Here we go again.
About three years ago I had a cancer scare. Out of the blue, my GP called. “Hello, Mr McGovern. We have the results from your recent chest x-ray. There’s nothing really to worry about…” Oh OK, I think. My mind racing as my imagination kicks into action.
“So why I call me if there’s ‘nothing really to worry about’” I nervously interpose. My mind conjuring up worst-case scenarios, as the fatalistic Celt in me takes over.
“Well the X-ray shows a small anomaly on your left lung, and we think it would be a good idea to come and have a chat.”
What is it with health workers and ‘WE’? Who is exactly is the ‘WE’ to whom she’s referring?
“Should I make an appointment?” I ask, my mind made mad as a maelstrom of malaises meandered through my thoughts since taking the call.
“No, it OK. Can you come in today?”
More bells knell
Eh? Why the fast-tracking if there’s nothing to worry about? Christ knows what happens when it’s serious!
“Yes, of course, I can make it today,” I replied deflated, as any notion of ironic posturing seemed pointless.
Turns out that after a series of tests including a CAT scan, at which I broke the Kings College Hospital record for projectile vomiting, a small nodule, about 4 mm, was found on the left lung. The nodule was observed for a couple of years and felt to be benign.
Fast forward to the present day. A while ago I volunteered to take part in a lung testing research programme. As an ex-smoker with either asthma or COPD I fulfilled the criteria for the project.
So last week I took myself along to St Thomas’ Hospital and underwent some lung function tests, a CAT scan and X-rays. The health worker told me that if anything serious manifested itself from the scan or X-rays I would be contacted.
Today I was contacted.
“Hello Mr McGovern, this Dabria (not her real name), calling from St Thomas’ lung function team. We (that ‘WE’ again) have found a small nodule on your lung. But, it’s nothing to worry about. You will be booked in for a further scan in November.”
“Oh, that’s comforting to know”, I sardonically croaked. “Just for the record I had a similar call from my GP about three years ago, and it turned out to be a cancerous growth, albeit benign, on my left lung.”
“As I said Mr McGovern there really is no need to worry. If there was we would be booking you in to see a consultant. The report will be sent to your GP. OK?”
“No, I’m not OK. I’m quite anxious actually. What’s the timeframe for my GP receiving the report, please?” I asked in as polite a tone of voice I could muster considering I was by now choosing the songs I wanted to be played at my funeral.
“Your GP will receive the report when the consultant gets around to writing it (honest, her exact words)” she chirped, though what sounded like a clenched jaw.
“Oh. What ‘when he’, you know, ‘gets around to writing it?’ I suppose it’s quite nice playing a round or two on the Algarve this time of year.” I throw in for no other reason than with a break in my anxiety I felt it would be opportune to lob in a pointedly sarcastic parting shot.
Now don’t take this the wrong way. I have the greatest respect and admiration for our NHS. And yes, I regard the service as mine. Yet, sometimes they fall down on the job. In my opinion, there wasn’t any clinical reason for the lung testing team to call me today given that, by their own admission, that this was not a health emergency.
By nature, I am a fatalist. Forget the glass half empty or full, at times I simply don’t even have a glass. Telling me not to worry is a bit like expecting Nigel Farage to have an epiphanous moment and converting to the Bremain camp – it ain’t going to happen.
So, here I sit trying to remember the lessons my Alexander teacher taught me; but being too bound by anxiety to give a fuck about that, instead wallowing in my own fatalistic fashion.
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