Tuesday, 16th August 2005.

Pills and thrills and bellyaches

We spent the first part of this morning in the Oak Tree Health Centre waiting room, before my routine blood test. Emily had agreed to come and hold my hand this time: this is because on the last occasion I had a blood test, two weeks ago to the day, I became rather faint and nauseous. The situation was brought about by a well-meant nurse who had difficulty finding a vein - she had stuck in the needle, which had stung for a moment or two, and then announced that she was having problems extracting enough fluid. "It doesn't seem to be pumping out very well," she said. "Hang on, I'm just going to wiggle it around a bit."

When my circulation was back to normal and I'd finished vomiting into the sink, Pam announced that they had probably got enough blood, "but I'm not sure. Do you fancy doing it again?" I think that the look on my face probably answered that one for her. The dizziness had more or less subsided now, but I sat in the staff library before driving back home. I am Jack's brave little soldier.

Flash forward three days, and a call from my doctor. "Your potassium levels were through the roof," she said. "We need to do another blood test to find out what's going on."
My heart sank. "You're kidding."
"When can you come in?"
"Well, not right now - I'm in Pembrokeshire. Do you have any idea how unpleasant the last one was? The nurse stuck in the needle, which was all right, except that I have a needle thing anyway, but then she announced she'd have to move it around as she wasn't getting enough. I very nearly passed out!"
"That can happen," said Doctor Geddes. "Actually, a traumatic experience can raise potassium levels. I shouldn't be surprised if that's what was responsible for the last readout."

So I had to go in this morning for another test, because the results of the first one were obscured by the fact that they messed it up. You have to love the irony. In any event, the second test was fine: Pam used the left arm this time, and I sat and talked to Emily about Sesame Street (her request) and the death of Mr Hooper, while Joshua snoozed in his car seat and made occasional sucking gestures. The next thing I knew it was done. I'm a self-confessed wuss, to be honest, but it's heavily inconsistent. I can watch violent thrillers with the best of them, and even managed to sit through The Fly without throwing up (although Ewan's appearance with a glass of milk during the final scene brought me close to the edge). Show me an episode of Casualty, however, and I have to leave the room. What's particularly strange is that when Emily gave birth to Josh I managed to make it through the placenta delivery without batting an eyelid. It's just needles: when they were installing the drip, I looked the other way.

Whatever my feelings about medical incompetence, or my own sense of looking utterly stupid, both my ego and my opinion of the NHS experienced a temporary boost this morning while we were in the waiting room. Emily and I were just wincing over the sheer awfulness of the piped music - a selection of Shadows renditions of seventies love songs, presumably designed with elderly ladies in mind - when in walked a scruffy man, wearing an ill-fitting shirt and tatty trousers, and trainers with no socks. He had a scraggly beard and bad skin, and frankly I wouldn't have been surprised if the word 'wino' had been tattooed on his neck.

"I want this prescription," he said, laying a box on the counter.
"All right," said the receptionist. "We'll get this processed for you and it'll be ready in a couple of days."
"Can't I have it now?"
"Well, no - it will take about forty-eight hours."
"Why? Isn't the doctor just supposed to fill in a form?"
"Yes, but it's a bit more complicated than that."
"Can't he do it this morning?"
"He's seeing patients this morning."
"I'll wait, then. See him when he's free."
"No, he's seeing patients all morning, and he's the on-call doctor, so it'll be - "
"So what do I do?"
"You'll have to wait a couple of days."
"I can't wait two days off them pills! I need to be on them now."
"I'm sorry, sir, but we just can't -"
"Can't I wait for the doctor?"
"No, sir," was the reply, now with more than a hint of impatience. "The doctor will be busy all day, and in any event he won't be able to do it straight away. That's not how repeat prescriptions work. But if you'd like to come back this afternoon, we'll see what we can do."
"Great. So I can't wait, then?"
"You can, but it wouldn't be any help."
"So I have to walk all the way home and all the way back? And it might not even be ready?"
"Well, if you wanted, we could phone you when it's ready for collection."
"I don't have a phone..."

And so on, with increasing anger. Eventually he gave up and slumped down in a seat along the adjacent wall, and I began to feel a little pity for a man who obviously didn't understand the system and had probably never been told about how it works. He reminded me of the sort of person my mother has to deal with on an almost daily basis - uneducated, unknowing, oblivious. And yet he was a human being who'd probably been denied chances that I took for granted, and I'd do well to remember that. "Do not mock the poor and stupid, for they too have their story, although that doesn't mean it'll actually be interesting."

But it was his attitude that got to me: the sense of self-righteous indignation, a sure indication of pride that was destined to lead to a fall. I know this because I've been there, and some days I'm back there again. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the NHS does not revolve around him, and that nurses and receptionists have other fish to fry, and that administration takes time. I experience similar problems (on an admittedly lesser scale) in my office when I receive emails from authors who demand to know why we haven't published their article within two months of them returning corrected proofs: it's a fair comment, but it also implies the arrogant conviction that they are the only authors we're currently dealing with. I know that you're supposed to make customers feel valued and important and special, but there are limits - and as I watched the badly dressed stranger as he sighed and grunted and looked at his watch, I couldn't help feeling that a less-than-privileged background is not necessarily an excuse for such general unpleasantness.

And then I remembered the way I spoke to that last BT customer service rep, and realised that perhaps I need to make yet another appointment with the doctor. I have a log in my eye that needs removing.