Confessions of a GP
Dr Benjamin Daniels

Copyright

The Friday Project

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This ebook first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2010

Copyright © Benjamin Daniels 2010

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 2013

Benjamin Daniels asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781906321888

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007399345

Version: 2016-10-05

Disclaimer

The events described in this book are based on my experiences as a new GP. For obvious reasons of privacy and confidentiality I have made certain changes, altered identifying features and fictionalised some aspects, but it remains an honest reflection of life as a young doctor in Britain today. This is what it’s like. These things really happen!

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Disclaimer

Who am I?

Introduction

Mrs Peacock

Tom Jones

Targets

First day

Jargon

Proud to work for the NHS

Drug reps

Mr Tipton, the paedophile

Average day

Tara

Sex in the surgery

The elderly

Bums

Julia

Good doctors

Connor

Janine

Saving lives

Kirsty, the trannie

‘It’s my boobs, Doc’

Mr Hogden

Small talk

Notes

Lists

Ten minutes

Alf

Meningitis

Uzma

Africa

Evidence

Carolina

Lee

Hugging

Tough Life Syndrome

Mrs Briggs

Betty Bale’s cat

Vaccines

Darryl

The pat dog

Rina

Dos and don’ts

Home births

Michael

Alternative medicine

Thai bride

Dead people

Holistic earwax

Obesity register

Dr Arbury

Body fluids

Racism

Sleep

Magic wand

Cannabis

Sick notes

Drug reps … again

Mistakes … I’ve made a few

Dying

Happy pills

Top 1 per cent of the population

Computers

Kieran

Peter

Granny dumping

Aggressive conduct disorder

Ed

Camouflage man

Memories

Fighting

Class

Tingling ear syndrome

Gary

Beach medicine

Gifts

Politics

Passing judgement

The examination game

Sex

Money

Angela

I don’t like some of my patients

Boundaries

Smoking

Angry man

Maintaining interest

The future?

Tariq

Babies

Read on for some brand-new chapters from Dr Daniels …

Why do people get sick?

Malcolm

A pair of glasses

Stewart

NHS reforms

Barry

Tuition fees

Please don’t outsource our receptionists

Fit to work?

Royal Wedding

Abortion

Taking responsibility

France vs UK

The NHS is brill

My patients are brill

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also Available

About the Publisher

Who am I?

Humans have a universal desire to be listened to and share their stories of pain and suffering. My job as a GP is to listen to those stories. Sometimes I interject with some suggestions or medications, but more often I am simply a passive observer of the soap operas that are people’s lives. With regular appointments, I watch the characters develop and the narratives unfold. Although some of my patients have an overinflated view of my significance, I really am just a walk-on part in their lives. I’m like the extra in the corner of the Queen Vic who tries his best to play a small role in one or two of the storylines, but in reality rarely affects the progress of the plot or the big ending. The advantage I do have is that I get to watch the story unfold from a unique and fascinating angle. Being a doctor gives me a privileged insight into the more private and often bizarre aspects of human life and, with that in mind, let me share some slices of my working life with you.

I love my job and have no regrets about choosing to become a doctor and then a GP. This is quite fortunate really, as my decision to study medicine was made as I chose my A levels at the tender age of 16¼. At this time my only real reservation against becoming a doctor was the knowledge that I would have to endure chemistry A level. I couldn’t really think of any other reason why I shouldn’t be a doctor. What could be better than swanning around a hospital full of beautiful nurses and ‘saving lives’? People would think I was great and ultimately this would lead to me finally getting a girlfriend. As an awkward 16-year-old with bad skin and greasy hair, most of my career aspirations were based on what profession would give me the best opportunity of gaining me some interest from the opposite sex. I had accepted that my carnal ambitions would ideally be achieved by being in a boy band or playing Premiership football, but unfortunately my lack of talent in both these departments led to the inevitable choice of medicine. I chose my A levels in the year that ER first arrived on our screens. A poster of George Clooney in a white coat was on every girl’s wall. Of course I wanted to be a doctor!

On my university application form, I had the good sense to not write that I wanted to be a doctor so I could ‘save lives and hence get laid’. I scribbled down something about my love of ‘working as part of a team’ and my ‘fascination with human sciences’. To be fair, I suppose these statements were also true, but it is so hard to pick a career aged 16. The real world of work is always such a mystery until you enter it. When my mate Tom applied to teacher-training college, he wrote that he wanted to ‘help young people flourish and fulfil their true potential’. After a five-year tour of duty in an inner city comprehensive school, like us medics, he is just trying to get to the weekend without being punched or sued.

Although I’m now a GP, my training required me to spend many long years working as a hospital doctor. I completed five years at medical school and then spent several years working in various hospital posts gaining the experience needed to become a GP. I was a junior doctor in surgery, psychiatry, A&E, paediatrics, gynaecology, geriatrics and general medicine. I also broke up my training with a three-month stint working in Mozambique. All in all I loved working as a hospital doctor but have absolutely no regrets about leaving it to become a GP.

Introduction

I can still fondly recall the first diagnosis I ever made. As with many others that followed, it was spectacularly incorrect, but it still holds a special place in my heart. In my defence, I was just a mere boy at the time, wet behind the ears and only a few weeks into my first term at medical school. I was sitting in the local Kentucky Fried Chicken and spotted a man slumped unconscious in his plastic seat. A wave of excitement flooded over me. This was what it was all about! This was my vocation! With the limitless enthusiasm of youth and inexperience, I bounded over to undoubtedly save his life with my new-found wealth of medical knowledge.

It didn’t take me long to conclude that this gent had suffered from a spontaneous pneumothorax. This was not based on clinical signs and symptoms but more that this was the condition that we had learnt about that morning in a tutorial and so was the first and only diagnosis that sprung to mind. With an air of self-importance, I explained to the KFC manager my diagnosis and instructed him to call urgently for an ambulance. Looking thoroughly unimpressed, he wandered out from behind the counter and roughly manhandled the unconscious man from his seat and threw him out of his restaurant. My first-ever patient spectacularly regained consciousness, uttered a few obscenities addressed to no one in particular and staggered off down the street. The KFC manager in his far superior wisdom had, in fact, made the correct diagnosis of ‘drunk and asleep’ and prescribed him a swift exit from his premises.

I can see why the professor chose to teach us innocent medical students about a spontaneous pneumothorax that morning. It is, in fact, a wonderful feel-good condition for doctors. An otherwise healthy person collapses with a deflated lung and then the clever doctor diagnoses it with his stethoscope and sticks a needle between their ribs. With a triumphant hissing sound, the lung inflates and the patient feels much better. The professor was trying to help explain the normal functioning of the lung and what could go wrong. He was also trying to encourage us to embrace the wonderful healing abilities we could have as doctors. Back during those early days of medical school I believed that most of medicine would be that straightforward. Someone would be unwell, I would do something fabulous and then they would get better.

Funnily enough, despite a spontaneous pneumothorax being the first medical condition I ever learnt about at medical school, I have, in fact, never actually seen one since. Looking back, I wonder if actually a far more useful and accurate introduction to being a front line NHS doctor would have been a tutorial on how to remove a semiconscious drunk bloke from a waiting room:

‘Would everyone please welcome our guest speaker today. He has a long and celebrated career working in numerous late-night fast food outlets and will be giving you his annual demonstration on how to prepare yourselves for spending your futures working in the NHS. Do take notes on how he skilfully removes the inebriated gentleman while remaining entirely unsoiled by any body fluids and simultaneously evading drunken punches. You will be tested on this in your end-of-year exams, so do pay attention.’

When I think back to that KFC, I can still recall my shock at what I perceived to be the terrible ill treatment of this poor man. The callous, heartless actions of the restaurant manager only increased the feeling that my true vocation was to become an amazing doctor in order to cure just such vulnerable people who needed my help …

Ten years later, after a long day of inner city general practice, my brain was heavy with the multitude of sufferings that I had encountered. Chronic pains, domestic violence, addiction, depression, self-harming and a fairly big helping of broad-spectrum misery were the principal orders of the day. After many hours of putting my heart and soul into my patients’ problems, I knew that my competency that day would be judged not on my diagnostic skills or my bedside manner, but by how many targets I had reached from the latest pointless government directive. While finishing the day reading the latest newspaper headline about how GPs were lazy money-grabbers, it was almost a relief to receive an emergency call from reception to tell me that a man had collapsed in the waiting room.

Rather than springing up into life-saving action, I heaved myself out of my blissfully comfortable chair and ambled down to the waiting room. Over the last ten years that limitless enthusiasm had been gradually broken down and replaced with a defeated resignation. I took no satisfaction in this time getting my diagnosis spot on. Still waiting for that spontaneous pneumothorax to heroically cure, I was greeted instead by one of our local street drinkers in a drunken stupor in the children’s play area of the waiting room. Using the expertise I perfected during endless Friday and Saturday night shifts in A&E, I skilfully escorted the intoxicated man from the surgery back on to the street.

In a wave of sad nostalgia I wondered what that naïve 18-year-old me would think about what he had become. Would I have even bothered to have gone on to study medicine if I could have foreseen how so much of that initial hope and optimism would drain away? Not even out of my twenties yet, I began to wonder if being a doctor was anything close to the career I thought it was going to be. As I returned the drunk homeless man on to the street, I offered him an appointment to come back and see me the following morning when he was sober, explaining about organising an alcohol detox. ‘I’ll be there, Doc,’ he told me as he shoved the appointment card into his pocket. We both knew that he’d miss that appointment, but at least we were mutually left with a faint glimmer of hope for something better.

Please don’t imagine that this book is about me looking for sympathy or commiserations about my broken dreams, or assume that I have lost my empathy and respect for the people who expectantly seek my help or advice. I guess it’s just that the often grim reality of practising inner city medicine is not quite what I had expected it to be. I no longer dream of miracle cures and magic bullets and I have definitely given up waiting to dramatically re-inflate that collapsed lung. Instead, I acknowledge that my role is to listen and share the pains, concerns and sufferings of the people who sit before me. I offer the odd nugget of good advice and provide some support at times of need. Perhaps just occasionally I even make a small difference in someone’s life. The intention of this book is simply to give an honest but light-hearted insight into some of the joys, frustrations and absurdities of being an inner city NHS GP today. I hope you enjoy it.

I have only been a GP for three years but I do genuinely love the job. I like the variety and getting to know my patients. I find it challenging and rewarding. Sometimes I even make a diagnosis and cure someone! I’m currently working as a locum which means that I work in different GP surgeries in different parts of the country, covering other GPs when they are away. I also still do some shifts as an A&E doctor from time to time. Some of my posts have just been for one day, others have been for over a year and I get to see the good, bad and ugly side of general practice, patients and the NHS. I love my job and think that it is one of the most interesting out there. I hope that after reading this book you might agree with me, or if not at least realise that it isn’t just about seeing coughs and colds.

Mrs Peacock

Like parents, doctors are not supposed to have favourites but I have to admit to being rather fond of Mrs Peacock. She is well into her eighties and her memory has been deteriorating over the last few years. Most weeks she develops a medical problem and calls up the surgery requesting me to visit. When I arrive, the medical problem has been resolved or at least forgotten and I end up changing the fuse on the washing machine or helping her to find her address book, which we eventually locate in the fridge. As I tuck into a milky cup of tea and a stale coconut macaroon, I reflect that my medical skills probably aren’t being put to best use. I imagine the grumbling taxpayer wouldn’t be too pleased to know that having forked out over £250,000 to put me through my medical school training, they are now paying my high GP wages in order for me to ineptly try to recall which coloured wire is earth in Mrs Peacock’s ageing plug.

Mrs Peacock needs a bit of social support much more than she needs a doctor so when I return to the surgery I spend 30 minutes trying to get through to social services on the phone. When I finally get through, I am told that because of her dementia, Mrs Peacock needs a psychiatric assessment before they can offer any social assistance. The psychiatrist is off sick with depression and the waiting list to see the stand-in psychiatrist is three months. I’m also reminded that Mrs Peacock will need to have had a long list of expensive tests to exclude a medical cause for her memory loss. Three months and many normal test results later, Mrs Peacock forgot to go to her appointment and had to return to the back of the queue.

Through no fault of her own, Mrs Peacock has cost the NHS a small fortune. Her heart scan, blood tests and hospital appointments all cost money and we GPs don’t come cheap, either. Mrs Peacock does have mild dementia but more importantly she is lonely. She needs someone to pop in for a cup of tea from time to time and remind her to feed her long-suffering cat. It would appear that this service is not on offer, so, in the meantime, I’ll continue to visit from time to time. When the coconut macaroons become so inedible that even the hungry cat won’t eat them, I’ll think again about trying to get Mrs Peacock some more help.

Tom Jones

The term ‘presenting complaint’ is what we use when we describe what the patient comes in complaining about – i.e. the patient’s words rather than our diagnosis. Normally as a GP the presenting complaint will be ‘back pain’ or ‘earache’ or ‘not sleeping’. Elaine Tibb’s presenting complaint was different. When I said, ‘Hello Miss Tibbs. What can I help you with today?’ she said, ‘I’m having pornographic dreams about Tom Jones.’ Her words, not mine.

For the more common presenting complaints, most doctors will already have a check list of questions in their heads. For example, a female patient says, ‘I’ve got tummy pain’ and I say, ‘Where, and for how long?’ and ‘Have you got any vaginal discharge?’ When faced with the presenting complaint of pornographic dreams about a celebrity, I was left hopelessly speechless. When discussing Elaine’s sexual fantasies, I was very keen not to know where, for how long and if there had been any vaginal discharge. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to point this out to Elaine before every minuscule aspect of the dreams was described in surprisingly graphic detail.

I am rarely left speechless by a patient’s opening gambit, but as with Elaine, there are always a few that do leave me at a complete loss. My personal favourites are:

When I eat a lot of rice cakes, it makes my wee smell of rice cakes;

I masturbate 10 to 15 times per day – what should I do?

I ate four Easter eggs this morning and now I feel sick;

My husband can’t satisfy me sexually;

When I was in church this morning, I was overcome by the power of the Lord;

I think my vagina is haunted.

Elaine is a classic example of someone that we GPs see fairly regularly. She was odd and eccentric, but not quite mentally ill. She was slightly obsessive and delusional but not really harming herself or anyone else. Admittedly she didn’t work, but she functioned reasonably well from day to day and didn’t really have any insight into the fact that other people found her to be a tad unusual. Instead, Elaine generally saw most of the rest of the world as slightly peculiar and felt it was just her and, of course, her darling Tom Jones who were the only normal ones. Looking through her patient records, I noted that she did once see a psychiatrist a few years back. He diagnosed her as having ‘some abnormal and obsessive personality traits but no active psychosis’. This is psychiatry speak for ‘slightly odd but basically harmless’

‘He does love me, you know, Doctor. If he met me, he would know it straight away. We’re made for each other.’

‘Isn’t Tom Jones happily married and living in America?’

‘No no no! He loves me, doctor.’ Elaine would have happily spent all afternoon telling me about her Tom Jones fantasies, but I felt that we needed to move things on. I used the classic GP phrase that we pull out of the bag when we feel that we’re not getting very far. ‘So Elaine, what are you hoping that I’m going to do for you today?’

‘Well, doctor, I need you to write Tom a letter. It would sound better coming from you. He’s a doctor as well. Well, not a real doctor, but I’m sure he’d be a wonderful doctor if he wanted to be. He’s very kind you know and oooh so gorgeous and anyway, I’m sure if you just explained everything he would see sense, I know he would.’

Basically, I was being asked to stalk Tom Jones on Elaine’s behalf. I could imagine the letter.

Dear Tom,

Please will you leave your wife, family and LA mansion and move into a council bedsit with a slightly odd woman with straggly hair and a duffel coat that she has been wearing since 1983. It will make my life slightly easier as she won’t keep coming to the surgery and annoying me with her graphic descriptions of your imaginary sex life.

Best wishes,

Dr Daniels

Stalking is defined as a ‘constellation of behaviours in which an individual inflicts upon another repeated unwanted intrusions and communications’. Elaine probably would have quite liked to have stalked Tom Jones, but I don’t think she really had it in her. For Elaine, her problems with relating to everyday folk had resulted in her focusing all her energy on an imaginary relationship with a person whom she would never meet. I guess this was a good way to protect herself from the struggles and potential rejections of real-life relationships. Whatever the psychological explanation, I’ll never be able to listen to ‘It’s Not Unusual’ in quite the same way again.

Targets

Lucy, the practice manager, popped her head around the door: ‘I’ve put you down for a visit to see Mrs Tucker. She’s had a funny turn and fallen over. Perhaps you could diagnose her as having had a stroke?’

It is January and our Quality and Outcomes Framework (QOF) targets are due in April. None of our patients has had a stroke in the last nine months. This should, of course, be a cause for celebration, but Lucy is not happy. If no one has a stroke before April, we will miss out on our ‘stroke target’. The government tells us that if a patient has a stroke, we need to refer him/her to the stroke specialist and then we’ll get five points! But if no one has a stroke, we miss out on the points and the money that comes with them. The more QOF points the practice earns, the more money the partners take home as profit. The practice manager also takes her cut as an Easter bonus if the surgery gets maximum points. In the world of general practice, points really do mean prizes.

Some older GPs hate disease guidelines. They feel that they take away our autonomy as doctors and rob us of our integrity and ability to make our own clinical decisions. I myself don’t begrudge guidelines at all. Strokes have been poorly managed in the community for years and some good research has shown that if someone has a stroke or a mini stroke and we sort out their cholesterol and blood pressure and send them to see a stroke specialist, we can genuinely reduce the chance of them having another stroke.

Mrs Tucker is 96 and lives in a nursing home nearby. She is severely demented and doesn’t know her own name. In her confusion she wanders around the nursing home and frequently takes a tumble. She had fallen over again today and could well have had a mini stroke. Having said that, she could just as easily have simply tripped over a stray Zimmer frame or slipped on a rogue Murray Mint. She was back to her normal self now and common sense told me that this lady would not benefit from a whole load of tests and new medications that in the long run would probably only increase her confusion and make her more likely to fall over.

I’m allowed to be puritanical because I’m not a partner and so don’t make any money from the QOF points. But would I have been tempted to diagnose Mrs Tucker as having had a stroke if I knew it meant that I would pocket some extra cash in April? Amazingly, in the vast majority of practices that I have worked in, the doctors are incredibly honest about achieving their targets truthfully. However, shouldn’t we remove the temptation altogether? Surely, doctors should be able to make sensible decisions about what is in the best interest of our patients without needing targets and cash incentives?

First day

I can still remember my first day as a doctor very clearly. It is something that I had been looking forward to since I first chose my A level subjects eight years earlier. Now the actual day had finally come I was absolutely shitting myself and wondering if I wanted to be there at all. We spent most of the first day having induction-type talks. These consisted of a fire safety talk and an introduction from a medical lawyer on how best not to get sued. Not particularly confidence boosting.

As the induction day drew to a close, most of the other new doctors went to the pub. Not me though. I was doing my first ‘on call’ on my first-ever night as a doctor. This may have been the short straw for some but, although frightened, I was excited and keen to get my first on call over with. This night would be the making of me, I thought to myself. By this time tomorrow, I would be feeling like an old pro and be regaling heroic stories of my life-saving antics to my admiring colleagues in the pub. It was going to be like losing my virginity all over again. My brand-new shirt was ironed and although a couple of sizes too big, my white coat was starched and gleaming. I had a sensible haircut and a stethoscope round my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror astounded that I really was a doctor!

I picked up my pager at five that evening and sat there looking at it timidly. This small black box would come to be hated by me during my future years as a hospital doctor. This box would wake me from sleep and interrupt my meals. When completely overloaded with work and feeling like I couldn’t cope, this small inconspicuous little box would bleep and tell me that I had another five urgent things to deal with. Of course I was unaware of all of this on that first innocent evening. Instead, I had a naïve excitement that I was finally considered important enough to have my own pager and that it might actually go off. I had been practising how I should best answer it:

‘Hello, it’s Dr Daniels, vascular surgical house officer.’

That’s right, my first job was as the junior in the vascular surgery team. I didn’t really know what vascular surgery was, but I liked the sound of it. Perhaps I could drop the house officer bit and just answer by saying: ‘Hi. Dr Daniels, vascular surgeon.’ Hmm, that would sound much more impressive. I could just picture the attractive nurse swooning on the other end of the line.

To my surprise, at about ten minutes past five my pager did go off. I took a deep breath and answered the call: ‘Hi. Dr Daniels, vascular surgeon.’ There was a sigh from the other end of the telephone. It was my consultant and new boss. ‘You are not a vascular surgeon, you are my most junior and least useful helper monkey. Some poor bastard has popped his aorta and I’m going to be in theatre with the registrar all evening trying to fix him. I need you to order us a chicken chow mein, a sweet and sour pork and two egg fried rice. Have them delivered to theatre reception.’ The phone went dead. That was it. All those years of study and my first job as a doctor was to order a Chinese takeaway. Consultant surgeons have a wonderful way of ensuring that their junior doctors don’t get above themselves.

Over the next hour my pager started going off increasingly frequently until it built up to what felt like a constant chorus of bleeps. Jobs that would take a few minutes for me to do now, took an hour back then because I was so new and inexperienced. I decided that the cocky doctor role didn’t suit me so I went for the pathetic vulnerable new doctor approach. It worked and the nurses soon began to feel sorry for me. They offered to make me tea, showed me the secret biscuit cupboard and helped me find my feet. Just as I was beginning to gain a little confidence, my pager made a frightening sound. Instead of the normal slow, steady bleep there was a stream of quick staccato bleeps followed by the words ‘Cardiac arrest Willow ward … Cardiac arrest Willow ward.’ To my horror, that was the ward that my consultant covered. That meant that I should really be there. I started running. The adrenaline was pumping, my white coat was sailing behind me as I zipped past people in the corridor. I was important. It felt great! Suddenly, as I got closer to Willow ward, a terrifying thought dawned on me, ‘Oh my God. What if I’m the first doctor there!!!! I’ve only ever resuscitated a rubber dummy in training exercises. I’ve never had to do the real thing.’ To my left was the gents’ toilet. Doubts began to race through my head. ‘Perhaps I could just nip in there and hide for a bit. I can reappear in a few minutes once the cavalry has arrived.’ It was tempting, but I bravely decided to keep on running and meet my fate.

Lying in a bed was a frail old lady with her pyjamas ripped open and her torso exposed. She was grey and lifeless and I can remember her ribs protruding out of her chest wall. A couple of nurses were frantically running around looking for oxygen and the patient’s notes, while another nurse was doing chest compressions. To my relief, a remarkably relaxed-looking medical registrar was standing at the head of the bed and calmly taking charge. A monitor was set up and it was clear even to me that the wiggly lines on the screen meant that the patient needed to be shocked. A few other doctors soon turned up and I was pretty much a spectator as they expertly performed a few rounds of CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation) followed by a set of shocks. It was all very dramatic but the woman didn’t seem to be making any signs of a revival. Thinking that I had managed to escape my first cardiac arrest as an onlooker only, I began to consider sneaking away, aware of how many mundane jobs were waiting for me to be done on other wards. Unfortunately, the relaxed-looking registrar spotted me and called me forward. ‘This one’s not coming back; shall we let the house officer have a go with the defibrillator?’ I had just done my CPR training and it was all still clear in my mind. This was my big moment. For some reason, I had it in my head that if it was me who shocked her, she would suddenly come round. What a great story that would be, I thought as I stepped up to the bed. The one thing that the instructors had really emphasised in the resuscitation training was the importance of safety. I had to make sure that all the doctors, nurses and oxygen masks were clear of the bed before shocking the patient. I stepped up and took the paddles. Lifting them out of the machine I carefully placed them on the woman’s chest. Looking all around me, I started the drill: ‘Oxygen away, head clear, feet clear, charging to 360, shocking at 360.’

BANG. My adrenaline had been pumping but I hadn’t expected that. I had stayed on my feet but had been thrown backwards with a jolt. That never happened with the dummies. I must have been looking slightly dazed and the registrar glanced over at me with faint amusement. ‘You’ve electrocuted yourself, you prat.’ Unfortunately, he was right. I had checked closely to make sure that the bed was clear of bystanders before I gave the electric shock, but I hadn’t realised that on running to the ward, I had shoved my stethoscope into the pocket of my white coat and as I was leaning over the patient, the nicely conductive metal tubes had been lying on the patient’s left hand.

As if to rub salt in the wound, my first pathetic effort at resuscitation led the woman to go straight into asystole (flatlining) and the registrar called it a day. The correct thing to have done would have been to report my electrocution as a critical incident and give me a bit of a check-over, but instead the registrar just disappeared off the ward chuckling to himself. I had made his night and he called me ‘Sparky’ for the rest of my six-month spell at the hospital. I was left to carry on with the boring jobs on the ward and by the following morning everyone had heard of my disastrous first night. Perhaps it was an early indicator that I was better suited to the slightly less dramatic world of general practice.

Jargon

At my secondary school I was known as Benny Big Nose. Not the most charming of nicknames, but nevertheless a beautifully simple and succinct summary of my name and most prominent facial feature. I sometimes wish medicine could be as straightforward. Why do we use long-winded medical jargon to describe something rather simple?

Purulent nasal discharge – snot; viral upper respiratory tract infection – a cold; infective gastroenteritis – the shits; strong urinary odour – stinks of piss.

One reason for medical jargon is so that we doctors can write something in the notes that if the patient were to read, they wouldn’t take offence and complain. There was a time a few years back when patients had no right at all to see their own medical notes. I was recently looking through the old paper notes of one retired farmer and the sole entry for 1973 was ‘Patient smells of pig shit.’ How beautifully jargon free.

When I first qualified, I loved all the medical jargon. I felt that it made us sound clever and elite and I got off on the fact that I could have a chat with a fellow medic on the train. However, it only takes an interaction with someone who uses jargon that you don’t understand to realise how annoying it can be. Current letters from our managers at the PCT (Primary Care Trust) have just this effect on me. What do phrases like ‘performance-based target strategies’ and ‘competence managed commissioning’ mean. They certainly don’t seem to bear any relevance to my daily routine of listening to people’s health grumbles and trying to make them feel a bit better.

Patients are always happiest if you skip the jargon and say it how it is. I find that replacing the phrase ‘stage-four renal impairment’ with ‘knackered kidneys’ or ‘mitotic growth’ with ‘cancer’ is generally appreciated. We all like to have things explained in terms we can understand and I just wish that NHS managers would write me letters in a language that I could comprehend.

It was Darren Mills who first named me Benny Big Nose. The last I heard, he was spending some well-deserved time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. His straightforward and direct manner seemed to get him in trouble from the teachers and later the police. However, Darren, if you’re out there, I’d like to say thank you for teaching me the valuable lesson of saying it how it is. You usually don’t cause as much offence as you think you might and most people will appreciate your honesty.

Proud to work for the NHS

One weekend I was doing a locum shift in A&E and saw a middle-aged German couple who had been involved in a car accident. They had been on a driving holiday around the UK and had crashed their car into a ditch. Fortunately, they weren’t severely hurt but an ambulance was with them within ten minutes and the paramedics gave some basic first aid before ferrying them to hospital. They were then seen by me and I organised some X-rays to make sure that the man didn’t have any neck injuries and to confirm a suspected dislocation of one of the woman’s fingers. The man’s neck X-ray was fine and I injected some local anaesthetic into the woman’s finger and popped the dislocated joint back into place. The healthcare assistant got them a cup of tea and a sandwich each and one of the nurses then cleaned and dressed a few of their cuts and scratches. Finally, the receptionist let them use her phone to call their car hire firm and organise a taxi back to their hotel.

As I let them know that they were free to go, the German man got his wallet out and tried to give me his Visa card. I explained that he didn’t have to pay me so he then started giving me his address so that he could be billed at home. I literally had to spend ten minutes convincing him that the treatment he had received was free of charge. ‘But everyone has been so good to us,’ he protested. ‘I wouldn’t have got any better treatment back home. Why do you British spend so much time complaining about your health service?’ It was one of those moments where I simply felt an overwhelming pride to be a part of the NHS. Of course, there are days when I spend a lot of time apologising for the inadequacies of the NHS, but overall I still believe that if you are genuinely unwell or have an accident, there aren’t many places on the planet where you would get a better service.

Sitting around with a bunch of GPs recently, I was surprised by how many thought that there should be a charge to be seen in A&E or by a GP. The general consensus was that £5 would be just enough to keep out some of the time-wasters and make people think twice before pitching up to see us. I have to say I couldn’t disagree more. I appreciate that the NHS isn’t free because we pay for it with our taxes, but it is free at the point of delivery and I feel that is something fundamentally vital in maintaining some of the original ideals of Nye Bevan and the other founders of the NHS. A charge would keep away some of the more vulnerable people who needed our help most and suddenly change the dynamic and mindset of the patients who would now be paying directly for our services.

Drug reps

Sixteen tablets of a supermarket’s own brand ibuprofen cost just 35p, while 16 tablets of Neurofen cost £1.99. This is strange to believe considering they really are exactly the same medicine. The drug company that makes Neurofen uses clever advertising and packaging to convince us to pay over five times more money than we need to.

Drug companies are very good at overcharging us for medicine. In the world of prescription drugs, millions of pounds are wasted by the NHS because doctors prescribe expensive ones when they could be prescribing much cheaper versions of exactly the same medicines. How do the pharmaceutical companies hoodwink us into doing that? Again, it is all about marketing. Young and attractive drug reps come and promote their drugs, while buying us lunch or even taking us out for dinner at posh restaurants. They feed us biased information on why we should use their more expensive medicine and give us free pens and mugs sporting their brand. (There are now much stricter rules than there used to be about how much drug reps can spend on us doctors. For example, the free gifts that they give us now have to be under the value of £5 and when drug reps take us all out for a slap-up meal, there has to be an ‘educational’ component to the evening rather than a completely uninterrupted session of good food and expensive wine. The drug companies’ all-expenses-paid trips to ‘conferences’ in the Caribbean have stopped, too.)

I used to attend the lunches and dinners. As I pocketed the free gifts and scoffed down the expensive nosh, I convinced myself that we doctors were too ‘savvy’ to be influenced by colourful flip charts and pretty smiles. The pharmaceutical industry, of course, knows that this isn’t the case. A few hundred quid taking some GPs out for dinner is peanuts compared to the money they can make if one or two of us start prescribing their drug.

In the USA, pharmaceutical companies employ ex-American football players and cheerleaders to sell their products. Doctors are suckers for a pretty face like everyone else. The attractive female reps are sent to sell their products to the predominantly male surgical consultants, while the pretty-boy male reps sell to the more female-dominated obstetric and paediatric departments. Fortunately in this country, our retired sports stars tend to fall ungracefully into alcoholism and gambling addiction rather than trying to sell us overpriced medicines. I can’t imagine even the most star-struck doctor being convinced to prescribe an antidepressant promoted by Gazza or a painkiller endorsed by Vinnie Jones.

As well as constant pressure from drug reps, GPs also face resistance from patients when trying to change medication. Whenever I can, I try to switch my patients from the more expensive medicines to the cheaper ones that do the same thing. Unfortunately, this can be very unpopular with patients. Often they get used to a certain packet and tablet colour and no amount of persuasion will convince them to switch. One elderly lady once stormed into my surgery furious that I had changed her medicine:

‘You told me that the new medicine was the same as the old one!’

‘Yes that’s right, Mrs Goodson – same medicine, but different name.’

‘Well, I know that’s nonsense because when I try to flush these tablets down the toilet, they don’t float like the old ones did.’

Drug reps have the cheek to claim that they are helping to educate us by updating us on the latest scientific research. This is, of course, nonsense as their only interest is flogging their drug and earning a commission if prescribing rates of their drug increase on their patch. They give ruthlessly one-sided presentations that show their pill to be wonderful and ignore the parts of the research that don’t paint their drug so favourably.

Having finally realised that I will only ever get biased information from the pharmaceutical industry, I now refuse to see any drug reps. They hover around the reception desk like prowling hyenas, only to be batted away by the fierce receptionist. Not having the time or inclination to read all the medical journals myself, I rely on the local NHS pharmacist to keep me up to date with the new medications on the market. She is a fount of knowledge on all the latest scientific research and doesn’t work on commission. Like me, she has the best interest of the patient at heart, while also keeping half an eye on the NHS budget. There really is no such thing as a free lunch and so I’ll pay for my own, thanks.

Mr Tipton, the paedophile

I had been asked to go on a home visit to see a patient I hadn’t met before. Mr Tipton was in his fifties and complaining of having diarrhoea. There was some kind of gastric flu going round at the time, but normally a 50-year-old could manage the squits without needing a doctor’s visit.

As I skimmed through his notes, there was one item that stood out. In between entries for a slightly high blood pressure reading and a chesty cough was ‘imprisonment for child sex offences’. Mr Tipton was a paedophile. There were no gory details of his offences but he had spent six years in prison and had only recently been released.

Mr Tipton lived in Somersby House. Despite the pleasant sounding name, Somersby House is a shithole, a 17-storey 1960s tower block as grey and intimidating on the inside as it is on the outside. As I waited an eternity for the lift to climb the 17 floors, I wondered if the strong smell of stale urine was coming from one of my fellow passengers or the building as a whole. The grey-faced natives eyed me suspiciously; I was looking conspicuously out of place in my shiny shoes and matching shirt and tie. A mental note was made to keep a spare tracksuit and baseball cap in the car to disguise myself on my next visit.

I was annoyed and ashamed by how uncomfortable I felt in Somersby House. When I started medical school I felt distinctly ‘street’. While most of my compatriots were privately educated somewhere in the Home Counties, I went to an inner city comprehensive. Why was I feeling so bloody middle class? Medical school had not only desensitised me to death and suffering, it had also turned me into a snob.

I finally got to Mr Tipton’s flat. After several minutes of knocking on the door and shouting through the letter box, he finally answered. Walking unsteadily with the aid of a Zimmer frame, he was wearing a filthy grey vest and nothing else. As I followed him into his flat, his bare buttocks were wasted and smeared with dried faeces. The flat was like nothing I had ever seen. There were beer cans and cigarette butts in their hundreds. The floor was brown and sticky and I tried desperately to manoeuvre myself down the corridor without touching anything.

It was the bedroom that was truly shocking. It transpired that Mr Tipton had been pretty much bedridden for the last few days with a bad back and he hadn’t been able to make it to the toilet when the diarrhoea struck. There was shit everywhere! His bed consisted of a bare mattress and a coverless duvet. Both were covered in an unfeasible quantity of faeces that looked both old and recent. There were cider bottles filled with his urine and an empty takeaway wrapper covered in vomit. It was truly grim. Amazingly, as we arrived in his room, Mr Tipton calmly laid himself back on the mattress and pulled the shitty duvet over him. I donned some gloves and half-heartedly had a prod of his belly. I made a few token comments about letting viruses take their course and then fled.

I gave social services a call and asked them to go round to do an ‘urgent assessment of his care needs’. In other words: ‘Come round and clear up this shit.’ I made it very clear to the social worker that I didn’t think that Mr Tipton required any more medical input as I had done a thorough assessment and diagnosed a self-limiting viral gastroenteritis. I hoped she wouldn’t see through my bullshit and realise that I was, in fact, just desperately trying to wash my hands of Mr Tipton and make him someone else’s problem.

On my drive back to the surgery, I wondered why Mr Tipton had allowed himself to lie in his own shit for the last three days. Perhaps he was in some way allowing himself to be punished for his awful crimes. Or was it just that he had a dodgy back and couldn’t get to the phone? Maybe there was simply no one else whom he knew he could call on. I often visit lonely, isolated people for whom the GP is their only contact with the outside world. Normally, I reach out to these abandoned people with some compassion and kindness. Why hadn’t I done this for Mr Tipton? Reflecting back, I know that my knowledge of Mr Tipton’s crimes influenced my behaviour towards him. Although I couldn’t have offered him much more as a doctor, I could have offered him a great deal more as a human. The Hippocratic oath tells us that it is not our place to judge our patients but only to treat each one with impartiality and compassion. I think I agree with this in principle but offering kindness and empathy to a paedophile covered in shit isn’t always easy.

Average day

I sometimes think that people have an odd preconception of what makes up the typical day for a GP. These are the exact patients that I saw one morning, a wet Tuesday in November in a typical practice somewhere in the south of England. None of the consultations are outlandish or exciting enough to deserve their own chapter, but they are a very typical reflection of a GP’s average morning.

1 A seven-year-old boy having tummy aches. Mum was very worried, as her nephew had had a kidney transplant at a similar age. The tummy aches only occurred on mornings before school and after finally managing to keep Mum quiet for a few minutes, I asked the lad a few questions and he admitted that another boy was bullying him at school. Mum left the surgery and stormed straight up to the school.

2 A very nice woman in her thirties with six-month-old twins. She was finding it all a bit much and was very tearful. She did actually have symptoms of postnatal depression and was worried that it could be affecting her relationship with her children. We had a long chat about possible options, including counselling and antidepressants. She would be coming back to see me in a couple of days to let me know what she had decided to do and so I could see how she was getting on. I also wrote a letter to the health visitor to see what other support she could get.

3 A 60-year-old woman worried about the appearance of yellow lumps around her eyes. I explained they looked like cholesterol deposits. She told me that there was no point in her having a cholesterol test, as she refused to take any Western medicine and therefore wouldn’t take any cholesterol-lowering medication even if her cholesterol was high. She was also convinced that her diet couldn’t be any healthier than it already was. I told her about risks of having a stroke or a heart attack but I was happy that she was entitled to make her own informed choice not to have the test. I made sure I documented this carefully so she couldn’t come back and sue me at a later date.

4 A very nice woman in her fifties with breast cancer. She had chemotherapy and radiotherapy over the summer and thankfully her cancer seemed to be in remission. She told me that she lay in bed at night and every time she felt the slightest tingle in her fingers or an ache in her leg, she was convinced that it was the sign of her cancer coming back. We had a long chat and I tried to reassure her that her fears were normal and understandable. I put her in touch with a cancer support group.

5 A middle-aged woman with a slightly sore knee for two days, which was getting better. I went through the motions of examining her but everything looked normal. I couldn’t really work out what she was expecting me to do for her. She seemed happy enough with my reassurance.

6 An 80-year-old man who had had some diarrhoea over the weekend, which had since settled. He actually wanted to talk about the current legal wrangling he was having with his niece who was trying to evict him from his family home. I listened for about 15 minutes but was already running very late so had to cut him short and move on to the next patient.

7 A 30-year-old woman with a cold. She had come in specifically for antibiotics and she made this clear from the start. I examined her fully and then explained in much detail why antibiotics weren’t going to help her as she had a viral infection. She was very insistent that she wanted antibiotics as she had an important work presentation to do on Friday! She was not happy at all when I refused to prescribe her antibiotics.

8 A 40-year-old man involved in a mild car accident over the weekend. He had some very mild muscle aches in his neck but nothing that needed to be seen by a doctor. He was only here for insurance purposes in case he decided to make a claim at a later date. I was slightly annoyed that he had used up an urgent slot for this. This is an example of one of the few instances where I feel we should charge patients to be seen.

9 A fairly straightforward tennis elbow. However, the man was a self-employed mechanic so when I advised him to rest his arm, he gave me a resigned smile and said, ‘I’d love to, mate, but who’s going to run my garage?’ I referred him to a physio and advised painkillers.

10 A three-month-old baby with a cold. Very cute. She was absolutely fine and smiled throughout my examination. A smiling baby always helps lift my spirits, especially halfway through a busy morning.

11 A very anxious woman who was convinced she had had an allergic reaction to her latest blood pressure medication. She had a history of lots of unusual medication allergies. Perhaps they were genuine allergies or perhaps there was a degree of hysteria. She was far too frightening for me to argue with so I stopped the medication and agreed to try yet another one.

12 A woman in her late sixties with a cough and breathlessness. She thought she had a chest infection but on closer inspection it looked to be actually due to a build-up of fluid in her lungs because of problems with her heart. I spent some time explaining the likely diagnosis and started her on some new medications and also ordered various tests.

13 A patient didn’t turn up – frustrating, as many patients phoned this morning wanting an appointment but were told that there were none available. I have to admit that it was a relief for me in some ways. I was running late by now so I had the chance to catch up a little bit.

14 A very odd case. A 38-year-old woman came in to see me. She was seven weeks pregnant and had been trying to get pregnant for years. Previously, she had been seen in the infertility clinic and had had two miscarriages. She told me that she wanted an abortion because she had felt so unwell since becoming pregnant and couldn’t cope with the symptoms. It was also a bad time for her to be pregnant. She had just been to the hospital for a scan which showed a normal pregnancy so far. She was flying next Thursday, so wanted the abortion before then. I’m sure there was something she wasn’t telling me. My suspicion was that the pregnancy was the result of an affair but I’m just guessing. I referred her to the specialist clinic and I know that they do a long and detailed assessment prior to considering an abortion.

15 A 17-year-old girl seen with her mum. She had a long history of being seen by lots of specialists. Mum was convinced that her daughter had ‘never been well due to a weak immune system’, although all tests have been normal. She was being schooled at home. All a bit weird and I wasn’t keen on being dragged in too deeply as I was not her normal doctor. I looked through the notes and saw that despite having apparently ‘never been well’, she did manage to get herself pregnant last year and have an abortion and was also recently seen in A&E after getting into a drunken fight outside a pub. Hmmm. They just wanted a repeat prescription of her normal medication, so that was easy enough.

16 An 80-year-old man who arrived 20 minutes late and couldn’t remember why he’d come to see me. He lived alone and drove everywhere. I suggested that we assessed his memory but he refused. I also suggested that if his memory was poor, maybe he should stop driving until he had an assessment from the DVLA. He refused this as well. I decided to contact the DVLA myself. It was a break in confidentiality and his driving might have been fine, but if he killed someone in an accident … I wrote the letter.

I finished the morning surgery late and grabbed a sandwich before rushing off to do a couple of visits:

Visit 1. A 78-year-old man who had had a mini stroke the night before. He had had 11 previous mini strokes and was on all the right medication to control his blood pressure, keep his cholesterol low and thin his blood, etc. He had recovered fully since the previous night and my visit wasn’t really necessary medically, but his wife was anxious and I spent 20 minutes reassuring her that she was doing all the right things and she thanked me repeatedly for coming out to see them.

Visit 2. A 57-year-old man who couldn’t get out of bed that morning. He was previously fairly well. Initially, I thought he was being a bit precious but then I noticed that the whites of his eyes were a bit yellow (jaundice) and on examining his abdomen, found he had a big liver. Unfortunately, my gut instinct was that he probably had cancer. He asked me what I thought was wrong and I said that I thought there were all sorts of possible causes and I wouldn’t like to commit until he had had a scan. Once back at the surgery, I make a referral to get him seen urgently by the bowel and liver specialist. Should I have said I thought he had cancer? I wouldn’t want to worry him unnecessarily if he just had gallstones or something completely benign.

So there we are. That was my morning. There were also a few extra phone calls and prescriptions to sign. The nurse popped in inbetween patients to ask me a few questions and I had to dictate some letters and sign some forms. I had a quick cup of tea and got myself ready for the afternoon surgery.

That was exactly what I did that morning. I have no idea if that fits your expectation of an average GP’s morning but there it is and probably fairly typical for most GPs. It was, perhaps, unusual in its absence of drug-abuse problems and sick-note requests, but that was probably mostly because the practice was in quite a middle-class area. Fortunately for me, I found the morning interesting, challenging and rewarding. It was a typical morning, but would still be completely different from yesterday and tomorrow.

Tara

‘Doctor, you fucked up my medication again. That antidepressant you gave me was fucking useless and I need another sick note.’

Tara is taxing; we call them ‘heart-sink’ patients. When she walks into my consulting room my heart sinks to the floor and I often find myself hoping that it will stop altogether.

I try to view Tara with compassion. She is a vulnerable adult who grew up in an abusive, socially deprived family and she needs support and patience. The problem is that when running late on a Friday afternoon, my empathy is often overtaken by frustration and annoyance. I’m ashamed to admit it but rather than offer the time, patience and support Tara requires, I often find myself wishing I was somewhere else.

I sort out Tara’s medication and then ponder what to write on the sick note. Tara is 25 and has never worked. She doesn’t have a physical disability or a neat diagnosis to put on the dotted line. She isn’t depressed or psychotic, although she has seen a multitude of psychiatrists, psychologists and counsellors. The only firm diagnosis Tara has ever been given is ‘borderline personality disorder’.

I find the concept of personality disorders difficult, but my limited understanding is that someone with this diagnosis has a personality that doesn’t really fit in with the rest of society and they struggle to cope with all aspects of modern life. Most would agree that our personalities arise from a combination of nature and nurture, but in the case of Tara, growing up with an extreme lack of anything that could be called nurture is the principal problem. People with borderline personality disorders tend to act like stroppy teenagers. They often only see things in black and white and fly off the handle easily. They don’t have a particularly good idea of who they are and always seem to fall into stormy, damaging relationships. They have low self-esteem and often self-harm as a way of expressing their frustrations with life.

Stroppy teenagers grow up, but people with borderline personality disorders don’t. They struggle to cope with the adult world and require a huge amount of support and understanding from those around them. Despite being able to rationalise all this, I still find my consultations with Tara madly frustrating and I would love to prescribe her a twice daily kick up the arse. I am not proud that I feel like that about my most regular patient but I know that she also brings out similar feelings in the other doctors at the practice. Some smart-arse psychoanalyst would tell me that my ambivalence towards Tara is a reflection of my own feelings of failure in my inability to help her. I’m sure that is true but I can’t help but wish she didn’t come and see me quite so often.

I do occasionally have a ‘Conservative moment’ and feel righteous about why a physically fit 25-year-old has never worked and probably never will, but you only have to spend a few minutes with Tara to realise that her chaotic existence just wouldn’t cope with work. When she doesn’t like something, she either cuts herself or flies into a rage. She is a mess emotionally and no employer in their right mind would want her working for them. She has had input from all sorts of well-meaning and well-funded services over the years, but seeing a supportive social worker, health visitor, GP or psychiatrist for 15 minutes a week hasn’t managed to counteract the harm caused by 25 years of growing up in an abusive and damaging family.

Sometimes I worry that doctors write off patients with personality disorders too quickly. Some people go so far as to claim that it is a ‘made-up’ diagnosis that doctors put upon patients with mental health issues that are challenging and don’t fit tidily into any other diagnosis. There is no pill that cures a personality disorder so we label the person as a lost cause and withdraw all help and support. This seems a shame given that many of the chronic diseases we do treat can’t be cured. We don’t give up on our patients with diabetes because they can’t be cured. Instead, we do our best to control their symptoms as best we can and try to work with them to give them the best possible quality of life.

After a bit of reflection, I promise myself that I’ll be a bit nicer to Tara next time she visits. I’ll try to listen harder and be more supportive. I’ll give her more of my time and won’t rush her out the door. Maybe she’ll open up a little more to me? Maybe she won’t even notice? At least I will feel like a slightly nicer doctor for a few minutes.

Sex in the surgery

According to a study in France, 1 in 10 male GPs questioned have had a relationship with a patient and 1 in 12 admitted to having actively tried to seduce a patient. One French doctor reportedly stated, ‘It is obvious that some patients like us and we are not made of wood.’ I have to say, I was quite surprised by the results of this study. When compared to the general population, I would say that my doctor friends are probably on the lower end of the scale when it comes to morals and good behaviour. Despite this, I can honestly say that I don’t think that any have had a relationship with a patient or even considered it. As medical students and junior doctors, we got up to all sorts of debauchery both sexual and otherwise, but somehow having sex with a patient never really figured. It is perhaps one of the few taboo subjects that remain among us. We will happily sit round in the pub competing to see who had made the worst medical error as a junior doctor, or recalling past drunken sexual adventures with the unfortunate student nurses who had fallen foul of our charms, but even admitting to finding a patient attractive just doesn’t happen.

When I started my medical career, my non-medical friends seemed to imagine that I would have all sorts of saucy ‘Carry on Doctor’ moments with beautiful female patients. They were disappointed when I explained that as a hospital doctor, I rarely had a patient under 65. My days were spent looking at fungating leg ulcers and sputum samples, rather than pulling splinters out of the behinds of young Barbara Windsor lookalikes.

Since moving to general practice, I do have young female patients. There is also more of an intimacy that develops between doctor and patient. It is less about the proximity of the physical examination, but more about the openness and intimacy of the consultation. The patient is able to disclose their deepest, darkest feelings and fears, often revealing secrets that they wouldn’t divulge to their closest friends or family. It is part of the privilege of being a doctor and it is our job to listen and be supportive. Often the GP might be the only person in an individual’s life who does listen to them without judgement or criticism and it is this that can make us the object of attraction.

In my career as a doctor, I can think of three female patients who have made a pass at me. One was a lonely single mum, one was a lonely teenager and the third was a lonely foreign-exchange student. They all visited me regularly and offloaded their fears and worries. I sat and listened when no one else would; I nodded and made supportive noises; I was encouraging and made positive suggestions as I handed them tissues to mop up their tears. Vulnerable people can mistake this for affection. It is easy for a lonely person to forget that I’m being paid to listen to them. These three women fell for me because, unlike in a real relationship, the baggage was offloaded in one direction only. I didn’t get to talk about my regrets and fears. I wasn’t allowed to display my needy and vulnerable side. If my love-struck patients had to hear all my shit, I’m sure my desirability would have quickly dissolved.

I do care about my patients and I try my hardest to empathise, but ultimately my patients are not my friends or family members and once they leave my room, I move on to the next patient and problem. This may seem cold and callous, but if doctors got emotionally involved with all our patients and their unhappiness, our work would consume us and send us spiralling into depression ourselves. This does happen to some doctors. We call it ‘burn out’ and it doesn’t benefit doctor or patient.

The Hippocratic oath states: In every house where I come, I will enter only for the good of my patients, keeping myself far from all intentional ill-doing and all seduction and especially from the pleasures of love with women or with men.

Many people, including at least 1 in 10 French doctors, probably feel that this is out of date and that consenting sex between two adults shouldn’t be frowned upon just because one happens to be the other’s doctor. I have to say that I agree with the Greek fella in this case. He clearly recognised the uniqueness of the doctor–patient bond and the vulnerability of the patient in this relationship. A sexual liaison that forms in this environment can never be equal, as the doctor will always hold a position of power and trust. In general, the medical profession’s governing body agrees with this and in the UK, quite rightly, doctors are still in a whole heap of the brown stuff if they have a relationship with a patient.

The elderly

My first patient of the morning is Mr A. He is 35 and has a sore ear. He only comes to the doctor about twice a year. I look inside and it is blocked with wax. During his ten-minute appointment I have explained the diagnosis, had a bit of a chat and sent him on his way with some ear drops. The medication is cheap, he gets better and I feel happy as a doctor that I have cured my patient. I am also running on time and know that I will get to the coffee before all the nice biscuits have been eaten by the receptionists.

My second patient of the morning is Mrs B. She is 87 and has come in with painful legs, a sore back, dizzy spells and some breathlessness. It takes her nearly half of her appointment time to shuffle in from the waiting room and take off her four cardigans. She is lonely and socially isolated and really wants to chat. She is a bit forgetful and not very good at giving me a clear story about what hurts when and where. She is already on a multitude of drugs, which she often forgets to take. After a long, disjointed consultation, she departs after 30 minutes without any of her symptoms really being treated and leaves me feeling like I’m not a very good doctor. She will be back next week with a new list of problems. My subsequent patients are annoyed because I am running late and by the time I get to coffee, I am left with a couple of broken, stale digestives.

One of the joys of being a GP is having a close and supportive relationship with elderly patients, but they really do take up the lion’s share of our workload. By definition, the ageing process means that as we get older, more and more things go irreversibly wrong until we finally die. This can be quite hard for both the doctor and the patient to accept. Of course, there are fantastic sprightly 90-year-olds who never visit the doctor and moping 20-years-olds who spend their lives in my waiting room. But generally speaking, the older you get, the more you see your GP.

Treating elderly people with multiple complex medical and social problems is one of the more challenging areas of our work. The goal is to work as part of a team to maintain the person’s dignity and autonomy, while pacifying anxious relatives and navigating through the bureaucracy that is the NHS and social services. Elderly patients are often fantastically appreciative and working with them can be extremely rewarding. Having said all that, it is bloody hard work!

I worked once in a city practice in a young trendy part of town. There simply weren’t many elderly people who lived there. I saw more patients in less time and didn’t do any home visits. I had less disease targets to worry about because few of my young patients had chronic conditions such as heart disease and diabetes. I sat in a trendy coffee shop during my lunch hour, while my GP colleagues around the country traipsed round nursing homes and arranged home helps and hospital admissions. My job was certainly easier but also less rewarding and less interesting.

I recently read that Harold Shipman’s murders were motiveless. I don’t think they were. Most GPs could think of several frail, vulnerable elderly patients who take up a lot of their time. Shipman murdered his. One of the hardest parts of being a GP is taking care of elderly people wanting help for untreatable degenerative diseases. Most of us find that listening and offering some practical support and advice is the best we can do and actually very much appreciated. Shipman clearly viewed things differently and felt it was his right to murder his elderly frail patients. I imagine he enjoyed the power but I also think he was motivated by reducing his workload.

Bums

Intimate examinations can be awkward for both doctor and patient. Fortunately, a good explanation and reassurance from the doctor can make the whole procedure a lot less difficult. When the patient doesn’t speak very much English, the situation can be that bit more uncomfortable. This was the scenario I faced with Olga, a young Bulgarian woman who came to see me.

‘Pain in bottom, Doctor,’ she said in a very broad Eastern European accent.

I began to ask a few questions about what sort of pain it was. Was it related to going to the toilet? Was there any blood in the poo? These are all the normal questions that would usually give a doctor a fairly good idea of what the diagnosis might be. The problem was that each question was met with blank confusion. Olga had clearly found out how to say ‘pain in bottom’ but was unable to understand any word I said. Despite a brilliant attempt on my part to mime diarrhoea and constipation using a mixture of diagrams, sound effects and facial expressions, I was getting nowhere. Feeling completely useless, the only option I had left was to examine her. I motioned towards the couch and mouthed out the word ‘EXAMINATION’ very slowly and loudly. Olga seemed to understand, so I pulled round the curtain to give her some privacy as she undressed.

As those of you who have had the misfortune to have had your bottom examined by the doctor will know, we generally expect you to drop your trousers, jump up on the bed, pull your knees up to your chest and lie on your side facing away from the doctor. I usually have a blanket handy so the patient can remain covered until the examination itself takes place. Normally, the whole ordeal is quick and relatively painless – well, painless for me, anyway. Unfortunately, it would appear that things are done slightly differently in Bulgaria. I pulled back the curtain to find Olga naked from the waist down leaning over the couch with her bottom pointing to the ceiling. ‘No no, you need to be up on the bed!’ I cried. ‘ON THE BED,’ I repeated slowly and loudly. I pulled the curtain across again and after a few polite moments went back in. This time Olga was on all fours on top of the couch still with her bum pointing up in the air. After much gesticulating and loud slow explanations, I was still no closer to having Olga in a position in which I could examine her. I motioned for her to get off the bed and got on myself lying in the correct position. ‘LIKE THIS, YOU SEE.’ I was lying curled up on the bed while my half-naked patient was standing beside me still looking very puzzled. It was a moment that I was very glad wasn’t interrupted by a receptionist bringing in a cup of tea.

I did finally manage to examine Olga’s bottom, only to find nothing unusual at all. In theory I should have done a rectal examination as well, but poor Olga had faced enough already and inserting my finger up her back passage without her really being able to understand my explanation of what I was doing seemed a bit unfair, bordering on abuse. I managed to book her in for an appointment another time with an interpreter present but she didn’t turn up, possibly having somewhat lost faith in me.

I recall another difficult rectal examination back when I was an A&E doctor. An elderly lady called Ethel had been brought in by her husband, Lionel, because of her having some tummy pains and bleeding from her anus. Ethel herself was quite demented and also very deaf. Lionel was a retired vicar and now caring for Ethel full time at home.

After taking a history from Lionel and feeling Ethel’s tummy, I needed to do a rectal examination. It was important to make sure that there wasn’t a blockage in the rectum causing her symptoms. ‘I'm going to need to examine your rectum, Ethel.’ ‘You what, love? I can't hear you.’ ‘I need to put a digit up your back passage, Ethel,’ I say again a bit louder and into her good ear. ‘What’s he saying, eh?’ ‘I’M GOING TO HAVE TO PUT A FINGER UP YOUR BOTTOM.’ This time I was shouting at the top of my lungs. It was only a set of curtains that separated us from the rest of the A&E department and, as you can imagine, curtains aren’t particularly soundproof. The entirety of the A&E department was now aware of Ethel’s impending rectal examination but, unfortunately, Ethel wasn’t. Her confusion was such that she couldn’t really comprehend what I was doing or why. Despite my best efforts to put her at ease, she was getting increasingly agitated. I put on a pair of gloves, moved her into as comfortable a position as possible and gently eased my right index finger into her anus. Suddenly, there was an almighty shriek. ‘Oooh, Lionel. Stop it, Lionel. You know I don’t like it that way. If you’ve got to put it in, at least put it in around the front.’ Poor Lionel was standing outside the cubicle in full view of all the patients and staff who were trying to hold back their giggles. He looked very embarrassed as he made his way back into the cubicle.

Julia

Julia was young, attractive and articulate.

‘I need you to section my boyfriend Andy. He’s completely mad and unreasonable and yesterday he smashed up my moped for no reason.’

I wasn’t expecting that one.

‘Your boyfriend doesn’t sound very nice but we aren’t going to be able to section him.’

‘But he’s mad! It wasn’t just any moped. It was my twenty-first birthday present. I drove it everywhere. It was my most precious possession! He knew that!’

I was tempted to explain that there wasn’t a special subclause in the Mental Health Act that allowed us to section people if the moped they smashed up was a very special birthday present. I held back and instead explained how a person would need to have a mental disorder and pose a risk of harming themselves or others before they could be sectioned.

‘He is a risk to me. He beats me up!’ Julia then proceeded to lift her shirt to reveal an impressive array of bruises on her torso.

‘Why don’t you leave him? There is a local domestic violence support group. Perhaps I could –’

Julia interrupted me. ‘He needs me. He says he would kill himself if I left him and I couldn’t have that on my conscience for the rest of my life. He needs help and all you’re telling me to do is leave him. He was abused as a child and so was his mum. His whole family is fucked up. I’m all he’s got.’

I wasn’t sure where to go from here. From the outside it seemed so straightforward. Leave, run away, start again. Julia had a lot going for her. She could have a whole new life. It clearly isn’t this straightforward as there are thousands of women like Julia who don’t leave or run away or start again. I would never really understand the complexities of Julia’s violent relationship but one thing was very clear. When she said that Andy had nobody else, what she was really saying was that she didn’t have anyone else. She was alone and, however difficult and abusive her relationship was, she clearly felt that it was all she had.

I was feeling guilty now. Initially, I hadn’t really been taking Julia seriously. I had thought that she wanted her boyfriend sectioned because they had had a tiff. It was now clear that things were more complex. Deep down Julia knew that I wasn’t going to section Andy but she was crying out for help and somehow it was me who was expected to provide this help. At medical school I had learnt about the role of mitochondrial antibodies in primary biliary cirrhosis and the parasympathetic nerve distribution to the salivary glands. It wasn’t the greatest preparation for dealing with a vulnerable desperate woman who got beaten up every day by the man who supposedly loved her. Regardless of my lack of training, at that moment I was all she had and I had to do my best.

‘If you leave him and he harms himself, that’s not your fault.’

‘Is that the best you can do? He needs help.’

Andy was a patient at another practice and I had never met him. I couldn’t really speculate what he needed but psychotherapy is usually our get-out clause when faced with a difficult psychological issue that is complex and not fixed with a tablet.

‘Maybe psychotherapy would help Andy?’

Julia looked hopeful until I explained that there was a two-year wait for psychotherapy in this town.

‘That’s really useful, thanks a lot.’

‘You have to leave him,’ I said again. I tried to say it with compassion but I really did feel it was her only option. Julia got up, left and slammed the door. I clearly hadn’t handled that very well. I had failed again. Would another doctor have handled that better? What would a counsellor have said, or a priest or even bloody Jeremy Kyle? I was not sure if Julia would come back to see me. If she did, maybe next time I’d just listen.

Good doctors

What makes a good doctor? I seem to remember being asked something like this during my medical school interview. The interview panel yawned through my contrived answer that mentioned some naïve nonsense about being caring and good at working in a team. As part of our target-based existence, the patient plays a large role in deciding if we are good doctors or not. The Labour government introduced patient satisfaction questionnaires as part of our performance targets.

During my training year I saw a middle-aged woman with stomach pains. I was very concerned and referred her urgently to the hospital because I thought she might have stomach cancer. She was seen and investigated within a week and turned out to simply have bad indigestion. When the snotty letter came back from the consultant, I was feeling a little red in the face. I had made an inappropriate expensive referral to the hospital and had caused unnecessary anxiety to the patient. I could just imagine the consultant grumbling into his endoscope as he cursed me for adding to his already busy day.

The patient and her husband, however, thought the sun shone out of my arse. ‘That wonderful Dr Daniels arranged for me to be seen so quickly.’ She bought me a very nice bottle of single malt to say thank you and told anyone who’d listen how fantastic I was. My poor medical judgement earned me a rather nice bottle of whisky and if my patient got to fill in one of the patient satisfaction questionnaires, I’d have been reported as the best doctor in the world.

Most medical practitioners have an idea whether they’re being good or bad doctors. On a Friday afternoon when I’m drained and tired, I know that I’m not giving my all. I try my best to remain professional but have to admit that I find it that bit harder to resist inappropriate requests for hospital referrals, sick notes and antibiotics. As GPs, we are supposed to be the ‘gatekeepers of the NHS’ but sometimes it can feel much easier to leave the gate permanently ajar rather than carefully defend the NHS hospital waiting lists by fending off the worried well. I’m very popular with my patients on a Friday afternoon because they are getting what they want, but I’m not always practising good medicine. Making the patient happy isn’t always the same as being a good doctor.

When I started as a GP I was told that it was easy to be a bad GP but hard to be a good one. A good doctor won’t prescribe antibiotics for a cold and won’t refer every patient with a headache for an expensive MRI scan. A good doctor should also be able to explain to the patient why he’s not agreeing to their demands, but sometimes, however hard you try, the patient leaves feeling dissatisfied and the doctor goes home feeling distinctly unpopular. It is a difficult balance to run on time but give each patient adequate individual attention, to allow patient choice but not give in to inappropriate demands, to keep referral rates low but make sure the patients get the expert input they need. I’m still not sure exactly what a good doctor is, but it is certainly more complex than earning a few smiley faces on a government questionnaire.

Connor

‘It’s my kids, Doctor. They’re little fuckers. I can’t control ’em no more. Something’s gotta be done about it. My youngest, Connor, was brought home by the police the other day.’

‘How old is Connor?’

‘He’s three.’

I rack my brains trying to think what a three-year-old could possibly do to get himself in trouble with the police.

‘They caught him putting rubbish through the neighbours’ letter boxes.’

‘Was he out on his own?’ I ask incredulously.

‘Oh no, Doctor, Bradley and Kylie was with him, but they was the ones telling him to do it.’

I skim through the notes to see that older siblings Bradley and Kylie are six and seven, respectively.

Mum Kerry is actually very likeable. She is a stereotypical council estate mum. Only 25, but already has three kids with three different men who are all now nowhere to be seen. Life is hard for her and she has very little support. She genuinely wants the best for her kids and really wants help.

Unfortunately for her, the entirety of my knowledge on child behaviour comes from having watched a couple of episodes of Supernanny on TV. I’ve never been the sternest of people and given the way my cat walks all over me, I’m probably not the best person to ask about discipline.

‘I think he’s got that DDHD condition. You know, where they’re little shits but it’s ’cause there’s something wrong with the chemicals in their brain and that.’

I’ve met lots of parents whose children have had a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). The parents love the label because it now excuses the bad behaviour. The kids run riot round my consulting room, rifling through my sharps bin and using my ophthalmoscope as a hammer. Mum and Dad do nothing to stop them and then say, ‘Sorry about the kids, Doc. It’s the ADHD – nothing we can do … brain chemicals and that.’

I don’t disbelieve that ADHD exists but perhaps it has been overdiagnosed in recent years. The main symptoms are lack of concentration, being easily distracted and not being good at listening. I could probably persuade myself that Connor has these symptoms, but I’m not sure that they are related to brain chemicals. I guess some children are more prone to developing these symptoms than others, but in most cases isn’t parenting more likely to be the most significant factor rather than a brain disease?

I’m not going to send Kerry’s kids to the child psychiatrist. The wait is long and I don’t want these children labelled as psychiatrically unwell. I’ve heard there is a specialist social worker locally who gives individual and group parenting skills classes. Kerry is perfect for her.

Kerry comes back a couple of weeks later to let me know how it went.

‘I really like my parenting support worker. She told me I mustn’t call ’em little fuckers no more but instead they are good children with some c.h.a.l.l.e.n.g.i.n.g behaviour.’

She goes on to tell me about how she is now rewarding good behaviour, setting consistent boundaries and using the naughty corner. Hold on a minute, I could have told her that. This parenting adviser must have watched the same episode of Supernanny that I saw.

Janine

Janine is nine years old and about 13 stone. She waddles into my room and then Mum waddles in after her. My room feels very small.

‘It’s her ankles, Doctor. They hurt when she runs at school. She needs a note to say that she can sit out games.’

‘Did you fall over or twist your ankle, Janine?’ I always try to engage with the child themselves if possible. Janine looks at the floor and then shakes her head. ‘How long have they been sore?’ Eyes still to the floor, this time I get a shrug.

‘Right, let’s have a look at these ankles then.’ I try to be engaging and smiley, stay positive and encouraging. I prod and poke her ankles and get her to move them around a bit. My examination is a bit of a show most of the time and today is no exception. One look at Janine walking into my room showed me that her ankles were basically normal. I try to make my prodding and poking look like it has purpose, but it is purely a performance for the benefit of Janine and her mum. I want them to think that I am taking them seriously, that I am genuinely looking for some ‘underlying ankle pathology’. As I prod away, I try to remember the names of some of the ankle ligaments … no joy there. Perhaps I’ll just try to remember which is the tibia and which is the fibula … no, just confusing myself now.

‘Right … Well, I can’t find any swelling or tenderness in those ankles … and she’s walking okay …’ This is the make or break moment … How am I going to put this tactfully? I am standing at the top of the diving board but do I have the bottle to make that jump? I could just write the note, prescribe some paracetamol syrup and climb quietly down the ladder. No, Daniels, come on, it’s your duty to say something. Right. Here goes. ‘Some children find that … erm err … that being a bit … erm …’ (Say it, Daniels, just say it)‘… erm overweight can make their joints hurt sometimes.’ I had done it. I had jumped!

Janine’s mum looks me straight in the eye. Her face looks like a pitbull slowly chewing a wasp. ‘It’s got nothing to do with her weight,’ she says angrily. ‘Janine’s cousin is as skinny as a rake and she has problems with her ankles, too. It’s hereditary.’

What can I say to that? My courageous leap got me nowhere. I belly-flopped painfully. Can I prove that Janine’s ankles hurt because she is fat? No. Is Janine’s mum going to accept that weight is an issue? No. I either argue on fruitlessly or accept that I am beaten and salvage the few scraps of the patient–doctor relationship that are still intact.

‘She can still do swimming!’ I shout as they waddle away, sick note and paracetamol prescription already tucked snugly into Mum’s handbag. It is a final attempt to redeem myself, but a poor one. I can picture Janine sitting in the changing rooms munching on some crisps while the rest of her class runs around outside. Beneath the many layers of abdominal fat, her pancreas would be slowly preparing itself for a lifetime of insulin resistance and the debilitating symptoms of diabetes that occur as a result. Meanwhile, her joints, straining under her weight, would be struggling to cope and the resulting damage would eventually develop into early onset arthritis.

Did I miss my chance to make a difference? Have I been a shit GP again? Are doctors slightly egotistical even to consider that a few well-placed words of advice from us can breach deeply entrenched lifestyle and dietary habits? ‘Hold on, kids, no more sugary drinks and turkey twizzlers for us. Dr Daniels thinks we are overweight and thank goodness he pointed it out or we would never have noticed. He’s given me a wonderful recipe for an organic celery and sunflower seed bake and we’re swimming the Channel at the weekend.’

Saving lives

A few years back I spent a stint working in a hospital in Mozambique. Each morning the American consultant would start the ward round with a prayer and then shout boldly and, with not the slightest hint of irony, ‘Come on team, let’s go save some lives!’ The rest of us would then cringe internally, roll our eyes at each other and then follow him round the morning’s array of sick and dying Africans. There are a surprising number of Western doctors filing around the wards of African hospitals. I’m not always sure of the motives but there we were: an American cardiologist, two British GPs and a French nurse. Between us, we had years of expensive medical training and lots of letters after our names. As we wandered through the wards, we didn’t really save many lives. The majority of our patients were dying of AIDS-related illnesses or malaria. There were no anti-AIDS drugs (antiretrovirals, ARVs) and even our malaria medication supply was low because of a robbery at the hospital pharmacy (an inside job).

Meanwhile, 30 miles outside of town, Rachel, a 22-year-old from Glasgow with no letters after her name, really was saving lives. Rachel had dropped out of her sociology degree and had been working in a call centre before deciding to come and do some voluntary work in Mozambique. She had raised some sponsorship from back home and was touring the rural villages with a troop of local women. All she had at her disposal was a basketful of free condoms and a few hundred subsidised mosquito nets. Accompanied by information and education in the form of songs and posters, her campaign was a raging success. She later e-mailed me to say that malaria deaths had reduced and that she was hoping to have an equally good result with HIV transmission rates.

At the same time, my learned colleagues and I made clever diagnoses on the ward and skilfully inserted chest drains and spinal needles. Occasionally, we did save a life and it was quite exciting when a patient got up and went home after being at death’s door. As we waved them off, we knew that ultimately they would be back. They couldn’t afford to pay for the full course of medication, and it was only a matter of time before they were unwell again and back in our hospital. We were briefly prolonging lives rather than saving them.

Regardless of the country it is practised in, most of hospital medicine is painting over the cracks rather than fixing the wall. Lives are saved by preventing illness rather than curing it. If you are 64 and admitted to hospital in the UK with a heart attack, it will be all blue lights and running around. After emergency heart scans, a dashing young doctor will probably give you a whack of clot-busting medicine into your veins and it could save your life. At age 16, this was just the kind of exciting medicine that I imagined my job would be. I have been that doctor and at times it is genuinely quite glamorous and exhilarating. Sometimes, it does make a real difference and lives are saved. The patient and family will thank you and you’ll feel pretty good for a bit.

Since I have been a GP, on balance I have probably saved far more lives than I did during my time as a hospital doctor. It is my job to try to prevent you from having a heart attack rather than save your life immediately after you’ve had one. It is far less glitzy and dramatic, but by helping patients control their blood pressure, give up smoking and reduce their cholesterol, I have probably helped prevent or at least delay many hundreds of heart attacks. This might sound like a pathetic attempt to try to elevate GPs and combat an inferiority complex put upon us by years of derogatory comments from our hospital colleagues, but I genuinely think it is true. In the same light, the pressure groups who pushed for the government bill for the smoking ban in public places or who pressed for the introduction of the compulsory wearing of seat belts will have saved more lives than all of us put together.

Public health doctors are those who rather than treating individual patients, look at the bigger picture of health trends across the country and the potential interventions that could help. The rest of the medical profession sneer at public health doctors even more than they do at GPs, but the conclusions of public health doctors influence big decisions made in Parliament and can save and improve many lives. The problem faced by public health campaigns in the UK is the tendency for people to react to being told what to do. In Mozambique, Rachel wasn’t faced with angry villagers demanding the ‘choice’ not to be given free condoms or complaining about the ‘nanny state’ forcing them to sleep under mosquito nets. Getting the balance in the UK is difficult. The opposition to wearing seat belts 30 years ago and the smoking ban more recently was huge. Our role as GPs is trying to tread the fine balance between giving useful advice and encouragement to make good lifestyle choices whilst not being too paternalistic and patronising.

Kirsty, the trannie

Kirsty had once been a married man with three children, but over the last five years she had spent many thousands of pounds having surgery to become a woman. She had her chin made less square, breast implants and, most importantly, her male organs surgically transformed into female organs. (In post-op trannie circles this is known as having your ‘chin, tits and bits’ done.) As well as the surgery, there was the electrolysis and oestrogen tablets, not to mention the huge amounts of money spent on boutique clothes, expensive make-up and a Gucci handbag that my wife would die for. The only problem was that Kirsty still looked overwhelmingly like a man. She was six foot two and had broad shoulders and stocky legs. Her 1980s perm and size-eleven feet squeezed into a pair of size-nine stilettos didn’t help. Kirsty looked like a rugby bloke who had been badly dressed up as a woman by his mates on a stag do.

‘How do I look, Dr Daniels?’ Kirsty asked as she flicked her hair and fluttered her fake eyelashes in the worst attempt to be flirty that I’ve ever seen. ‘I’ve had my boobs redone again. Do you want to have a look?’

‘No, no, that’s erm fine … I’m erm sure that they did a good job.’ Kirsty is such a regular at the surgery that she no longer feels the need to have a medical problem to present. She is quite happy to pitch up for a chat and a gossip. She always has a story to tell and is a nice break from the dreariness of afternoon surgery.

For those of you who are interested, the operation is called ‘male to female gender reassignment surgery’. There are various techniques but the most popular appears to be cutting off the testicles and inverting the penis. The penile and scrotal skin are combined and used to line the wall of the new vagina and to make the labia. The surgeon makes a clitoris using the part of the penis with the nerve and blood supply still intact. According to the surgeon’s website, this enables some patients to orgasm. I haven’t yet asked Kirsty about this but I’m sure she would happily tell me all about it given half a chance.

Despite the extrovert exterior, there was a real sadness about Kirsty. The sacrifices that she had made to change her gender were extraordinary. She gave up her marriage and children (only one of whom still talks to her). She lost her job and many of her friends and the pain she describes of the surgery and recovery period is unimaginable. Kirsty now lives slightly on the fringes of society. She is stared at in the street and struggles to find acceptance at every corner. It seems amazing to me that she would have put herself through this much to make the change.

Kirsty, however, has absolutely no regrets. She told me that five years earlier she felt that her only choices were to have the operation or commit suicide. In the nicest possible way, Kirsty is a bit of a drama queen but I genuinely think she means this and the doctors at the practice who knew her as a man agree that she was pretty close to ending her life back then.

Empathy is defined as an ‘identification with and understanding of another’s situation, feelings and motives’. I like Kirsty but I can’t really empathise with her, as I just find it so hard to imagine what it would be like to be so unhappy with the gender I was born with. Kirsty is quite astute and I think that she has spotted this in me. As she left, she said, ‘It’s fucking hard being me, you know. You should try being a trannie for a day.’

I did once lose a bet at medical school and had to spend an evening out dressed as Smurfette. I’m not sure it really corresponds to empathising with the emotional and physical turmoil experienced by a transsexual; however, being painted completely blue and wearing a dress and blonde pigtails, it did take me a hell of a long time to get served at the bar.

‘It’s my boobs, Doc’

Stacy was in her late thirties but the years of smoking and sunbeds made her look much older. She stormed in and sat down with the look of someone who wasn’t going to leave until she got what she wanted. ‘It’s my boobs, Doc.’ I must have had a slightly puzzled look on my face, so in order to enlighten me she lifted her top to reveal her large and extremely distorted breasts. They looked like two oval-shaped melons surrounded by a layer of puckered skin and had two nipples drooping off the ends. They were pointing at awkward angles and looked completely disconnected from the rest of her body.

‘Something needs to be done,’ she demanded. ‘I ’ad ’em done ten years ago but they need redoing.’

It turned out that the original surgeon was happy to ‘redo’ them and his letter from 1998 did clearly state that her breasts would need repeat surgery after ten years. The problem was that he was charging 10K for the redo and, according to Stacy, she didn’t have that sort of money. ‘I need ’em done on the NHS, don’t I?’

My sympathy for Stacy was limited. Yes, she did have hideously deformed bosoms but the local breast surgeons were rather busy removing cancers. I didn’t really feel that she should qualify for NHS treatment. I began to try to explain that I wouldn’t be referring her today when Stacy began rummaging through her bag, eventually emerging triumphantly with a copy of a women’s magazine. She opened it up to a double-spread headlined: ‘My Fake Boobs Burst and Nearly Killed Me’. I read on to see that, like Stacy, this woman had had a breast augmentation in the 1990s, but ten years later her implants ruptured and left her in intensive care with blood poisoning.

The prospect of Stacy being poisoned by her exploding fake breasts might have entertained a lesser doctor than me, but then Stacy pointed out the part of the article showing that the poisoned implant lady was taking her GP to court for not referring her earlier. I could see in Stacy’s eyes that nothing would give her more pleasure than suing my arse for every penny she could. Defeated and broken, I made an apologetic referral to the surgeons as Stacy looked on smugly.

Two weeks later Stacy stormed back in with the letter from the surgeons stating that she didn’t qualify for the operation because of ‘PCT funding guidelines’. It was the perfect scenario for me. I didn’t really want NHS money spent on Stacy’s new boob job but could now blame some faceless managers for it not being done. I was off the hook and happily faked sympathetic noises as Stacy complained about how unfair the world was. A month later Stacy found the money to get her breasts redone privately.

Mr Hogden

I was spending a few weeks working in a very pleasant rural practice. It was nice to have a break from the poverty-fuelled social problems of the inner cities. I had dug out a few ties that I had long since stopped wearing and also rediscovered my best posh accent that I had last used for my medical school interview in 1996. Surrounding the surgery was a collection of very pleasant villages with big houses and twee thatched cottages. It was fox-hunting and green welly territory. During a sweltering few weeks in July, it was a pleasure to be cruising around the countryside doing my home visits rather than stuck in city traffic jams cursing the lack of air conditioning in my car.

Driving down a small country lane, I came across a row of small run-down bungalows. They looked a little out of place in contrast to the rest of the local housing. They were the area’s small quota of council housing that the rest of the village tried to ignore.

The patient I was visiting was called Mr Hogden. He lived quietly with his sister in one of the less well-kept bungalows. He was only in his early forties but hadn’t left his bungalow for nine years. The medical notes seemed to suggest that this was due to a history of agoraphobia, but more obvious on meeting him was that there would be no way Mr Hogden would have fitted through the door. He was fucking enormous.

Mr Hogden resided in the smallest room of the bungalow. It was about the size of a double bed and was taken up entirely by Mr Hogden himself sprawled out on the floor. He had long since broken his bed and now spent his time on a very old, filthy-looking mattress on the floor. Each of his limbs was made up of several huge rolls of fat with a hand or foot poking out at the end. His head emerged out of a humungous mass of lard that was his torso.

The sight of Mr Hogden sprawled out on the floor was a bit of a surprise but it was the smell that I really struggled with. The bungalow was like an oven in this hot July sunshine and there was only a tiny window in the room that barely let in any air or light. Flies were buzzing around in their hundreds and as my eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit room, it became apparent where they were coming from. Unfortunately for Mr Hogden, the flies had found that the warm sweaty crevices between his rolls of fat were a perfect place to lay their eggs. Emerging from his legs and body was a legion of maggots. The sight of the maggots and the horrendous smell were almost too much for me and despite priding myself on a strong stomach I had to do my utmost not to vomit.

‘You’ve got to help me, Doctor,’ Mr Hogden pleaded with me as he watched me take in the horror of his predicament. Despite the terrible state in which he was living, this was the first time that Mr Hogden had called out a doctor in the last ten years. He had managed to get to the toilet and back up until now and he simply spent the rest of his time lying on his mattress watching a tiny television that was mounted on the wall of his bedroom. His sister brought him his meals and Mr Hogden had quietly grown enormous without bothering a soul. Until now that was. This was yet another of those moments where I felt completely useless and, like all good cowards, I fled. To be fair, what was I going to do? I could have crouched down and picked the maggots out of Mr Hogden’s groin creases but I would have vomited. The flies would have fed off the regurgitated contents of my stomach, only adding to his problems.

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