now, just to get me off the really bad stuff.’
I really wanted to believe that Kenny was serious about giving up his habit for good, but I knew from painful previous experience that many addicts either misuse their prescription drugs or simply sell them to get enough money for the harder stuff.
‘I won’t do it, Kenny. The drug and alcohol team have a walk-in service that’s open this afternoon. You could go round there right now and see them.’
‘I can’t believe you are refusing to help me. If you don’t prescribe nothing for me I’ll be back to using crack tonight. I could be dead in a month. You’ll have to live with that on your conscience.’
‘You don’t have to go back to using crack, Kenny. That’s a decision that you still have control over. If you really want to change your life around you can—’
I didn’t manage to finish my last sentence as Kenny was already out the door and gone.

Army medical I (#ulink_5170d95c-4ec4-558d-838a-9eb81a7c35e0)
Lee was here for an army medical examination and looked very nervous. He was tall, but looked more like an oversized 15-year-old than an adult. The prospect of him becoming a soldier seemed ridiculous.
‘Are you gonna have to stick your finger up my arse?’ he stammered.
‘What? No, Lee. Why would I need to do that?’
‘’Cos my mates told me you ’ad to have that done before you could get in the army.’
‘They were winding you up, Lee. Although I can’t vouch for what they do to you at military training college.’
Lee broke out into a broad smile, clearly very relieved by the fact that my finger and his anus would be remaining unacquainted.
‘So you’re terrified of the prospect of having a rectal exam from a doctor, but not scared of being blown up by a Taliban bomb in Afghanistan?’
‘I’ll be all right, sir.’
‘I’m not your teacher, Lee; you don’t have to call me sir.’
‘Oh right, yeah, sorry, Doctor.’
It felt like child abuse agreeing to let this 18-year-old boy go to war. My job was just to fill in a form declaring any previous medical history that the army might want to know about. Nobody really cared about my opinion on the war and the effect it might have on this poor boy.
‘Lee, are you sure you want to join the army?’
‘Yes, sir, I want to serve my country,’ he said proudly.
‘But do you really know what could happen out there. Do you even know what they’re fighting about?’
‘It’s about 9/11 and what Osama bin Laden did and that … and my mum says that joining the army will keep me out of trouble.’
That seemed a fairly stark reflection of life in modern Britain. Lee’s mum clearly felt that going to Afghanistan would get him into less ‘trouble’ than letting him stay here and hang out on the local council estate.
I started scanning through his notes hoping to find some sort of ailment that might be picked up on by the army doctors who would review my report. A few childhood illnesses and some more recent weekend A&E visits were all that I could see. The previous month Lee had fractured his fifth metacarpal, a hand injury that is almost always caused by punching someone. The other injury four months earlier was a ‘periorbital haematoma’ (a black eye), again, most likely resulting from fighting.
Maybe Lee’s mum was right. Maybe the army would be the best thing for him. He is from a really rough part of town and he has minimal education, and no skills or qualifications, not to mention that there really aren’t many jobs going at the moment. His brother has been in a lot of trouble with the law and perhaps the army would stop Lee heading in the same direction.
‘You sure you don’t want me to say you’ve got flat feet or asthma or something? There must be something else you can do other than go into the army?’
‘No thanks, sir, I’ll be all right.’
I asked Lee to sign the form and with great concentration he wrote his name in a mixture of capital and small letters. His writing was that of a six-year-old and I could see why he didn’t feel able to go on to college.
Some doctors refuse to refer patients for abortions due to religious and moral objections. I could probably do the same for army medicals, but it would be a pointless gesture that would only put extra work onto the other doctors at the practice.
As I stamped the form, Lee beamed me a big smile.
‘You look really happy, Lee. You must be looking forward to joining up.’
‘What, oh yeah, I definitely am, Doctor, but mostly I’m just pleased you didn’t have to stick your finger up my arse.’

Tummy aches (#ulink_83300d59-df9d-52d4-b907-00997743f498)
Tracey was in, yet again. I was also still receiving letters stating that she and her family were attending the emergency department too frequently, but I’d long since given up on trying to persuade Tracey not to visit so often. The latest hospital attendance was for ‘tummy aches’ in six-year-old Bradley and it was for that same reason that Tracey had brought him in to see me today.
‘They said up in A&E that they didn’t know what was wrong with him and to visit you instead,’ Tracey said.
Bradley was sitting sullenly in the chair rather than tearing around the room, which was out of character.
Once upon a time I had wanted to be a paediatrician and had spent a fair bit of time working on the children’s ward as a junior doctor. I could usually fathom out the cause of tummy pain in kids and I was confident that Bradley’s case would be no exception. I asked Bradley and his mum all about his symptoms. I asked about diarrhoea or constipation and if it hurt when he went for a wee. I asked if he was vomiting or had a fever and I made sure his glands weren’t up. I spent some time prodding his tummy, but it didn’t feel out of the ordinary, and when I tested his urine it was completely normal.
The next step was to ask about school. ‘Are any of the other children nasty to you at school?’ I asked. ‘Are you being bullied?’ Bradley shook his head.
‘He’s got loads of mates at school, Dr Daniels,’ Tracey butted in. ‘He loves school, but the teacher says he’s sitting out of games more and gets tired more easily.’ Bradley nodded gloomily in agreement at this. I got Bradley to get on the scales and when I plotted his weight on his growth chart it was dropping off a bit. Weight loss in children is a real worry and I urgently organised some more tests.
Within a couple of weeks Bradley had been for blood tests, X-rays and an ultrasound scan. Everything came back completely normal. I was relieved that Bradley didn’t have leukaemia, which had been my initial fear, but he was still having tummy aches and wasn’t himself. Most six-year-olds will complain of tummy aches at some point or another, but usually it doesn’t last once they are distracted by something fun. I asked Tracey to bring in Bradley to get weighed regularly by our nurse and it was this that led to a breakthrough.
‘He’s hungry,’ our practice nurse said to me triumphantly one morning after Bradley had been in.
‘Who’s hungry?’
‘Bradley, that boy you’ve been worried about. He’s having tummy aches because he’s hungry. That’s also why he’s stopped growing and losing weight and why he’s had no energy. It was obvious really. I asked Tracey about what he’s been eating and it turns out she’s been having problems with a debt collector and hasn’t been able to afford to buy food. She’s got herself in a right mess with it all and hasn’t told anyone.’
I had asked Bradley and his mum about every possible symptom and ordered a multitude of medical tests. But I hadn’t even considered asking if there was food in the house. Bradley wasn’t such a medical mystery after all. He was suffering from something unfortunately felt by millions of six-year-olds across the world. There was a famine in Tanzania when I was working out there and I saw hundreds of malnourished, hungry children. It just wasn’t something I was expecting to see in modern Britain. Our brilliant practice nurse Brenda had already put lots of things in place to help. The Citizens Advice team were working on resolving the debt issues and a charity was going to help with food donations until the family’s social worker helped sort out Tracey’s finances.
Bradley was an example of how easy it can be to give a medical diagnosis for what is actually a social problem. I wonder how many times I have labelled the misery of long-term poverty as clinical depression, and I once nearly diagnosed an old farm worker with eyesight problems, when the real reason he couldn’t read my chart was that he had never been taught to read. I see poverty on a daily basis, but never thought that I would see malnutrition in a six-year-old boy in Britain. We live in one of the richest countries in the world and food here is plentiful. I would like to think that Bradley was a one-off case, but as everyone is becoming increasingly squeezed financially, I fear that he may well not be.

Glass test (#ulink_414ac8bb-69cf-55fb-9404-47e6520ea9d7)
My first experience of treating children was during my third year at medical school. It is at this time that we are allowed into the hospital to start seeing real-life patients. This is an exciting time for us as medical students, but there is always a fear that we will be asked difficult questions by a scary consultant on the ward round. This was the situation we found ourselves in as we started our first attachment to a paediatric department. Everyone had been very friendly up until now, but we had just started a ward round with Dr Bowskill. He was an odd man, most memorable for his 1970s side parting and very thick glasses with large brown frames. He looked more like an Open University physics lecturer than a doctor who needed to interact with small children and anxious parents.
My friend Jess and I were on his ward round and shuffled along behind him as he mumbled incoherently to the parents of the various children on the ward. We were mostly ignored until we reached the bed of a young boy with a rash.
‘Now medical students, this boy has a rash,’ he declared excitedly and then peered closely at the boy’s skin through his jam jar-sized lenses. ‘Fortunately for him this isn’t a meningitis rash, but what test might we use to see if it was?’
Dr Bowskill turned to Jess.
This is easy, I thought. Everyone has heard of the glass test. I was sure Jess would know how to hold a glass against the skin to see if the rash disappeared under pressure. Unfortunately, it was becoming apparent that she hadn’t ever heard of the glass test. Her expression was completely blank and she clearly didn’t have a clue how to answer Dr Bowskill’s question.
Rather than put Jess out of her misery or turn to me for the answer, Dr Bowskill just kept staring at her in silence. This silence just kept going and going and going, but Jess’s expression continued to remain completely blank. Come on Jess. I was trying to transmit the answer into her brain using telepathy, willing to try anything to end this excruciatingly awkward silence. If she’d just looked up at me I could have mouthed the answer but she just continued to stare vacantly at the small red spots on the boy’s arm.
After what seemed like an eternity, Dr Bowskill took off his glasses and handed them to Jess with great dramatic intent. ‘Perhaps these might help?’ he suggested in a loud, patronising voice.
Jess took the pair of glasses in her hand and I was sure she would click that she just had to hold the glass lens of his spectacles against the rash on the boy’s skin and end this whole tortuous affair. But Jess continued to look just as vacuous, holding those glasses in her hand. I could see her getting increasingly desperate.In a final moment of panic she put the spectacles on her nose and peered closely at the boy’s arm. She then looked up, shook her head and said, ‘Nope, still don’t know.’
At this point I absolutely fell about laughing. The painful awkwardness of the long silence accompanied by the hilarious sight of Jess wearing these ridiculous old-fashioned glasses was just too much for me to bear. Jess started laughing as well, still absolutely clueless of the relevance of the glasses to the whole meningitis diagnosis but aware that putting them on her nose in case she might be able to see the rash better had clearly not been Dr Bowskill’s intention. Particularly as the strength of the lenses meant that she could see practically nothing at all.

Mr Lorenzo (#ulink_7126bbcd-ed64-5408-84f2-ed4ee88c3708)
By far my least favourite part of being a junior doctor was covering the medical wards at night. As darkness fell, one or two of us would be on duty to cover any potential emergencies that might crop up in any of the many medical wards that were spread over several floors of the hospital. I say emergencies – the reality was that many of the jobs were far more trivial. The nurses wanted us to rewrite a drug card or re-site a drip. Occasionally, though, a call would come through on my bleeper that wasn’t quite so routine.
‘I need you to prescribe something for one of our elderly gentlemen,’ the nurse was saying. ‘Something to calm him down sexually.’
‘Eh?’
‘Is there anything you can prescribe to reduce his testosterone levels or something?’
‘What, you want me to chemically castrate one of your patients at 3 a.m. on a Sunday morning. What is he doing?’
‘He keeps touching all of the nurses up. He rings his call bell every five minutes and as soon as we come anywhere near his bed, or the one next to him, for that matter, he reaches out his hand and grabs whatever he can.’
‘Can’t you tell him not to?’
‘He doesn’t understand English.’
When I arrived at the ward in question, I was greeted by a group of very irate looking nurses who led me over to the gent causing all the problems. Mr Lorenzo looked too frail and decrepit to be creating such a debacle, but as the nurse in charge escorted me over to his bed, sure enough, he made a grab for her behind. Clearly ready for this, the nurse nimbly dodged his flailing hand and gave him a hard stare. Mr Lorenzo looked at me, gave me a wink and then let loose a massive toothless grin and cackle.
‘You mustn’t touch the nurses,’ I told him firmly.
‘Funnily enough, we’ve tried telling him that. He only speaks Italian.’
‘No touchee the nurseees,’ I tried again, this time shouting in English but with a terrible Italian accent.
In the very unlikely scenario that Mr Lorenzo did understand me, he chose to ignore me and instead continued to give me his toothless grin before this time trying to grab the bosoms of a health-care assistant who had foolishly strayed within his groping range.
‘Senore Lorenzo, por favori, no touchee. No touchee!’ I shouted firmly. I then turned around and decided to stride away purposefully as if I had successfully resolved the issue when of course I hadn’t. The nurses didn’t bother waiting for me to be out of earshot before loudly commentating on how bloody useless I was.
I’d almost forgotten about Mr Lorenzo when about an hour later I got a frantic call from the nurse back on Mr Lorenzo’s ward.
‘It’s Mr Lorenzo. He’s fallen out of bed and he’s unconscious.’
I ran to the ward to find the nurse in charge in floods of tears. They had become so fed up with Mr Lorenzo’s constant bell ringing and subsequent groping that, despite it being against the rules, they had moved his call bell just out of his reach. He had reached and reached to try to get it and had fallen out of bed. Sure enough, down on the floor Mr Lorenzo was lying on his back, motionless and grey.
‘I think he might be dead,’ blubbed one of the nurses.
‘We’ll all lose our jobs,’ another wailed.
‘Stop crying and help me check for a pulse,’ I interrupted.
We all stood over the moribund Mr Lorenzo, then just as the nurse in charge leaned over to try to find a pulse in his neck, as if by magic, his arm sprung into life and reached up her skirt. He opened his eyes, gave me that toothless grin and a wink and the rest of us collapsed into relieved laughter. So relieved were the nurses that they weren’t going to have to explain to a coroner’s inquest how they had moved his call bell out of reach that they happily tolerated his wandering hands for the rest of the night; well, for an hour or two at least.

Pseudoseizures (#ulink_bdbfffd7-e8bd-519c-a85a-5e4739944e6c)
A pseudoseizure is a pretend fit. The person flails their arms and groans a bit as if having a real epileptic seizure, but in fact they are completely conscious and are in full control of their actions. This may seem to you as a very odd thing to do, but surprisingly they are really quite common. In fact, when I qualified as a doctor I witnessed three pseudoseizures before I saw a genuine epileptic fit. As I have become more experienced, it becomes easier to differentiate between a pseudoseizure and a real one.
Barry, the nurse I work with in A&E, is particularly unsympathetic to the condition. When he sees one of our regulars coming in pretending to be fitting, he rubs his knuckles hard on the patient’s chest. If the patient sits bolt upright and tells him to ‘fuck off’, we can all be reassured of the true diagnosis. Personally I prefer a slightly subtler approach. By gently stroking the eyelash, someone conscious won’t be able to help but flicker their lower lid. It avoids unnecessary swearing or potentially bruising the chest wall of some poor bugger who is genuinely having a seizure.
As an A&E doctor, I viewed pseudoseizures as yet another odd preserve of the crazies who dog the department, but as a GP I have been given the opportunity to gain some insight as to why people have them.
Carrie has them frequently, and recently she had one in my surgery waiting room. Picture the scene: Carrie comes to the desk wanting to see me on a busy Monday afternoon. The receptionist tells her that there are no appointments until the following day. Carrie then falls to the floor dramatically and shakes all her limbs. Everyone in the busy waiting room clambers over to help her and I get an emergency call interrupting both myself and the patient I am seeing. As I rush into the waiting room, I think I can see just the faintest of self-satisfied smiles on Carrie’s face. She has got the attention she was craving. If the waiting room had been empty, I could have told Carrie to get up and stop making such a scene. This of course looks a tad on the unsympathetic side to her worried audience who are expecting me to offer suitable emergency treatment for what they believe to be a poorly epileptic.
I compromise and help Carrie into my room, apologetically upending the poor patient I had been seeing and delaying the remainder of my afternoon surgery. Carrie gets my attention and the appointment she wanted at rapid speed.
Her pseudoseizures also commonly occur when her boyfriend splits up with her or when she has had a big row with her mum. In these situations, the pseudoseizures are a brief and effective distraction from the current unpleasant realities of her life. They also result in her receiving the sort of sympathy and attention that she normally struggles to elicit. Carrie offers plenty for a psychotherapist to get stuck into, but for a lowly GP like me it is just a matter of trying to manage the situation as best as possible in the 10 minutes I have. I do feel sympathetic towards Carrie and hope the psychotherapist I referred her to helps her to manage her symptoms. Having said that, I can’t say there aren’t moments when I wish I had Barry at hand to offer a couple of hard knuckle rubs on her sternum the next time she dramatically collapses in my busy waiting room.

Antibiotic resistance (#ulink_482634d5-270a-5c3f-b305-85ca6eff7141)
The national newspapers today are full of reports on the worrying increase in resistance to antibiotics and the potential return to an era when we have no discernible medical treatment to use against severe bacterial infections. The following is how antibiotic resistance was explained to me at medical school. I’m not sure who first came up with the comparison, but the concept can be best explained by thinking in terms of straightforward evolution:
A farmer has a problem with rabbits (think bacteria) eating crops on his field. He employs a few hunting dogs (think antibiotics) to kill the rabbits. Initially it is a great success and the rabbits are almost all gone. The farmer’s crops are growing healthily and the farmer celebrates, assuming that rabbits will never be a problem again. He declares a great victory (think the remarks in the 1940s by doctors who thought that the days of infectious diseases were over). However, not all the rabbits are killed. Like all groups of organisms, there is variety. The few rabbits still alive are the ones that are the fastest and have the best hearing. These rabbits can hear the dogs coming and outrun them. These remaining ‘super rabbits’ breed with each other (like rabbits) and soon all the rabbits on the farm are extra fast and have great hearing. The old hunting dogs can’t kill any of them, so effectively the rabbits have ‘developed resistance’.
The farmer decides to get some new dogs, which are even faster and can hunt very quietly (think newer antibiotics). Initially the new dogs are killing the rabbits despite their speed and good hearing; however, one or two of the rabbits are brown rather than white and the dogs can’t see them very well. These remaining brown rabbits breed with each other and soon all the rabbits are brown and the dogs can’t see them (think super-infections such as MRSA and C. diff). This cycle continues, with the farmer continually trying to adapt his dogs to keep his farm healthy. The rabbits aren’t being cunning or clever. They are simply evolving and reacting to the environment which is being manipulated by the farmer.
The other issue the farmer notices is that the dogs cause other problems. They occasionally kill some of his hens (think unwanted side effects). He also finds that when his dogs have killed lots of the rabbits, there is suddenly more food and space for the mice, so they now flourish. The mice now become pests themselves (think fungal infection such as thrush).
Sometimes the farmer sees that his crops are being eaten and assumes it is the rabbits. In fact, this time it is a caterpillar infestation (think viruses) eating his crops for which the dogs are of absolutely no help. He foolishly sends out his dogs again even though the rabbits aren’t the culprits. The farmer has given himself all the problems that the dogs cause without any of the advantages. This is what happens when we give antibiotics for viral infections such as colds. We cause resistance and inflict side effects without helping clear the infection. After the farmer sends the dogs out, the caterpillars turn into butterflies and fly away leaving the crops to recover. This recovery had nothing to do with the dogs, but foolishly the farmer just sees his crops recuperating and assumes that his dogs are the saviours. He sends out his dogs every time the caterpillars arrive not realising that they are causing more harm than good to a problem that is self-resolving.

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