One glaring editorial oversight in the unofficial instruction manual issued to human beings at birth—largely transmitted across breakfast tables via vague maternal warnings and sharp clips around the ear—is the total absence of a troubleshooting chapter for when the hardware simply starts packing up. As is often the case when your age number gets beyond sixty. Possibly before if you are unlucky.
I had reason to attend a doctor’s appointment the other day, on the basis that the parts that had stopped working multiplied, and things got to the point where medical intervention seemed wise. I say this as a man that views attending the doctors as though it is something to be avoided for fear they ask you to do things which, it turns out, I’m hopeless at. Peeing into a plastic container designed by someone who grossly overestimated human spatial awareness, being descriptive beyond ‘it fucking hurts’, and looking an adult professional in the eye while explaining that my hip has begun making the noise of a poorly serviced Morris Minor.
I attended the doctors with my wife, Mary. Which is just as well. She described the problems to the doctor while I sat nodding at what I estimated to be, in the right places. Mary did a far better job than I’d have done. The doctor then asked me some direct questions. And being female, had intuitively figured out that she needed to keep her questions simple.
I seemed to have done well enough. She immediately referred me to a Neurologist. Booked me in for an ECG and a blood test. Telling me that the resulting data would assist in figuring out what exactly was breaking down.
While sitting there, almost listening to Mary describing my issues, my mind did wander a little. I began thinking about what it must be like to be a GP. And have someone like me turn up saying things like: “I can’t sleep but when I do, I thrash around like an electrocuted haddock”. Or: “I’m tired all the time. And I don’t mean in a manner where a quick sit down would fix it. But more like being so knackered, even holding myself upright is a battle of me against the upper management”. I did imagine the GP, had it been me describing my symptoms, running into another room to scream at the wall.
We left the surgery and Mary made an appointment for the ECG and the blood test. All I had to do was turn up. So, I obviously cancelled both appointments. On the basis that I had far more important things to do than faff about trying to find out what ailed me. Mary made fresh appointments and gave me the kind of ultimatum that suggested she would permanently solve my problems if I didn’t go to them.
I arrived for the ECG. The nurse, a very nice lady, told me to lay on the bed in her room at the surgery. So, I did. And got that wrong. She had to tell me to slide down a bit, so my head wasn’t hanging off the end. While she connected me to the machine, I said: “My wife said you’ll need to see if there is one in there, first.” Then, I did my best wounded look. The nurse gave the kind of smile that suggested she’d pretend that was the first time she’d heard that joke. And was pulling the sticky things back off me in no time.
The next day, I went for the blood test. Early in the morning. The Phlebotomist was a consummate professional. Which is just as well. Because I said: “It looks like you’ve done this before,” resulting in the kind of tight smile that suggested she wanted to take my blood as fast as she possibly could. I then left the small dressing on my arm for the rest of the day. Announcing to everyone who definitely didn’t want to know that I’d had an “oil change”.
Next, came the big wait. An appointment with Neurology. I got a message in the NHS app telling me I’d been referred. Then, after several days, I got another one telling me the referral had been accepted. I imagined my GP seeing it, punching the air and yelling: Get in! I’ve scored another one!” I don’t quite understand why the referral had to be accepted. A General Practitioner decided I needed a referral to Neurology. But the people in Neurology seemed to have to decide whether she was right or not — before speaking with me. I imagined them having VAR screens like for football matches.
The appointment arrived. It was for November 2030 and over the phone (one of those facts might be me exaggerating a little). I’m fascinated that a Neurologist can tell what my brain is doing by simply conversing with the bit that does the speaking. Medical technology has indeed moved on.
As for the ECG and the blood tests? Your guess is as good as mine. I’m assuming from the silence that they were boringly ordinary enough to not cause a flicker of concern to anyone at our surgery. Either that, or they are running a sweepstake to see which one of them has to see the idiot that turns up cracking appalling dad jokes.
Meanwhile, I continue to sleep whilst being shocked by an unseen electrical current. And my need for an “old man nap” in the early evening is very much a thing.