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This is a question Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

Tingtwatter asks: Ever been on the receiving end of some quality health care? Tell us about it

(, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 11:49)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

It's probably nothing,
but I'd like to send you for a catscan.

(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 15:50, 2 replies)
I like cooking...
And thus I was volunteered to cook Christmas dinner, for my mother-in-law's birthday. In August. I was quite happily prepping the veg, cutting an onion to go up the turkey's rusty bullet hole. I wasn't even doing the snazzy "chef-slicing" which makes the other half wince and tell me to be careful, but just slicing an onion into quarters...

The knife slipped, and as I have a great knife sharpener, I also have very sharp knives... It went round the outside of the onion, until it came to rest on something solid - my thumb. I swore very slightly, and put my thumb under the tap to wash the blood off, till I saw the end - almost a cm or so, hanging on by a thread of flesh. So, in the car with the wife, off to A & E.

The triage nurse going round the waiting room took one look at all the blood, and took me straight into a room, and cleaned it off. I explained how it happened, that I'd been chopping onions and garlic - when she cleaned the wound we could both smell the garlic - and patched it up. I was watching in fascination, but as she prodded it a bit, the sensation was odd as I'd obviously caught a few nerves, and went decidedly woozy. I'm normally OK with blood and injuries, but had gone a ghostly white, so she suggested I sat on the bed, an offer I gratefully took.

And here comes the worst bit. The room they'd put me in was at the end of the corridor where all the cubicles were - about a dozen each side. It was a Sunday afternoon, quite busy, so there were plenty of doctors, nurses, porters, patients, all wandering about. The nurse, when she'd gone out, had left the door open. The bed was immediately in front of the door. I was laid on the bed, with my elbow resting on the side of the bed, hand upwards, with a 4 inch plaster on my thumb. I have never felt such a fraud in my entire life....

It's healed nicely though (as the knife was nice and sharp, and I immediately had antisceptic in the cut, these helped :) ) so thanks to the nurses at the GWH for that.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 15:50, Reply)
My Mother in Law
My Mother in Law had spend 15 weeks in hospital when her dementia got so bad she could not live independently. The doctors also suspected cancer, but despite various tests failed to confirm this.

We eventually found her a care home, but after a few weeks we got a call in the middle of the night to say that MIL had suffered a pathological fracture of the leg - basically the big C had eaten into her bone to the extent that it just broke with the tension of her muscles and tendons.

We arrived at the hospital just as she was being wheeled into a room to be examined. MIL was clearly in agony as she was howling in pain, but the twat of a doctor said "Does she always cry out like that or is she in pain?" I nearly decked the idiot.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 14:54, 5 replies)
Never talk back to a man holding a swab
Last year I decided (or, more accurately, was told) to get myself a full-blown sexual health check for the first time ever. Yes I know it's a bit shit waiting 30 years to ensure that your bollocks aren't a breeding ground for horrific parasites capable of causing untold agony to those they are inflicted upon - imagine finding out that you've been housing Piers Morgan in your jangly danglers - but I've hardly been distributing the Foxtrot mojo far and wide during my time on this earth. And I've heard what goes on in those sex check-ups, and frankly I was scared.

I swear the waiting room at the hospital is designed to be like a mental chamber of horrors for anyone waiting to discover if they'll ever go bareback again. Everywhere you look there's an "educational" pamphlet about one of the many horrific diseases you've probably got, you disgusting boy. The only other reading material available was Men's Health, as if I didn't feel insecure enough already.

Eventually the Doctor beckons me through and we start compiling a sexual history for me. Because what I'm about to have done isn't humiliating enough. I'm doing OK - this appears to be the only situation where it's alright to tell another bloke that not many women have seen fit to fuck you - when he drops an unexpected bombshell, although by definition I think most bombshells are unexpected, otherwise they're just... bombs? Shells? Answers on a postcard. Or in the replies. That makes more sense.

"Have you ever had a sexual experience with a man?"

Ah. Well, yes. When I was 22 I may have indulged eversoslightly in what could politely be termed a great big drug-fuelled seven-person orgy. And this being part of my experimental phase, there was a bit of man-on-man action going on. I mention this and the medical professional looks at me like I've just ritually slaughtered his firstborn. This upsets me.

My doctor was late 50's/early 60's and of Indian origin, judging by his accent. He may have personal, moral or religious objections to homosexuality. Frankly, I don't give a shit, homophobia is completely unacceptable in my opinion and he's a bloody doctor - he's not supposed to judge me unless I've strolled into A&E with cocaine falling out of my nostrils, clutching a plastic bag full of severed heads and complaining of a nosebleed, accelerated heartbeat and hallucinations.

He asks if I'm bisexual, visibly disgusted by the concept. Bridling, I reply that I don't count myself as such because I haven't had any sexual contact with a man in several years, and I would have thought that was obvious from the sexual history we've just been compiling.

I am slightly worried by the glint in his eye as he beckons me into the next room and invites me to sit down.

First of all, he explains, he needs to swab my throat. This wouldn't be necessary if I wasn't a filthy bumboy, he fails to add but is obviously thinking. Next comes the part I was dreading until my righteous indignation diverted my mind from the horrific prospect of having a swab rammed down my jap's eye - namely, the horrific prospect of having a swab rammed down my jap's eye.

At this point, I am regretting giving the doctor any lip. As it were.

Thankfully, homophobic or otherwise he is professional enough not to force my cock to deep throat a swab. It was a bit rubbish, as I'm sure many of you know, but at least it was over quickly. Job done. Let's go home and drink beer and eat meat and watch Top Gear until I feel masculated again.

"If you could roll over onto your side Mr Foxtrot, I just need to get an anal swab"

I ask you, is there a worse sentence in the English language? That even beats out "Oasis have reformed" for sheer, unbridled horror. I begin to protest that I've never had anal sex (I actually haven't, well, not as a receiver anyway) but from his point of view I'm already a disgusting pervert, "compulsive liar" isn't a huge assumptive leap and he's just doing his job... Resigned to my fate I await the first ever invasion of my trademan's entrance by another man. Trying to alleviate my tension far enough to get the damn thing into my understandably puckered chutney chute, he jokes that I ought to enjoy this.

Hubris aside, with hindsight my response was a phenomenally dumb thing to say to prejudiced doctor with a swab in his hand.

"You'll need three fingers for me to enjoy it, darling"

Length? Really?
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 14:24, 8 replies)
Not Me But...
My brother J had a motorbike accident about 7 years ago. He was taken to hospital and was knocked out on morphine for a couple of days, then after a few more days they discharged him with bruised ribs. This was the diagnosis despite the fact he could not walk and had to be carried to the car gasping for breath. Once home he was bed bound for months. As this length of pain was not normal for bruised ribs, more x-rays were insisted on… which discovered that he had a broken vertebrae. This was about 6 months after the accident and it had already started healing itself by then. Doctor suggested operation but didn’t recommend it as there was a significant risk of paralysis. He was walking fine by then. The area between the shoulder blades goes out instead of in, (not Quasimodo style or anything) but other than that he seemed ok. So J opted out of operation.

Then this time last year he started losing feeling in his left foot. Hospital check up and MRI scans. These discovered that when back bones started healing themselves they fused awkwardly and started pressing against nerves. Neurologist said he’s fine… for now. But he may have trouble walking and stuffs when he’s about 70. There’s still no need to operate as there are still big risks. J’s “happy” with that as honestly he’s terrified of the operation, and he’ll deal with it when he’s 70.

BUT… there is a doctor at the hospital who had been pushing the operation since the accident happened. He thinks that it’s a miracle J is as able bodied as he is at the moment and it’s a short matter of time before it gets worse- the numbness in the foot being a warning of this. He feels so strongly he has written a letter to neurologist, copying in J, basically telling him his opinion is wrong and an operation is in order.

So back to hospital for J in 2 weeks to meet with the doctor.

Although the NHS fudged the diagnosis and x-rays, I wouldn’t put all the blame on them. J should have pushed harder for results/ compensation. Not that he would admit it, but I know he’s too scared to deal with it which is why he accepted to ignore it the first time around. And he would have taken the neurologist’s opinion last year as the final conclusion if he wasn’t copied into the letter which the doctor sent. I alternate feeling sorry for him and being frustrated with him.

This isn’t an amazingly interesting post I know, but felt like having a rant as I had worried Mumsy being all upset about it on the phone yesterday.

In other news I have had one filling. When my dentist drilled, he hit a nerve and my whole body jumped in the chair. Then when I left, I’d been walking around for about an hour before I met up with Ma where she pointed out the glaring dried trickle of blood down my chin. I make sure I brush twice a day to avoid this trauma in the future.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 14:02, Reply)
Long long ago in a city far far away...
I was sitting in a hospital room with Nurse Ratched as she was in labor with our daughter. So far all was going smoothly- I had gotten us there with a minimum of fuss, they checked on the baby and all was fine, and we were waiting for her to be dilated enough for fun things to start happening- and there was a knock at the door.

In walked the doctor. He was short, very tubby to the point of looking like a bowling pin, with a white monk's fringe around a shiny bald head. He smiled at us and in a Midwestern drawl said, "Hewwo."

It turned out that he was a doctor that Nurse Ratched sometimes worked with, so he agreed that it would be more appropriate to have someone else attend her and exited the room. I kept a straight face until the door closed, then the first giggle hit.

"What?" my wife demanded.

"Sshhh. Be vewy vewy quiet. She's having a baby! Huhuhhuuhuh."

The Evil Glare of Death began emanating from the bed.

I pointed at her belly. "Wook! Contwactions! Huhuhuhuhuh."

"Goddammit, Paul-"

I bent and addressed her crotch. "Oooohh, you wascally baby! Come out of thewe!"

If she could have gotten out of that bed she would have killed me. I stood there pissing myself laughing as the torrent of obscenities and abuse poured out of the bed, tears of mirth streaming down my face as the next doctor arrived.

She never forgave me for that...
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 13:57, 6 replies)
My local GP surgery.
One December, I managed to severely sprain my ankle (seeing the sole of your shoe, hearing a loud crack, and not being able to walk on it at all for a week was a dead give-away). Being the "I don't need no doctor" sort, I left it to heal on its own. 4 months down the line, and it was still painful - I could walk, but running was completely out of the question.

I had to give in, and booked myself an appointment. I was awarded a time slot to see the new registrar, and what a dopey sod he was. He started by asking me what "I thought I had done" as you would expect, so I explained how I dashed down the back stairs at work, got my footing wrong, and twisted my ankle with a loud crack/pop. I also told him that I realised how stupid it was of me to leave it so long, and that I wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help it, i.e. with exercise.

He examined my ankle, I explained where it hurt, and how putting weight on it was still an issue.

He repeated his question at this point "So what do you think you have done?"

"I just said I twisted it... I'm not sure WHAT has happened to it" I replied.

The doctor, as if asking a senior surgeon for diagnosis advice, asked "Do you think you may have sprained it, or broken it?"

"Well I don't know, that's why I'm here..."

"But what do you think?" he continued to ask

I had to keep telling him that I didn’t have a self diagnosis, and that I had told him all my symptoms and what I had done to get that way. At this point he offered probably the most extreme form of medication aside from amputation - "I could schedule you in to have an anti-inflammatory injection directly into the joint, and I would be inclined to send you to Physio. If you had broken it, it would be healed by now."

Not fancying a needle stuck right into my ankle, I declined and asked to just go with physio. He booked an appointment, and prescribed me anti inflammatory pills (I forget which ones, it may have been Dyclophenac or something). What he failed to do, was specify coated pills, as the uncoated were known to cause stomach upsets. After taking them for the first time, I started suffering serious stomach cramps, and had to give up on the course.

The physiotherapist was brilliant, though. She immediately said, after watching me walk, that I was compensating for the injury and was now placing my weight on my foot in an unnatural way. I re-learned to walk on my foot, went though exercises and that electro-magnetic pulse therapy they use.

Now I can walk and run again on it with ease, but it still is a bit sore when it's cold.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 13:31, Reply)
School Nurse
Who the fuck lets these people deal with children, I'll never know. Often their treatments for even the most pedestrian of issues would be better catalogued as torture methods and confined to medieval history books. It wouldn't surprise me if they actually sought advice as to a cure for a nose bleed from these fuckers and used their advice as a method of torturing suspects in Guantanamo bay.

I've experienced these bastards on numerous occassions, the one that will stick out in my mind however came as the result of severe sun burn to my back and neck. Having been out enjoying a gloriously hot summers day down by the river one afternoon, my skin was bright red and I was in severe pain. The worst part was, the next day, I was at school.

Despite being in severe discomfort I did manage to get through the first part of the day without issues, but lunchtime came and the fact that I had badly sunburnt my back came to the attention of half of the school. Some cunt decided that it would be amusing to slap me as hard as possible right below the shoulderblades, unfortunately I didn't react well to this and the shear agony that I was experiencing meant that I was very quickly dragged off to the School Nurse for the situation to be addressed.

To skip the details, I was straddling the chair in her small office facing the back wall, keeping the sun and any airflow off of my back as it just seemed to make things worse. The nurse stood there, contemplating the best course of action available to her while I sat there gritting my teeth. After what seemed like an eternity I heard her, without word of warning, turn on the tap situated behind me and proceed to slap a freezing cold wet towel straight onto my back.

To begin with this was actually incredibly soothing, but after a few seconds after the skin recovered from the initial shock, the skin on my back started to feel like it was searing hot, not unlike plunging into a bath of scalding hot water.

I of course screamed in agony while the shock of pain left my arms completely unable to articulate in the manner in which I would have liked. Effectively, to remove the fucking thing and choke the living shit out of the nurse with it.

Fortunately, due to the unreasonable amount of Pain I was in, someone actually had the foresight to call my mum in, when she arrived they escorted her down the corridor and into the small ill equipped room where I was still locked into the same position, wet tea towel over my back and attempting to chew my own tongue off. Once my mum realised what the nurse had done, she lifted the towel off and proceeded to lay into her about how fucking retarded she is, and how much damage could have been caused. The skin was peeling off rapidly and my back was red raw and welted.

The nurse left shortly after that and was temporarily replaced by someone with even less medical knowledge or common sense.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 13:11, 11 replies)
When my wife was in labour she fulfilled the stereotype of a woman giving birth.
“Get this fucking thing out of me!!!” She screamed.
“It’s ok just keep pushing.” Said I.
“This is all your fault you bastard!” She says.
“No,” said I “It’s your fault. If you’d took it up the arse like I wanted you wouldn’t be here.”

I’m here most days.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 12:23, 3 replies)
I recently broke my leg rather badly.
As in, went A over T on some ice, caught my foot on a pavement and twisted it through 100 degrees in the wrong direction. Big twisty ankle break on both bones in my lower leg.
Absolutely everyone, from the paramedic right through to the physio crew, has been outstandingly nice while treating my injury.
Yeah, there was a waiting time. Yeah, it fucking hurt, and will continue to do so for some time. Yeah, I now have seven bits of metal in my leg, and this scar. But throughout the lot, the medics, nurses, and staff have all been nothing but helpful, kind and understanding.
Fuck anyone who knocks the NHS. They get it wrong sometimes, but they do the whole thing under huge pressure, faced with a wide array of abuse and idiocy (especially from their own management) and they are hugely underpaid.
I really cannot understand why some people object to free healthcare for everyone. They must be pretty fucking damaged to want to privatise (and therefore profit from) something that so many people rely on, and without which so many would be dead. We should be bloody proud to support such an organisation, despite its flaws: by and large, it works.
Length? The scar's about 5".
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 12:02, 7 replies)
Hammer it
Having 3 kids with no real sense of fear or coordination (They get this from their mother) means that I have had a couple of trips to the A & E in Barnsley. I thought that I would start off with the incident when my wife gave birth to my daughter.

My daughter is the middle child and previous experience with my wife whilst she was in labour with my eldest meant that I was expected to turn up and sit in the background staying quiet and well away from the missus as any offer to hold her hand etc etc would be rebutted with some expletive and a comment on how it was my fault for her being in pregnant in the first place (Partially true she also wanted a kid, but I don’t think that the right time to be pedantic is when she’s trying to give birth).

Anywhoo we were in the labour ward listening to some nutcase in the room next door attempt to give birth while sounding like Darth Vader when I noticed something. Since my last trip to the hospital they had installed touch screen panels to each of the beds with the ability to surf the internet, make calls etc etc but only if you bought an appropriate top up card from the reception area.

While the nurses got my wife the stuff needed to give birth and ran on to check on lord Vader next door I stated to bugger around with the panel and realised that even though surfing the internet was impossible without a card the system allowed you to go onto the bbc website.

While keeping one eye on my wife I then read up most of the stories of the day and sports articles (Labour is a boring process when you are a bloke who has a wife that wants nothing to do with you). Eventually I got bored with the news and decided to see if the site let me access other BBC websites. My little fun was interrupted by the nurse said "Excuse me Mr Bison but I think it would be better to stop playing with Bob the Builder and come over here, your wife is about to start pushing".

In my defence this was back when me and my eldest were playing the game daily and we were trying to beat each others score on the CBeebies flash game.

The wife has never let me live this down and will always like to bring it up every so often.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 12:01, Reply)
Victorian Sex Toys
Many moons ago I had to have a few cumbersome fangs removed. A compulsory procedure due to 'overcrowding' or some such dentist propaganda.

I settled into the big slippery doom throne and had my fist few pegs ripped out with Herculean ease. Then it all went a bit tits. Having tried just about every masher, gouger and skewer available, my dentist at the time disappeared into the back room only to reappear clutching a rusted old biscuit tin. Fo' real.

It seemed that the final tooth was what is known in the trade as a 'right cunt.' Anyway, this tin was home to all manner of horrible fucking devices, mostly resembling painful Victorian sex toys. After some rummaging she produced what I can only describe as a hand drill (google it). Now, the hand drill is a fine tool for a craftmans workshop but it does not inspire confidence when in the theatre of dentistry.

By this point I was feverishly trying to disappear into my happy place as the dentist savaged my mouth with barely contained glee. Within a few minutes however the tooth was free and readers, it was a beast. The root of the thing had a nasty twist and came to a perfect sharp point. The other dentist folk crowded round, if only for a glimpse of this magic object.

Afterwards I ambled down the rood with phantom facial palsy, beaming with the knowledge that I had produced the most badass tooth in the history of mankind. It felt like my mouth had given birth to Chuck Norris' boots.

For weeks following I would get the thing out at every available opportunity, regaling my subjects with the whole sordid story over and over again. I've never had any real fears over going to the dentists but now that I think back I haven't been since, oh dear.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 11:39, 5 replies)
Urine infections
Beware of Catheters fitted that get an infection.

The toxins can be quite hallucinagenic.

Proof, When i was in hospital getting my lung fixed I saw a fella drag his bed (with wheel locks on) across a ward because he was convinced he was 5 yrs old and needed the toilet.

He pulled it with is catheter tube.. i.e. with his bladder and willy.

poor guy.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 11:30, 1 reply)
A few years back
I went to hospital with chest pains

I get promptly taken to the emergency room. They take an xray.

Whilst waiting to hear what the doctor says about it, I realise theres a lot of laughter coming from outside my cubicle.

The doc walks into my cubicle laughin and rubbing his eyes in glee

"well 'dan' I think we have found why your chest is hurting"

(it might be a good time to point out he had a thick jamaican accent)

" we cant see your left lung man..." (We caaaant see yeh leaft long mon")

To which I join in laughing with the doctor... unaware of exactly what this meant, it just sounded funny

"hehehe, what do you mean you cant see my left lung, hehehe, so what does this mean? are you going to give me some medication and I'll be on my way? hehe"

" dont be silly " said the doctor (still giggling about the situation)

then said in a straight face..."we're gona stick a needle in yeh chest..."

and he did.

and it friggen freaked me out as he did so.... I was totally concious

and yes - my lung had disapeared... it had fully collapsed and looked more like a potaote in my chest.

good times
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 11:22, 4 replies)
Self Immolation...
I've been very lucky, and only needed to see the Doc on my own behalf a couple of times in the last 20 years. Last time, however, shortly after the "foot and mouth" epidemic in the UK, I managed to cause some amusement by catching "hand, foot and mouth" disease, which is usually a childhood disease and apparently unrelated except in name.

It cleared up in a few days. I worry, however, that the number of people suggesting I should throw myself into a pit of burning railway sleepers may not be a good sign.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 10:52, Reply)
When dinner goes wrong.
After a meal out at a local Mexican restaurant, I was struck down with Abject Agony. Surely, I thought, these were my end of days.

My husband called NHS Direct while I screamed in pain in the background. They confirmed that something inside of me had likely exploded all up my guts and would most certainly give me The Imminent and Painful Death. My husband called an ambulance.

WeeeWaaaah WeeeeWaaaah! we flew to the hospital so I could dodge my expiry date. I was poked, I was prodded, I had scans, I got a laxative and the pain abated.

Their diagnosis?

Sharp Nacho.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 10:07, Reply)
Weekends! Wives! Ducks! Casualty!
This weekend was spent with my family. Those of you that know me are aware that I have an ex-wife (who is now my girlfriend) and a young son.

As is usual, I had planned a virtual extravaganza of fun - Friday we could have a takeaway, Saturday we'd feed the ducks and have a swim, Sunday we'd take his mum (and him) to the local wildlife park before having a another swim and a nice meal.

Friday went well.

Saturday was nice, but we had our swim earlier than expected and went out to feed the ducks a second time.

There's a duckpond near the house, and about a hundred ducks that wander around the area more or less non-stop. They're tame, and friendly (in fact one appeared in the back garden with 17 newly hatched ducklings).

This went well, but as we were putting the empty bag of breadcrumbs into the bin everything went black and swimmy.

I'm told that I staggered wildly, flailing my limbs about the place before landing, with a thump, on my arse. It took me a few moments to get entirely to grips with what had happened as I felt a huge pain in the side of my head, and felt sick.

This feeling didn't abate, so, having read a lot of these posts I went to the hospital with the missus to get checked out. A&E was mayhem, my son was excited and I felt rough.

The nurse came to see me and asked what had happened. I referred her to the missus who explained, with no sympathy and a lot of giggling, that I had been hit in the side of the head by a flying duck. I had, apparently, in an attempt to stop my boy going near the dog poo bin, stepped into the flight path of the world's hardest mallard.

Bloody hell. Incidentally, when I asked my missus why she hadn't warned me she responded with "I couldn't think what to say!' Erm, "Duck!", perhaps would have done.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 9:56, 6 replies)
Obstetrics, what a laugh
A while back I was working in Llandough Hospital. just outside Cardiff. We had our fair share of Jeremy Kyle rejects, and as is their want, they breed.
The hero of the story was a Senior Registrar in Obs/Gynae, and had just delivered to this world a new future car thief, when the male provider of half of the DNA of the new ASBO candidate says "Oi Doc, when can I 'ave sex wiv 'er again?" when our hero, without dropping a beat said "Well, a Gentleman would wait until the Placenta is delivered"

Loved it then, love it now.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 7:04, 1 reply)
Sometimes, it can be hard to give out quality health care.
Especially if the patient who sits in front of you does not share the same worldview. Instead, they would rather believe the homeopath, their alternative practitioner or chiropractor about why they're opening their bowels 20 times a day to blood.

It's horrifying and frustrating to explain to the same person that this is not because their bowel has a 'personality', but because it is a flare up of their inflammatory bowel disease. Frustrating even more to know that the advice that steroids and other interventions which would help the patient is now going in one ear and going out the other, and the drugs that you will prescibe her will go down the toilet, and she will take more sugar pills.

Or disappointed knowing that the patient in front of you who is having a heart attack, who is refusing the angioplasty that would stop that heart attack has a 20% chance of death before the month is out.

Or resigned to knowing that the person who refused to take more blood pressure tablets or to have further investigations, because they interfered with his 'yang' will probably have a stroke in the next 12 months.

On the other hand, sucesses include keeping a stroke patient in for speech and language therapy when the managers were browbeating the team to send him home. We sent him home when he could communicate effectively. Not before.

The woman who had some breathing difficulties and through she was going to die - solved by some nebulisers and some calm words. Sent me a very nice thank you letter copied to the Chief Exec. So far, in 5 years of practice, the only offical thank you from anyone I have ever had.

There will be shit medical professionals, and good medical professionals. But if you choose not to receive the 'full package of care' at a time when disaster can averted - be assured we will still be here, to offer you the full package, in whatever state you may be in.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 2:40, 3 replies)
Seriously rambly and maybe pointless
Feel like I owe a lot to 2 members of the NHS who made me grow up a hell of a lot.

After 3 days of near endelss projectile vomit and stomach cramps, my friends convinced me that I should get checked out as some of them started to think it was appendicitus. So, weak, pale, sweating and convulsing I wandered into the doctors surgery and asked for an appointment, wandered off, had a drink and a vom, and wandered back.

That's when life got interesting. She was casually chatting about how it'll be nothing and I'd just need a dose of gaviscon and MTFU, when she stopped mid sentance, mumbled something about sugar and ran off. I was then rushed ahead of over a dozen pissed off looking patiently waiting, erm, patients, and laid out on the examination table. The doc asks what I've been told and gets the history again and proceeeds with the gentle poke test.

I have never felt aother pain like it, when all the doc did was press on my kidneys gently enough to only just indent the skin. Same on the other side but not so bad. I actually started to cry in agony while the doctor tried to sooth me and carry on at the same time.

I had a sever kidney infection and was tested not only for that, but hepatitis too (thankfully negative). Turns out what they say about drinking causing dehydration and decreased liver function isn't a lie.

The speed and compassion was unbelievable. I stopped drinking for over three months after that because to have done otherwise would have been a slap in the face of Nurse MTFU and Dr. Pokey for calming me down, dealing with me, fixing me up and not judging me once. When I finally started drinking again (thanks Dad), I was much more sensible and thankfully, have never done myself the same injustice.
(, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 0:48, Reply)
allergy related
I'm allergic to peanuts, not so severe that I cant be in the same room, but I have to take a trip to the hospital to get some adrenaline pumped into me.So with the back story done lets take a trip down memory lane

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~wooooo wavy lines~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back when I was around 13 we were on holiday in sunny (read: shite) blackpool. it was a family friend's birthday and had the customary cake.I chomped down a slice of the bugger. Unluckily for me it was chocked full of peanuts and not just full I mean it was basically 1000's of peanuts wrapped in icing how the hell did i miss that?!?
so cue some vomiting and tightening of the throat its time for a trip to the hospital.
Get there and get sat in the dirtiest waiting room I have ever seen (been in a few hospitals as I have asthma to) and sit opposite a guy with a giant shard of glass sticking out of his upper arm.
I'm rushed to a bed (woooo for priority illness!) and they set up a drip. I'm sure that the nurse to see to me was a student. Actually I pray that she was.
She gets out a cannula and goes for the back of the hand. Took three shots to get it right:
1st shot: straight through the vain.switch hands
2nd shot: too shallow miss the vain and come out of the skin the other side.switch hands
3rd shot: wooooo she get its. however....she left the cap off.
little fact, blood pours out of veins like the Niagra falls. all over the bed, all over the paper towel like beds. everywhere!!!!!!
However she saved me, and all in all the NHS have kept me going over many years. They are true heros in my eyes, they did everything they could to save my mum from cancer, and even though they couldnt they worked there ass's off for her and did everything they could to make her last minutes comfortable.
End transmission
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 23:37, Reply)
Our university campus nurse was amazing....
There was the annual mumps outbreak on campus, which prompted the uni to make sure we all had the MMR jab.
I was just behind one of my best mates and we both went in the room together. My mate starts telling the nurse about the last injection he had with the "six pricks" which caused him to faint.
The nurse came out with the best reply ever "If i had six pricks inside me, of course i'd faint!!!"
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 23:20, 2 replies)
Lucky Dad
In the 60's before seatbelts were fashionable, my dad was in a car crash and went through the windsreen and did himself a fair few injuries.

Having spent a few days and nights in hospital, the doctors couldnt understand why he spent most of the days asleep and would be constantly checking his medication.

Turns out it was because he and the nurse on the night-shift had got pretty friendly and she would spend a lot of her shift sitting on top of him!
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 23:18, Reply)
My previous GP...
Went to the doctor after having terrible headaches for a few weeks.

The toss-piece told me the headaches were due to my 'personality'.

Edit: oh yeah, there was also the time i went to hospital with a terrible skin allergy. They made me strip to my bra and pants and took photos of me for future doctors to study. Great.
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 22:11, Reply)

Firstly, being a GP is one of the hardest jobs in the world. Unlike hospital medicine, where we can call in a more senior doc, order a scan or just keep you in for observations if things look a bit dodgy, they have to make The Hardest Decision about whether to manage by themselves or refer onto a specialist based on just their history taking and examination skills. So cut them some slack, please - almost all of the GPs out there do a fantastic job for their patients.

That said, I can now discuss some of the quite extreme quackery I have been fortunate enough to witness as a medical student.

* The GP who diagnosed everything as 'viral'. This included:
- Lymphoma
- Anorexia nervosa
- A stroke (posterior territory)
- Chronic urinary retention (the poor chap had a bladder swollen to nearly three litres - normal is 500ml!)

* The locum GP who spoke nearly no English. To a patient suffering from a mental health issue "You have mad health, isn't it?"

And now some general medical advice.

1. Do you have random back/limb pain? Take painkillers. And don't just take 500mg of paracetomol then worry that it's unnatural - you won't achieve effective concentrations in your blood and it won't work. Treatment dose paracetamol 1gram every 4-6 hours as required to a maximum of 4 grams in a day. If you are still in pain then you can see the doctor.

2. By the same token, don't suffer in silence. Chest pain is *always* serious, especially when it is crushing, accompanied by nausea, vomiting and shortness of breath and radiates to your jaw and left arm.

3. Also don't mess around with children's health. Bring them in if your child doesn't look right (as a parent you are a far better judge of this than a tired junior doctor who has never met your child before)

4. Stop smoking for fuck's sake.

5. While the NHS is not doing amazingly from a financial point of view, you will be surprised to know this does not inform the average doctor's management of you very much. If your doctor wouldn't give you a scan, that's because you didn't need the equivalent of 20 years of background radiation being pumped directly into your brain.
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 21:41, 6 replies)
Don't ironically post a reply to last week's QOTW once it has finished as it just makes you look a twat.

Your Better Judgement

ps, put that screwdriver away before you have your eye out.
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 21:27, 1 reply)
The homeopathist
When my wife and I moved into our new flat in Paris, the previous tenant was a doctor. Actually, she was a homeopathist, but apparently under French law, alternative quacks still have to have degrees in medicine before they can practise. This must require levels of doublethink that George Orwell himself would blush at, but I digress.

On moving in, we soon realised that the place hadn't been cleaned beyond the odd superficial wipe of visible surfaces, and to make things worse, it was infested with cockroaches that took months to get rid of. You'd think that a doctor would understand basic hygiene; I like to think she tried to shift the bugs by catching one, shaking it up in a jar of water, diluting to the point of one cockroach per ocean of water and spreading the stuff around the flat.
(, Sun 14 Mar 2010, 19:54, Reply)

This question is now closed.

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