April 18, 2012 by Lindsay Sharman
I’m not well at the moment; my hypochondria has flared RIGHT up.
NHS online symptom checker doesn’t bloody help. What is the sodding point of inputting all your (psychosomatic) symptoms, clicking through umpteen screens, only for it to tell you to contact your GP and THAT’S IT. “What’s wrong with me then? Why won’t you tell me? WHAT IS SO BAD THAT ONLY A HUMAN CAN TELL ME?”
My GPs never take me seriously (there might be a reason for that.) Several years ago I was convinced I had bum cancer, and I had to go back several times before anyone was willing to inspect the area. (I say ‘anyone’; but I mean ‘a doctor’. I didn’t get a receptionist to have a look.) Each doctor seemed strangely awkward, which made me feel like some sort of pervert for even asking, like I was waggling my bottom in their face and spraying lube everywhere. They claimed it wasn’t necessary because I was young and statistically unlikely to be struck down by this particular disease. HELLOOO, somebody has to be the outlier, some poor bloody bastard is going to lose that gamble and wish to God they’d insisted on a proper rectal probing, and IT AIN’T GONNA BE ME.
I convinced one of them to examine me eventually. I was fine. Aside from feeling a bit violated.
I remember that one of the doctors around that time told me to “stop eating fruit and vegetables” to see what would happen. Scurvy on top of bum cancer, I didn’t say to them.
Another time, a doctor went to remove one of my big toenails before the anaesthetic took hold. By ‘remove’ I obviously mean ‘hack away at my nailbed with a scalpel and a pair of pliers.’ I was tremendously polite about it, considering he was effectively torturing me, just said “eherrrrm scuse me, I can feel that”. He blithely went and got another syringe of anaesthetic, stuck it in the end of my toe as before, and managed to BREAK THE FECKIN NEEDLE OFF WHILE IT WAS STILL IN MY FLESH. “Oops!” he said, as the broken end of the needle spurted fluid while sticking vertically out of my toe. “Ahahahaaha!” I burbled, hysteria rising, losing consciousness.
That was the closest I’ve ever come to passing out. The next time I came that near was the King Gong show at The Comedy Store.
I also saw a doctor two years ago who was blatantly wasted on prescription drugs. I had mysteriously lost about a stone in weight. Dr Pharmaceutilicious told me “I wouldn’t worry; you’re hardly anorexic are you?”and then sat there giggling.
I have more to say on this….
Next stop: Embarrassing Body’s Dr Christian Jenssen (aka: the American Eagle from The Muppets…but sexeeee) inspects my spread cheeks on national TV*
*I would never bloody do this. Ever.