Health

Isn’t this country’s health system the best in the world? It might once have been, but the way it is right now is a joke.

The following story closely resembles what happened to someone I know.

Phoning the NHS’ 111 number late at night is not something I would advise anyone who is seriously ill to do. Or anyone who lacks the patience of a saint. Forty minutes of questioning about your symptoms and personal details will only lead to the promise of a qualified medical professional phoning you back “shortly”.

“Shortly” could be anything from an hour to never. If you are lucky enough to receive a call before you die, they’ll have you repeat the same information you gave them earlier before making a decision about your rapidly-deteriorating health.

Then they might send an ambulance to your house. Don’t expect blazing sirens and blue lights in anything under half an hour though. They will probably need to stop for a pizza on the way.

The ambulance personnel will be friendly and will do as much as they can, but they will probably advise you not to go to hospital. “Take some painkillers and ride it out,” they may suggest. In this instance they suggested waiting until morning and visiting the local Minor Injuries Unit.

The Minor Injuries Unit is just a step above doing nothing whatsoever. After another details and symptoms check, they’ll do exactly what the paramedics did. “Ring an out-of-hours GP,” they’ll advise. And how do you do that? You ring 111, of course.

Calling 111 when you’ve recently called 111 surely means they have all your details on file and the phone call will only take seconds, right? Wrong. The whole process must be repeated again.

Eventually you’ll get to speak to the out-of-hours GP who’ll give you a friendly invite to the hospital. Never mind that said hospital is in another town, half an hour away. And they’ll make you wait when you get there.

By this point even the GP’s comedy Russian accent will pass you by unnoticed and you’ll give out the same information once again. You could do it in your sleep by this point. “Hmmm, I see you’ve already had your blood pressure checked twice today. I’d better check it again, just to be sure,” she’ll say, but in Cyrillic script.

A potential diagnosis might be reached. Perhaps it would be best to talk to a surgeon about it? Yes, ok. The surgeon is at yet another hospital, another half hour’s drive away.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

The A&E is obviously always busy. Probably not on the day you go there, but sitting for an hour while tumbleweed blows past is essential whilst waiting for a surgeon to drag himself off the golf course. At least there’s a TV in the waiting room, showing adverts about the joys of retirement homes and prostate exams.

Yet again you’ll have your blood pressure taken. They’ll most likely take a bit of your blood too. It’ll probably end up being poured down the sink, but mutterings of sending it “up to the lab” create an air of importance and caring.

Finally the mythical surgeon will arrive, emerging from a cloud of smoke like a Stars In Their Eyes contestant.

A bit of poking and prodding and the surgeon will announce, “I do everything within my power to avoid operating on anyone and will offer the flimsiest of reasons to achieve this goal. Here’s a speculative diagnosis that I just looked up on Wikipedia. Take some of these pills, the name of which I’ve handily written in my illegible scrawl on this prescription. Go home and please don’t ever come back.”

And they won’t even validate your parking ticket when you leave.