Profile for shamen:
Womble. Turntable. Feisty.
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- a member for 19 years, 5 months and 15 days
- has posted 75 messages on the main board
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- has posted 161 messages on the talk board
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- has posted 56 stories and 55 replies on question of the week
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Womble. Turntable. Feisty.
Recent front page messages:
Couldnt resist
and its probably the most likely way to get em to quit that pesky underage sex... (Why did I get hardly any underage sex? I remeber when all this were nowt but fields....)..
Go on, click 'i like this' You know you do you sicko
(Wed 29th Nov 2006, 21:33, More)
and its probably the most likely way to get em to quit that pesky underage sex... (Why did I get hardly any underage sex? I remeber when all this were nowt but fields....)..
Go on, click 'i like this' You know you do you sicko
(Wed 29th Nov 2006, 21:33, More)
Best answers to questions:
» Cougars and Sugar Daddies
ok so ill take the plunge
As you all seem to be bearing your sordid moments. Here is my shameful and never before told age gap story.
rewind to , ooh, 1997? Age 17.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little shamen is shipped off to live with his dad who is working out in Russia. But not anywhere classy like Moscow (which in 1997 was still pretty dire), no I'm shipped off to ex communist central asia. A country which borders where Borat hails from, where cigs cost about 5 pence a pack and where the president was known for boiling the odd person now and then. How quaint.
I soon found out that compared to the locals, we were fucking loaded. Score. You can imagine the Russian girlies in the local dive nightclubs were just screaming for an exit visa and saw me as the ticket. Much fun was had while it lasted. But I digress, thats not the meat of this story.
About a year and a half into this, we realised after a few small fires that the wiring in our house was shot. Not trusting the local "its OK, just put wire in socket, he works" school of electrical engineering, dads company shipped out two sparkies from, of all places, Birmingham. So, with having some english company out there with us, me, dad and the two sparkies did what us brits do best abroad. Get pissed up, get lary and shag the locals.
One night we were in the club, dad was so trashed he had to go home, with our driver propping him up on the way to the car. The sparkies and I decided to keep on trucking. Closing time was 5 am, you see. After copious amount of the local vodka, which is more akin to perfume if you ask me, things start getting cloudy. I remember the sparkies brought over three "women" whom though my vodak tainted goggles were still dogs, but still within the do-ability scale. At this point alarm bells should have been ringing. To even detect a hint of old dog after that much voddy is asking for trouble.
There was more drinking, dancing, this much I remember. then there is a bit missing. Next thing I recall, im back at the sparkies guest house, in the spare room alone with one of the .. ahem.. ladies. Much noshing on the big chap occurred, then the beast with two backs emerged. I recall not being able to get anywhere near coming unless I closed my eyes.. WHERE THE FUCK are my alarm bells at this point? On fucking holiday in the bahamas the bastards.
When I pulled out to spray the man batter everywhere, the protestations from her were loud and many so it was clear that cum inside was quite OK. Again, where the FUCK are my alarm bells - im fucking a dubious old girl on the other side of the world in some poor ass country, with no rubber on my cock. And she wants me, the (compared to the locals) rich young foreign guy to shoot inside her.
So I did what any responsible, horny teenager would; pumped her full of it and promptly fell asleep.
Fast forward to next day. Its light, and all I see is colours and all I feel is pain. Oh hold on, eyes closed. Best open them.
OH FUCKING HELL. close eyes close eyes close eyes. gouge eyes out gouge eyes out. Memories come flooding back. open eyes again. Realise I have just shagged someone who is easily old enough to be my grandmother. gotta be 60's at least. The wizend old face staring back at me cracks a smile to reveal, in true central asian style, a grill full of gold and frankly some of last weeks dinner.
I bolted to the bathroom, bleached every inch of my body and would not emerge until she was gone. I scrubbed my poor self RED raw. As the community was so tight knit out there, EVERYONE knew what I had done. All the people at the factory, the town, the nightclubs. No cute local girlies would come near me again, even to get the chance to get that nice exit visa.
So there, thats my story of my age gap fuck. I guess I was out there on the frontier for the good of humanity that night. Thankfully the doctors have reassured me every year since, I dont have cock rot or any other such transmitted bug, which is a miracle considering the local population. Never saw or heard from her again. I suppose the good thing was the chances of pregnancy were about 0% as she likely did the menopause last century.
What the doctors cant do for me though, is get rid of the memory which will haunt me to my grave.
Those brum sparkies set me up, the cunts.
(Thu 11th Dec 2008, 7:29, More)
ok so ill take the plunge
As you all seem to be bearing your sordid moments. Here is my shameful and never before told age gap story.
rewind to , ooh, 1997? Age 17.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Little shamen is shipped off to live with his dad who is working out in Russia. But not anywhere classy like Moscow (which in 1997 was still pretty dire), no I'm shipped off to ex communist central asia. A country which borders where Borat hails from, where cigs cost about 5 pence a pack and where the president was known for boiling the odd person now and then. How quaint.
I soon found out that compared to the locals, we were fucking loaded. Score. You can imagine the Russian girlies in the local dive nightclubs were just screaming for an exit visa and saw me as the ticket. Much fun was had while it lasted. But I digress, thats not the meat of this story.
About a year and a half into this, we realised after a few small fires that the wiring in our house was shot. Not trusting the local "its OK, just put wire in socket, he works" school of electrical engineering, dads company shipped out two sparkies from, of all places, Birmingham. So, with having some english company out there with us, me, dad and the two sparkies did what us brits do best abroad. Get pissed up, get lary and shag the locals.
One night we were in the club, dad was so trashed he had to go home, with our driver propping him up on the way to the car. The sparkies and I decided to keep on trucking. Closing time was 5 am, you see. After copious amount of the local vodka, which is more akin to perfume if you ask me, things start getting cloudy. I remember the sparkies brought over three "women" whom though my vodak tainted goggles were still dogs, but still within the do-ability scale. At this point alarm bells should have been ringing. To even detect a hint of old dog after that much voddy is asking for trouble.
There was more drinking, dancing, this much I remember. then there is a bit missing. Next thing I recall, im back at the sparkies guest house, in the spare room alone with one of the .. ahem.. ladies. Much noshing on the big chap occurred, then the beast with two backs emerged. I recall not being able to get anywhere near coming unless I closed my eyes.. WHERE THE FUCK are my alarm bells at this point? On fucking holiday in the bahamas the bastards.
When I pulled out to spray the man batter everywhere, the protestations from her were loud and many so it was clear that cum inside was quite OK. Again, where the FUCK are my alarm bells - im fucking a dubious old girl on the other side of the world in some poor ass country, with no rubber on my cock. And she wants me, the (compared to the locals) rich young foreign guy to shoot inside her.
So I did what any responsible, horny teenager would; pumped her full of it and promptly fell asleep.
Fast forward to next day. Its light, and all I see is colours and all I feel is pain. Oh hold on, eyes closed. Best open them.
OH FUCKING HELL. close eyes close eyes close eyes. gouge eyes out gouge eyes out. Memories come flooding back. open eyes again. Realise I have just shagged someone who is easily old enough to be my grandmother. gotta be 60's at least. The wizend old face staring back at me cracks a smile to reveal, in true central asian style, a grill full of gold and frankly some of last weeks dinner.
I bolted to the bathroom, bleached every inch of my body and would not emerge until she was gone. I scrubbed my poor self RED raw. As the community was so tight knit out there, EVERYONE knew what I had done. All the people at the factory, the town, the nightclubs. No cute local girlies would come near me again, even to get the chance to get that nice exit visa.
So there, thats my story of my age gap fuck. I guess I was out there on the frontier for the good of humanity that night. Thankfully the doctors have reassured me every year since, I dont have cock rot or any other such transmitted bug, which is a miracle considering the local population. Never saw or heard from her again. I suppose the good thing was the chances of pregnancy were about 0% as she likely did the menopause last century.
What the doctors cant do for me though, is get rid of the memory which will haunt me to my grave.
Those brum sparkies set me up, the cunts.
(Thu 11th Dec 2008, 7:29, More)
» Dodgy work ethics
Food distribution
When I was much younger I had a rather brief stint in a warehouse. The job involved zipping around on 'ride on' elctric pick trucks (think baby fork lift truck but with no roof) and moving crates of canned, glass jar or boxed foods. Oddly enough, this same warehouse also handed tinned pet food, but I digress.
The place had this big computerised warehouse called the 'high bay'. Palelts of goods could be seen stacked what seems like miles up and miles away. Tinned goods goods could be stored for years. Normally you wouldnt go in there as it was all computerized machinery that handled everything. The problem was, the high bay got very hot in the summer, what with the metal skin of the building and no ventilation. The volume of air in there was so great that on hot days it would still be warm the next morning, meaning it got even hotter as the day went on. The more hot days we had, the bigger this cycle got.
As some cans (especially the pet food) arrived from the manufacturer so quickly, they were still hot to touch (literally cooking in their cans). Together, the heat of the high bay and the heat of the cans produced an interesting result - the odd quirk of infrequenly making cans explode, usually causing other cans around them around them to pop too.
As no one usually goes into the computerized warehouse (unless something mechanical/electrical breaks), these pallets can sit around festering for weeks or months. There was even the legend of the pallet that had been in for a year after spunking a load of its cargo down into the depth of the warehouse. They just sit in that high bay, warming up. That is until a computer somewhere decides: 'Hello, Pallet location B-129-a. You are due to come out and be shipped to a customer." Electronics whirr into life, robotic sounds come from the high bay. Within a few minutes the festering pallet of *brandname* stewed steak rolls along the converyor, out of the high bay into the main warehouse.
As the stench makes its presence known, supervisors make a dash for the toilets. Seasoned workers jump in their forklifts and disappear into the racks of the main warehouse. All the permanant workers leg it to the canteen. This leaves us, the agency staff, eyes watering and faces gagging from the offensive odour of this stuff, to realise that the problem is now ours. Just then, no doubt alerted by the cacophony of the permanent staff arriving in the canteen, the manager bounds out of his office and over to our little group.
"Right, get your pick truck," he says to me "load up the pallet and take it out the shed. Stay there, Ill be over in a minute."
Why me? !? :(
The shed, I should conject, was not your common garden vareity, it was what appeared to me as a modern industrial unit that could house a truck and it was cleverly situated as far away from the warehouses as you could get. So off I drove through the yard at the 3mph the pick truck would go, with this festering pallet dripping what can only be described as 'gunge' (I shan't elaborate on that one, trust me) in a path behind me. I opened up the 'shed' and stuck the pallet inside, which is when manager put in an appearence.
I wont bore you with his droning words, but the basic gist of it was simple: I was to don the thin latex gloves he was giving me and strip the pallet down of all the cans. Anything which was broken I was to throw into the skip out back. Anything which was not broken I was to wipe of the gunge, maggots and unidentifiables with the provided rag and stack them on the nice shiny new pallet. The cusomter needed their order, and it could be 30 cans short if need be.
Well now I know why i was off in "the shed" where no one ever went. If any food standards or any other H&S such oversight people turned up, what I was doing was well out of sight. It was one of the lowest points of my life. No doubt a breach of a multitude of food hygene and H&S laws. Just me, my jeans, my tshirt and two latex gloves and the rancid, petrid task before me.
I did it. I puked a few times. I came close to cutting myself on a rancid can once, but thankfully it was just a close shave.
Once I was finsihed, I scrubbed *a lot* with the anti bac soap in the loos and theh let the manager know i was finished.
"Great, good work," he says unconvincingly, "The pallet from below that last one is already out, go take care of it."
So this is how I ended up, back in 'the shed' with a pallet full of boxes of pasta, stripping it down and wiping off the gunge that had dripped from the pallet of tins (that had been stored above it).
So next time you pick up a can (or any box of foodstuffs for that matter) and you see the label has got wet and dried, or has this dark stain on it that you cannot identify - its not from some random in a warehouse somewhere spilling his drink. Its not dried coca-cola. Its the gunge from rotten food (or rotten pet food), maggots and flies fucking that some agency worker has had to wipe off in a nondescript warehouse somewhere.
Enjoy your dinner
(Fri 8th Jul 2011, 21:58, More)
Food distribution
When I was much younger I had a rather brief stint in a warehouse. The job involved zipping around on 'ride on' elctric pick trucks (think baby fork lift truck but with no roof) and moving crates of canned, glass jar or boxed foods. Oddly enough, this same warehouse also handed tinned pet food, but I digress.
The place had this big computerised warehouse called the 'high bay'. Palelts of goods could be seen stacked what seems like miles up and miles away. Tinned goods goods could be stored for years. Normally you wouldnt go in there as it was all computerized machinery that handled everything. The problem was, the high bay got very hot in the summer, what with the metal skin of the building and no ventilation. The volume of air in there was so great that on hot days it would still be warm the next morning, meaning it got even hotter as the day went on. The more hot days we had, the bigger this cycle got.
As some cans (especially the pet food) arrived from the manufacturer so quickly, they were still hot to touch (literally cooking in their cans). Together, the heat of the high bay and the heat of the cans produced an interesting result - the odd quirk of infrequenly making cans explode, usually causing other cans around them around them to pop too.
As no one usually goes into the computerized warehouse (unless something mechanical/electrical breaks), these pallets can sit around festering for weeks or months. There was even the legend of the pallet that had been in for a year after spunking a load of its cargo down into the depth of the warehouse. They just sit in that high bay, warming up. That is until a computer somewhere decides: 'Hello, Pallet location B-129-a. You are due to come out and be shipped to a customer." Electronics whirr into life, robotic sounds come from the high bay. Within a few minutes the festering pallet of *brandname* stewed steak rolls along the converyor, out of the high bay into the main warehouse.
As the stench makes its presence known, supervisors make a dash for the toilets. Seasoned workers jump in their forklifts and disappear into the racks of the main warehouse. All the permanant workers leg it to the canteen. This leaves us, the agency staff, eyes watering and faces gagging from the offensive odour of this stuff, to realise that the problem is now ours. Just then, no doubt alerted by the cacophony of the permanent staff arriving in the canteen, the manager bounds out of his office and over to our little group.
"Right, get your pick truck," he says to me "load up the pallet and take it out the shed. Stay there, Ill be over in a minute."
Why me? !? :(
The shed, I should conject, was not your common garden vareity, it was what appeared to me as a modern industrial unit that could house a truck and it was cleverly situated as far away from the warehouses as you could get. So off I drove through the yard at the 3mph the pick truck would go, with this festering pallet dripping what can only be described as 'gunge' (I shan't elaborate on that one, trust me) in a path behind me. I opened up the 'shed' and stuck the pallet inside, which is when manager put in an appearence.
I wont bore you with his droning words, but the basic gist of it was simple: I was to don the thin latex gloves he was giving me and strip the pallet down of all the cans. Anything which was broken I was to throw into the skip out back. Anything which was not broken I was to wipe of the gunge, maggots and unidentifiables with the provided rag and stack them on the nice shiny new pallet. The cusomter needed their order, and it could be 30 cans short if need be.
Well now I know why i was off in "the shed" where no one ever went. If any food standards or any other H&S such oversight people turned up, what I was doing was well out of sight. It was one of the lowest points of my life. No doubt a breach of a multitude of food hygene and H&S laws. Just me, my jeans, my tshirt and two latex gloves and the rancid, petrid task before me.
I did it. I puked a few times. I came close to cutting myself on a rancid can once, but thankfully it was just a close shave.
Once I was finsihed, I scrubbed *a lot* with the anti bac soap in the loos and theh let the manager know i was finished.
"Great, good work," he says unconvincingly, "The pallet from below that last one is already out, go take care of it."
So this is how I ended up, back in 'the shed' with a pallet full of boxes of pasta, stripping it down and wiping off the gunge that had dripped from the pallet of tins (that had been stored above it).
So next time you pick up a can (or any box of foodstuffs for that matter) and you see the label has got wet and dried, or has this dark stain on it that you cannot identify - its not from some random in a warehouse somewhere spilling his drink. Its not dried coca-cola. Its the gunge from rotten food (or rotten pet food), maggots and flies fucking that some agency worker has had to wipe off in a nondescript warehouse somewhere.
Enjoy your dinner
(Fri 8th Jul 2011, 21:58, More)
» The Police II
Reading festival, 1997
As our mammoth journey to the site involved public transport from the other side of the country, coupled with our teen inability to rise before noon, you can imagine that it took us quite a while to arrive on site. Our tents were duly set up at some far-flung 'as far away as you can get from anything' area of the festy.
On the saturday afternoon we are back at the tents, sipping on brews and cooking up some grub. I'm lying in my tent with my head out the door chatting to mates while nonchalantly making a big fat spleef. The lads went a bit quiet and tried some 'not so shady' attempts to point yonder for me. Me being a bit battered completely misses this and carries on putting in the ganj. I vaguely become aware of some people standing to my right and bounce my head in that direction to see a two pairs of shiney new looking size 12 boots.
"Hello, that looks a bit odd for a festy. Normally boots here are tatty or muddy as fuck" thinks I. In slow motion I start to look upwards - first noticing the neatly pressed trousers, then wondering what the fuck festival goers are doing with radios and other such paraphernalia on their belts. Its at this point, realisation clicks and i turn my head right up and see two of Readings finest plod looking down on me smiling.
"Is that waht I think it is Sir?" asks one of them, motioning towards my king size rizzla (or perhaps at the ganja in my hand)
"Whatsh do you thinks its ish offisha?" slurs I.
"Looks like drugs to me. Is that what it is?" asks the other policeman
"No. Itsh a shiggarette" I blurt out while my mates look on embarrassed at me denying being caught red handed, crumbling my ganja into a spliff.
"Are you sure about that Sir? it certainly doesnt look like it to me" said mr plod #1
"Yes, poshivive. I promise offisha. Were good lads" I slur out, ganja still clearly visible in hand.
At this point is when my mates mouths fell open and I to this day have no idea how it happened, but the reply was pricessless
"thats fine then. Hope you enjoy the festival. Keep yourselves safe"
And off they wandered.
(Fri 6th May 2011, 15:21, More)
Reading festival, 1997
As our mammoth journey to the site involved public transport from the other side of the country, coupled with our teen inability to rise before noon, you can imagine that it took us quite a while to arrive on site. Our tents were duly set up at some far-flung 'as far away as you can get from anything' area of the festy.
On the saturday afternoon we are back at the tents, sipping on brews and cooking up some grub. I'm lying in my tent with my head out the door chatting to mates while nonchalantly making a big fat spleef. The lads went a bit quiet and tried some 'not so shady' attempts to point yonder for me. Me being a bit battered completely misses this and carries on putting in the ganj. I vaguely become aware of some people standing to my right and bounce my head in that direction to see a two pairs of shiney new looking size 12 boots.
"Hello, that looks a bit odd for a festy. Normally boots here are tatty or muddy as fuck" thinks I. In slow motion I start to look upwards - first noticing the neatly pressed trousers, then wondering what the fuck festival goers are doing with radios and other such paraphernalia on their belts. Its at this point, realisation clicks and i turn my head right up and see two of Readings finest plod looking down on me smiling.
"Is that waht I think it is Sir?" asks one of them, motioning towards my king size rizzla (or perhaps at the ganja in my hand)
"Whatsh do you thinks its ish offisha?" slurs I.
"Looks like drugs to me. Is that what it is?" asks the other policeman
"No. Itsh a shiggarette" I blurt out while my mates look on embarrassed at me denying being caught red handed, crumbling my ganja into a spliff.
"Are you sure about that Sir? it certainly doesnt look like it to me" said mr plod #1
"Yes, poshivive. I promise offisha. Were good lads" I slur out, ganja still clearly visible in hand.
At this point is when my mates mouths fell open and I to this day have no idea how it happened, but the reply was pricessless
"thats fine then. Hope you enjoy the festival. Keep yourselves safe"
And off they wandered.
(Fri 6th May 2011, 15:21, More)
» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals
the local docs
Some horrors from our local doctors.Sorry for length, this is an ongoing story as i write, and is fucking scary for us. It could be happening to people in your local GPs surgery right now. who knows why - cost cutting? The bonuses GPs get to not refer people? Dumbness? A "We cant be wrong" complex?
Either way these GP's seem unable to do much other than give vaccines. Theres the time my girl went in with throat trouble and was told squarely by the doc that she had tonsillitis and would be booked in to have them removed. This all, wisely, despite said tonsils having already been removed 10 years previously.
Thankfuly (?) the cause of the trouble was determined to be a malformation in the neck vertebrae which had shifted (fluid pockets/blockages choking the spine or something), but that nugget of info was not thanks to our doctors - we had to find our own private specialist and pay out of our arse for the MRI. Even after that the GP's decided that as they "havent seen that condition before" it cant possibly be affecting their patient. the private doctor (who also happened to be one of the most senior spinal surgeons in cardiff NHS as well) offered to write again with his diagnosis and some strong words, we got some satisfaction knowing that our local GP's were going to be 'enlightened' as he put it. Despite the letter he wrote (and copied us) giving them a very severe bashing on our behalf, the GP's decided their best cause of action to help in future was to google the condition. Yep, our GP's go to medical school and work over all them years to google things they dont get. Shes registered disabled, highly likely because it wasnt caught earlier. Her mobility is now severely impaired. This happened between october and december.
Theres the time she went in for abdominal pains, to be turned away with the excuse of an upset tummy. Pains progressively get worse, so every few days shes back. They palm her off with excuse after excuse until she checks herself into casualty one night. Severely damaged gall bladder (infection from stones i think) needs to be removed, highly likely could have been saved if she had been treated the first time around. That was a few years or so ago - long before i was around.
And lately, the kicker. The one that makes me want to bang their head together like smashing melons. December she goes in with a lump in her breast. Shes already had cervical cancer surgery in the past. Fucking MASSIVE alarm bell signs. GP's send her home saying they dont think its anything, but with a promise of a referral to get it checked out by the specialists.
They do NOTHING.
month later, its bigger and shes starting to loose a lot of weight (half a stone in 2 weeks). Back to the GP's who tell her its "probably a collection of fat cells" and who claim no knowledge of the original referral they were supposed to do. They promise a referral now, but advise it could be many months of waiting as they dont see it as urgent. Tempers become frayed, which seems to make the Gp's dig into their stance even more. They cant possibly be wrong! (see earlier 2 parts of this story for details).
Again, they do NOTHING.
So 2 weeks later, shes back to see them, only now theres not just a lump in her breast, she is having severe abdominal pains around where her liver is (liver cancer being one of the most common secondary cancer caused by breast cancer). They decide this is a strss related stomach ulcer (even though the stomach is on the fucking other side of the body) so give her ulcer pills and send her on her way. They do finally conceed to doing the referal they were supposed to do, but still, no upgrade to 'urgent' status and she is on some long long months long waiting list for a non urgent breast exam.
So we go through even more tears here, things feel fucking horrible and shes distraught that i emigrated from another country to be here with her for all this to happen. Reassurance is given, and we are trying our best to keep our upcoming wedding on track. By now the GP's are point blank refusing to see her for these issues as she is on the waiting list for the breast exam and has meds for the 'ulcer.'
Another month passes by and now her lymph node in her left arm is like a golf ball and about another stone of weight is gone. So thats lump #2 - in the lymphatic system now - with ongoing severe abdominal pains around the liver, lots of fatigue, a lump in her breast and severe weight loss (another very common secondary cancer caused by breast cancer attacks the lymph nodes, usually under the arms btw). By now we are both wrecks, several highly charged phone calls ensue and the GP's agree to see her again. The GP she sees this time agrees theres no way her abdominal pains are related to a stomach ulcer due to their location, but offers no other help there as he wants her to wait and see "if they go away on their own." He confirms the golf ball in the arm pit is indeed a lymphatic swelling but decides its likely an infection, despite the 2 lumps, abdominal pain and the fact the golf ball has been gradually growing for a fucking month, so the girl is offered antibiotics.
Plenty of 'we arent standing for this shit any more' kind of "talking" (ahem) ensues and the GP concedes to a blood test within a week, but wont refer for an MRI, CAT scan or XRAY. Shes off for the blood test soon and we are positively crapping our pants. These doctors are either inept beyond the highest form, or they just have some kind of death wish for my lady.
We are scared, fucked off, tired of having to fight for the healthcare we all pay for, and fucked off with being palmed off by third rate "doctors" who would rate poorly on the common sense scale compared to say, afghan cave dwellers.
We are moving as soon as we fucking can. I havent ever and will not dare to darken their door, id rather die - just incase i go in for an ingrown toenail and come out with no testicles or something similar. I just hope something happens for my lady soon, as we are really fucking scared b3ta. Ive cried a fucking lot. and for the first time in my life, im not afraid to admit that in public.
Sorry for length.
(Fri 12th Mar 2010, 4:32, More)
the local docs
Some horrors from our local doctors.Sorry for length, this is an ongoing story as i write, and is fucking scary for us. It could be happening to people in your local GPs surgery right now. who knows why - cost cutting? The bonuses GPs get to not refer people? Dumbness? A "We cant be wrong" complex?
Either way these GP's seem unable to do much other than give vaccines. Theres the time my girl went in with throat trouble and was told squarely by the doc that she had tonsillitis and would be booked in to have them removed. This all, wisely, despite said tonsils having already been removed 10 years previously.
Thankfuly (?) the cause of the trouble was determined to be a malformation in the neck vertebrae which had shifted (fluid pockets/blockages choking the spine or something), but that nugget of info was not thanks to our doctors - we had to find our own private specialist and pay out of our arse for the MRI. Even after that the GP's decided that as they "havent seen that condition before" it cant possibly be affecting their patient. the private doctor (who also happened to be one of the most senior spinal surgeons in cardiff NHS as well) offered to write again with his diagnosis and some strong words, we got some satisfaction knowing that our local GP's were going to be 'enlightened' as he put it. Despite the letter he wrote (and copied us) giving them a very severe bashing on our behalf, the GP's decided their best cause of action to help in future was to google the condition. Yep, our GP's go to medical school and work over all them years to google things they dont get. Shes registered disabled, highly likely because it wasnt caught earlier. Her mobility is now severely impaired. This happened between october and december.
Theres the time she went in for abdominal pains, to be turned away with the excuse of an upset tummy. Pains progressively get worse, so every few days shes back. They palm her off with excuse after excuse until she checks herself into casualty one night. Severely damaged gall bladder (infection from stones i think) needs to be removed, highly likely could have been saved if she had been treated the first time around. That was a few years or so ago - long before i was around.
And lately, the kicker. The one that makes me want to bang their head together like smashing melons. December she goes in with a lump in her breast. Shes already had cervical cancer surgery in the past. Fucking MASSIVE alarm bell signs. GP's send her home saying they dont think its anything, but with a promise of a referral to get it checked out by the specialists.
They do NOTHING.
month later, its bigger and shes starting to loose a lot of weight (half a stone in 2 weeks). Back to the GP's who tell her its "probably a collection of fat cells" and who claim no knowledge of the original referral they were supposed to do. They promise a referral now, but advise it could be many months of waiting as they dont see it as urgent. Tempers become frayed, which seems to make the Gp's dig into their stance even more. They cant possibly be wrong! (see earlier 2 parts of this story for details).
Again, they do NOTHING.
So 2 weeks later, shes back to see them, only now theres not just a lump in her breast, she is having severe abdominal pains around where her liver is (liver cancer being one of the most common secondary cancer caused by breast cancer). They decide this is a strss related stomach ulcer (even though the stomach is on the fucking other side of the body) so give her ulcer pills and send her on her way. They do finally conceed to doing the referal they were supposed to do, but still, no upgrade to 'urgent' status and she is on some long long months long waiting list for a non urgent breast exam.
So we go through even more tears here, things feel fucking horrible and shes distraught that i emigrated from another country to be here with her for all this to happen. Reassurance is given, and we are trying our best to keep our upcoming wedding on track. By now the GP's are point blank refusing to see her for these issues as she is on the waiting list for the breast exam and has meds for the 'ulcer.'
Another month passes by and now her lymph node in her left arm is like a golf ball and about another stone of weight is gone. So thats lump #2 - in the lymphatic system now - with ongoing severe abdominal pains around the liver, lots of fatigue, a lump in her breast and severe weight loss (another very common secondary cancer caused by breast cancer attacks the lymph nodes, usually under the arms btw). By now we are both wrecks, several highly charged phone calls ensue and the GP's agree to see her again. The GP she sees this time agrees theres no way her abdominal pains are related to a stomach ulcer due to their location, but offers no other help there as he wants her to wait and see "if they go away on their own." He confirms the golf ball in the arm pit is indeed a lymphatic swelling but decides its likely an infection, despite the 2 lumps, abdominal pain and the fact the golf ball has been gradually growing for a fucking month, so the girl is offered antibiotics.
Plenty of 'we arent standing for this shit any more' kind of "talking" (ahem) ensues and the GP concedes to a blood test within a week, but wont refer for an MRI, CAT scan or XRAY. Shes off for the blood test soon and we are positively crapping our pants. These doctors are either inept beyond the highest form, or they just have some kind of death wish for my lady.
We are scared, fucked off, tired of having to fight for the healthcare we all pay for, and fucked off with being palmed off by third rate "doctors" who would rate poorly on the common sense scale compared to say, afghan cave dwellers.
We are moving as soon as we fucking can. I havent ever and will not dare to darken their door, id rather die - just incase i go in for an ingrown toenail and come out with no testicles or something similar. I just hope something happens for my lady soon, as we are really fucking scared b3ta. Ive cried a fucking lot. and for the first time in my life, im not afraid to admit that in public.
Sorry for length.
(Fri 12th Mar 2010, 4:32, More)