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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, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Communication problems
The following are all genuine cuttings taken from the cards which accompany medical specimens sent to a laboratory for bacterial testing. On these cards there are supposed to be the following:

• The patient’s details (name, date of birth, etc);
• A brief diagnosis, or description of the patient’s symptoms;
• What test is required, usually referred to as Culture and Sensitivity (we culture the bacteria, then determine to which antibiotics it is sensitive);
• A brief description of the nature of the specimen.

While this should be fairly simple, it is sometimes amazing, sometimes quite frightening what can actually end up being written on these cards. As I say, these are all genuine and was passed onto me maybe fifteen years ago by someone who worked in a path.lab.

Parts written in italics are added by myself. As a help, HVS is an abbreviation for High Vaginal Swab, UTI is Urinary Tract Infection, MSU is Mid Stream Urine, ICU is Intensive Care Unit a question mark before something means “query”, eg, “?UTI” means “does this patient have a urine infection?”

As usual, in reply..
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 12:30, 10 replies)
During my life...
...I've experienced NHS staff:

* Diagnose a multiple joint fracture as a hairline leaving me in excruciating pain until the end of a bank-holiday weekend, whereupon I was rediagnosed correctly in a different hospital and operated on that night.
* Take too long to get to my brother on a 999 call after heart failure, that 20 precious minutes resulting in brain damage caused by lack of oxygen, wiping my brother's conciousness from his head forever. The paramedic who finished his coffee before attending was subsequently seriously reprimanded and his job now hangs by a thread.
* Take 3 wisdom teeth out of my skull under local anaesthetic with the express intent of selling them to a dental school. Put me into shock. Turns out I had an abcess and my w-teeth were fine. Said practitioner has since been relieved of his licence to practice.

I could go on, and could malign the NHS as a bunch of malingering twats with stories to prove it, but I won't and I don't. As so many have said already, there's good and bad everywhere no matter what kind of organistion you work for. There'll always be shitbags who don't deserve the job they fail to do. But for every one of those resentful, workshy incompetent twats in the NHS there are more than a handful who know very well the vital function they undertake and take it as seriously as they should. My BF is a senior sonographer in a local hospital and the dedication he applies to his work and the constantly-changing knowledge that surrounds it takes my breath away.

If the decision had been taken by me and/or mine to pursue any of the three examples above in the courts, we probably would have made a pretty penny out of it. The fact is though that the NHS doesn't have enough money as it is, and my tearing off a few grand could mean some other poor fucker's life down the line. No amount of money is worth having that on my concience.

Anyone who has a bad experience at the hands of the NHS is either unlucky to have dropped on one of the incompetent/wankerish minority that shouldn't be there, or is simply reaping what they sow either for being an idiot or being a twat to people who are trying to help. That's just life. In the NHS' case though, the sub-code minority can cost people thier lives. As for how to fix that, well, if I was that smart I'd be a lot better off than I am now :)
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 11:59, 4 replies)
Has anyone else encountered this problem
Please let me make this clear I think both nurses and doctors working in the NHS are doing a brilliant job. And I am in no doubt that this problem as set out below has nothing to do with them some efficiency manager throught this one up.

You need to see a doctor, the problem you have might not be urgent, but all the same you need to see a doctor. I have a very manageable condition which means every six months or so I need to see a doctor so they can request the blood test, which means then I need to see a nurse to take my blood, then after a week I need to go back and the doctor will give more of the same or a different dose of pills.

I have found this problem has also occurred when I have been genuinely sickly.

You ring the doctor’s surgery mid-morning. You are told all the appointments have been taken, if it is urgent you can come in to the surgery after 5 pm and wait – but there is no guarantee you will see a doctor. You think to yourself I am ill or this is not an urgent matter, either way don’t want to go all the way down to the doctor's surgery to play doctor roulette.

You ask can I make an appointment for tomorrow morning. You are told No. You can only make an appointment for that day. You can not book an appointment beyond the day that you ring. You need to try again tomorrow the phone lines are open from 8 am.

If you are sick you might mind ringing back at 8 am. Only the problem being that there is only 1 phone line and you and all the other people who missed out the day before are ringing too eventually you get through and there is one appointment available but it is in just 10 mins time (but I live more than 10 mins from the doctors surgery) or you can come in to the surgery after 5 pm and wait…..

Not to mention the hassle is caused at my work I would inform my manager 2 weeks in advance that I will attempting to make a doctors appointment and might need to disappear at a moments notice any time between 8 am and 5 pm in the next 2 weeks and then again about week later the.

Seeing the nurse is no problem, I have booked an appointment 2 weeks in advance.

PS. Male nurses are well sexy.
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 11:45, 7 replies)
A month in the life...
Being a real GMC registered sawbone, I've seen a few 'interesting' things in my time. The 'foreign body in rectum' stories sound like the stuff of urban myths, but unfortunately are incredibly common. We often see people who've driven miles and miles in the hope that no-one will recognise them in our ED! Equally, we have a few frequent fliers who've just given up on explaining why there's fishing line in their jap's eye and a hoover attachment in their rectum... On the A&E computer, they come up as 'Personal Problem', so everyone medical and in-the-know can snigger...

Favourite patients from the last month or so:

1. The man who was brought in by police with acute psychosis. Plod's reasoning: "Well, we found him at the beach claiming he was Jesus and trying to walk on water". He did have wet ankles.

2. The elderly chap who stabbed himself in the stomach with a 10" bread knife, apparently his wife was annoying him. Managed to miss every organ of value in his abdomen. His CT scan is still doing the rounds in various hospitals.

3. The 3 year old who filled up both ears with plasticine because "Mum's music is horrible". Took about 2 hours and a trip to theatre to get it all out.

4. The chap who got confused overnight and drank his and two other patients' full urine bottles. He didn't remember in the morning and we didn't have the heart to tell him. He was concerned about the 'funny taste' in his mouth though.

5. Obligatory foreign body story: elderly lady with vaginal prolapse (things can get a wee bit loose down there as you age) - used to keep an (empty) miniature of whisky up there to stop her internal ladybits falling out...

6. Two or three 'things' lost up bottoms.

PS We don't have a collection of things found in bottoms, that would be just wrong - they're either thrown away or given back to the patient.
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 11:40, 4 replies)
Even the doctor laughed,
My collegue who shall be named Beaker was in the habit of putting any errant elastic bands on his wrist for "safekeeping".
Only the last time he did this the band was a bit short. Two days later he was complaining about a loss of feeling in his hand, it got so bad he went to the doctor (still wearing the band!)
The doc took one look at his hand, realised what was happening. *Doctor facepalm*
I believe the actual words used were,
"You stupid boy"
The doc actually laughed at him in the surgery. Honestly, I'd have been far more scathing.

He still has limited feeling in one of his fingers.
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 10:14, 8 replies)
bleeding bum
A few months ago I went out on the raz on a Friday night with some mates to Whitley Bay (hurah!). Awesome night, stumbled home with a bolognaise pizza and all was well. The Mrs woke me up around 3 or 4 in the morning as she'd found me wasted and asleep on the loo.

Falling asleep on the loo is not something that you should do. Really. In the morning I wake with a throat like sandpaper and stumble off for a post night-out poop. When wiping I can feel that there's a clingon there though, so wipe again to get rid of it. Oops, that's no clingon. Once before I had the same thing, it's a hemorrhoid. Not one of the dangly ones, nope. this one is on the ourside of my bum and is about the size of my thumb.

Saturday is taken up with Diet Coke, Marathon bars (who calls them Snickers?) and playing with the kids (not a euphemism). Life carries on basically....

Sunday arrives and me and a mate (one of the ones who was also on the piss with me) are off to do the P Company challenge in the Paras 10 race. Basically this is a 10 mile race run by the Parachute regiment and is one fo their tests. The run is to be done in boots and carrying a 35lb bergan. The race goes well, my mate finishes in 1h40 (used to be a PTI - typical), I manage 1h50 (the cut off time for Paras to complete it in when training - yay!). Bum feel fine, have a burger while watchign the red devils and drive home. Cool.

Monday. Wake up, off to the loo - I'm regular like that you see. Hmmm, there's blood on the loo paper. Ok, no biggie, wipe and it'll be fine. In work later in the day and my bum is still bleeding. Uh-oh. I tell my manager that I need to leave and go seek assistance (pun intended). Taxi to the hospital (RVI in Newcastle) and I walk in looking for A&E. They don't have one. Bugger. Another taxi to the General hospital and I wait for a while. When I'm finally seen, a Thai woman Doctor comes into the room and asks me to assume the position. She then lubs up and slips the fingers inside. To repeat, a Thai bird has her fingers in my arse and I didn't have to pay her.

I wait in the observation wing and use my phones sparingly as the aged matronlly nurse doesn't seem to like me replying to work emails while my bum is bleeding. Later I'm whisked away in an ambulance of sorts back to the RVI from where I came earlier to see a surgeon. As it happens the surgeon on call was the proctologist and he wants to have a good play in there too. Basically I have an open thrombosed hemorrhoid, basically this big thumb sized bum grape burst from the race and is bleeding, and won't stop bleeding unless they do "stuff" to it. Okey dokey I tell him, so long as I'm ok to run the Great North Run at the weekend I tell him. Erm no, I'll need 2 weeks off work and no running. Oh. I am excused and need to return the next day at 7am, so off I pop home for din dins.

The next day arrives and I sit on a bed watchign TV and listening to my ipod for hours. In the afternoon I am finally asked to don my surgical stockings, remove my undercrackers and prepare for arse surgery. It's all very calm, going to surgery, speaking to the anesthetist etc, but I know that as soon as I'm asleep they'll be laughing at my small willy and pulling my bum apart so wide that the Tyne Tunnel will be jealous.

I wake from surgery and they gave me some morphine. This is amazing. Really really amazing. I tried to tell one of the doctors a joke which comes out as a mish mash of words which makes no sense at all. I think I am hilarious. Morphine is amazing, I can see why people get addicted.

Back on the ward I am left ot my own devices, nurses come and go and life carries on. I'm in overnight and it's all fine really. They feed me, look after me, give me drugs. The NHS is pretty good in my opinion.

Next day, I wake, given breakfast, more drugs and await to see the Doc who will sign me a chitty and let me leave. I really should use the lav before I go as they need to check that they didn't re-plumb me and it's all still working, it takes forever. But hey ho - chitty signed and off I go.

They said that the pain could be unbearable, but frankly I was lucky. I wasn't in too much pain at all and could walk around, sit down, basically get on with stuff - no running just yet though!

So I had the 2 weeks off work sick, played COD4 lots, watched Jezza Kyle, masterbated myself into a frenzy every 2 hours or so - basically lived as if I was a student. Then the wife and kids woudl come home and I'd be family man again.

The NHS is amazing. They saw me on the day I had a problem, I then saaw a surgeon the next day who knew what they were talking about, gave me drugs and stuff and told me to come back the next day for surgery. They did the surgery, fixed the problem, looked after me, fed me and gave me more drugs. Excellent service. Yes they are stretched and need more money. Nurses do an amazing job and I think they are all wonderful.

Of course, reading between the lines, I also got a Thai birds fingers in my arse and had to wear stockings. I would pay for this stuff normally....
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 9:13, 1 reply)
Does a pharmacist count?
A guy goes into Boots and says to the pharmacist "I'd like some Viagra please".

"Do you have a prescription?" asks the pharmacist.

"No" replies the man "But here's a photo of my wife"
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 8:35, 3 replies)
After the birth of our second, my wife decided that i should have the snip. Her best friends husband was in a simlar situation, and thought it would be funny to book the next appointment after me.

I go in at the local surgery; and yes, it hurts like fucking a packet of razoerblades, but its over in 20 mins and despite walking out like a cowboy, I'm back to normal in about 2 days.

Andy is not so lucky. 4 days later and his balls are the size of avocado's, and black as night. A week after the operation, we meet for our weekly lads night out. "I'm wearing two jock straps. Each one has one of my balls in" is what we are greeted with. Now they are the size of a mini football and for the next hour, while sitting on his rubber ring, he talks about his balls, how he is having them drained of blood for the last 3 days.

Long story short, 2 months after the original operation he is back at work, and about a fortnight after that, a meeting takes place where he is offered 14k to "keep quiet" as the trainee Dr that observed my procedure should not have been allowed to even take part in his, let alone try and do the whole thing.

He now has one teste, the lowest sex drive of any man I have ever met and a Lotus Exige.

Win some, lose some...

PS - I love the NHS - I walked in with bad stomach pains and withing 40 minutes I was having my appendix out that was about an hour form bursting. Just shows that you should ALWAYS take the earliest appointment available!
(, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 0:41, 8 replies)
Exciting Swellings
I had an abscess, in my face, due to an abscessing tooth. There wasn't much, if any, pain I can remember, even though my face was swollen and the gum was stretched really tight. There was a bit of watery pus seeping out around a tooth, and I can still remember the taste, which I found sort of pleasant. I really wanted to stick a pin in my gum and burst it, but resisted the temptation.

This led to the start of a course of dental treatment, which eventually led to my very hot dentist gently pressing her breasts against my head.

(Edited because I can't spell "led".)
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 23:16, 3 replies)
I ended up in an unfortunate situation a good ten years ago. After a 'break' from my partner for his infidelity, I had a romp with another young man and ended up pregnant.
I already had a gorgeous child but it was a very wrong time to have another.
As I was just about to move away and start university I decided to have a termination. Abortion. I don't really like the medical term.
I didn't tell anyone except the dad and a few friends, one of whom was kind enough to take me into our local NHS hospital.
Afterwards, I was placed in a ward to recover with 5 other beds with girls of varying ages. After about an hour they started moving and getting ready to go.

I, however, was clutching my tummy and wondering why the pain was so bad.
I called a nurse over, and told her I was in pain. She looked me up and down, I was 25 at the time so no little kid, and said patronisingly, "It's just normal pain, get yourself up and home and you will be OK"

An hour or so later. I was the only one on the ward.
I was grabbing hold of the bars of the headboard to stop me from screaming, and writhing around in pain.
She came in again. "come on now, it can't be that bad, can I call someone to come and pick you up?" She was exasperated.

I explained my friends details were on my admission sheet but that I was in a lot of pain.
She walked off and left me.

I don't know how long I was there but the pain was excruciating. I was alone. They looked through the door at me from time to time, and talked about me, but no one came.

I have never been so frightened in my life.

Eventually my friend arrived. She took one look at me and I burst into tears. I was in agony and could barely breathe. My bedsheets were soaked in sweat.
She went to get the nurse. She took 10 minutes to come. Then she wafted in, very busy, very stressed and very angry at me taking up her time.
My friend explained how she thought I wasn't right.
She pulled back the bedsheets and pressed hard against my tummy.

I screamed and nearly passed out.

She panicked...and finally paid me some attention.
Within 10 minutes I was rushed to ultrasound.

The doctor had the wrong notes that said my womb was twisted. He adapted the procedure and in the process punctured the wall of my womb.
It was only as they had fitted an IUD at the same time, that had made its way into the hole, that I felt any pain.

It saved my life.
If I had walked out of the hospital I probably would have died.

Instead my friend had to go and tell my mum I was in hospital, and I ended up having major abdominal surgery through the night that could have ended in hysterectomy.
Luckily it didn't.

Just a huge scar and the painful memory of seeing my mum sat by my bedside crying as I came around after surgery.
I also had an apology from a very sorry abortionist who told me I would never be able to have children again.

Again he was wrong. I can.
I am still a big supporter of the NHS. Mistakes happen. Sadly they happened to me. But I survived and they have helped my family and friends on numerous occasions.
Sensitivity of any staff in any situation is based on time pressure, targets and just god damn crappy working conditions.
Support your NHS. So they can support you.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 22:59, Reply)
I've only been in a few mild skirmishes over the NHS thing
because most people aren't idiots. If they object to the existence of the NHS they get stopped in their tracks by one of two things:

Arguer 1: We should get rid of the NHS. They give terrible care.

Rebuttal: You could always go private.

Arguer 1: Um...

Arguer 2: I HAVE gone private. Now I'm paying taxes to support an institution I don't even use.

Rebuttal: If you think for a second that if the NHS was gone the government would reduce your taxes, despite knowing you can and will pay the taxes you're already paying, then you're stupider than you look.

Arguer 2: But then at least the money would go somewhere useful.

Rebuttal: And people who can't afford private healthcare?

Arguer 2: Fuck the poor. It's Tory time.

Rebuttal: Um...

OK, not stopped in their tracks. They blunder on as usual. but luckily in my experience most people aren't like that.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 22:31, 7 replies)
A slightly weird story
as mentioned in other posts, I had a two month stay in the ICU on a ventilator, no movement, no speech. My way of communicating was blinking. This did not stop nurses telling me things. I've always been a person who people tell things to. I attract the mad people on buses and trains, the unhappy of those around me. They gravitate to me and tell me their stories.

But the oddest occasion, was this. I was lying there awake and conscious, when a Jamaican nurse came into my room. Since I was attended 24 hours, I met a lot of nurses on rotation, and I didn't expect her to be any different. She pottered around tidying up, then she came and sat by my bed. She told me how sad she was to be in England. How the other nurses were cliquey, and because she was new she had no friends and no family. She was in my room on the night before Christmas Eve crying, telling her story to someone who could not help, could not even comfort her. So I blinked her a message which was basically 'if I could hug you, I would.' And she leaned over and hugged me. I have never so desperately in all my life wanted to have movement back as badly as at that moment. This poor woman was having to get comfort from what was essentially a sack of meat.

The story has a relatively happy ending. I told my parents through blinks that she was sad, and they bought her some wine and chocolates, and made her stay for the Christmas time round my bed.

I hate the poor care I received from the NHS. But I can see the human side behind it. The overworked doctors, the underpaid nurses often foreign away from any support systems of their own, the demoralised hospital managers. It does *not* excuse it, but it does explain it.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 21:29, 2 replies)
Is it safe?
Some time back I had one of those absess things under one of my teeth. The nerve swole up as it filled with gunk until it was the size of a brussel sprout. I am in some serious pain that even a bottle of whiskey cannot assuage. I visit the dentist who has a little poke about and tells me he can't operate until the swelling has gone down, so a course of antibiotics is in order. I try this approach for a few days with no result or lessening of discomfort, so return to the dentist guy.
"Take the damn tooth out" I cry.
"Are you sure? I can't inject any aneasthetic into that nerve." Quoth he.
"Just do it" say I.

He drilled through the tooth into the root in order to release the pressure from the swollen nerve. Queue about three gallons of the foulest smelling pus you ever did see (or smell).

Possibly the most painful experience of my life, but what a relief when it was over! And all I can think about is 'The Boys from Brazil'. Is it safe? Dentistry without painkillers is NOT the future!
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 20:34, 4 replies)
Appropriate name
I used to see an NHS dentist in Newton Abbot, Devon. An Egyptian chap named... Nashar.

A humourless mouth-butcher if ever there was one.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 20:22, 2 replies)
Hospital band
Not funny as such, but there is some irony to be had.
I broke some bones in my hand about a decade ago and went as quickly as possible to the local A&E, which happened to be in Torquay.
Being a guitarist, I was eager to be seen and find out how long it'd be before I'd be able to play again.
While waiting to be seen I struck up a conversation with a couple of the other casualties awaiting treatment and it transpired they were a drummer with a broken leg (kick fighting)and a pianist with 2 broken wrists (motorcycle accident).
The pain we were each suffering was immense but the empathy made us all feel a little better.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 20:19, 3 replies)
Yet more drink induced NHSisms.
A bit tenuous, but I've personally never really had any dealings with the NHS or hospitals in general really. There's been some visits to hospitals, but all has been fine and dandy.

However, a while ago, the young Ms Dchurch and I had moved into a new place.
We went out for a drink or 9 on the first night, as it was right next to a pub, with two pubs within walking distance either side.
At one of the pubs, we meet a young couple of girls, who, quite honestly, shouldn't have been anywhere near a pub - I think they were about 15 years old.

Anyway, it turns out that the blonde one had been ditched by her mates and left about 25 miles from home. By this time I was far too pissed to be anywhere near a car and my fatherly instinct cut in. I was trying to help her find her mates; lending her my phone, getting the bloke behind the bar to ask about etc... and I may have innocently told her that we had a spare room if the worst came to worst. In a sober state, these days, I would have run a mile.

Anyway, eventually she manages to get hold of her mum and gets her to pick her up and take her home.

Sadly, that was not the end of it. Ms Dchurch hadn't taken kindly to me 'paedophiling' a young girl, and saw to it that I was on the recieving end of some very pissed girl punches.
We get back to the flat, where I just give in, in that bloke kind of way, "ok, you do what you want, I'm going to bed and in the morning you'll realise that I've done bugger all wrong.".

I thought that was the end of it, but no...she phones the police and reports me for, get this, "flirting", who, for once turn up within about 2 minutes.
I go outside and speak to one of them, and he can see that Ms D is very pissed, whereas I am simply mildly pissed, and they bugger off, more than a little narked off I would imagine for having their time wasted. Although why they chose to turn up to a 999 call of "My boyfriend is flirting with a girl" I'll never know. In my opinion they should have thrown the book at her for wasting police time and making a fake 999 call. Fake 999 calls are my pet hate, and she knows it.

I go inside, go up to bed and try to get some sleep.

Ms D decided that this just isn't good enough and storms into the room F'ing and Blinding, so I get up and move to the spare room.
Still she won't leave it alone, and so we end up in a tug of war with the door handle. Me trying to keep her out, and her trying to get in to brandish more girly beatings.
I get bored quite easily, and so I let go of the door handle.

Somehow, Ms D ends up snapping the handle off, and impaling her wrist on the jagged end. God only knows this happened as the door would have swung away from her, not towards her.

She demands I call an ambulance, I politely and calmly refuse (I know it doesn't ring true, but it is I can assure you). I take her to the bathroom and clean it up - and it does actually look quite bad. It's not near an artery or anything, but she grabs the phone and phones for an ambulance. Half way through I have to take over the call as she's so pissed and now histerical that the woman on the other end of the phone can't understand a word she's saying.

The short and curlies of the call were that there were no available ambulances to come and sort it out, so she suggests a bloke who lives near by who is an off-duty paramedic.

He turns up and he's a really nice guy, he can clearly tell that there's been some sort of row and he's polite about it. I get him a drink and he simply puts a bandage around her wrist and says his farewells. Personally, I felt guilty that he'd had his time wasted and so I gave him a bottle of Gin to take with him by way of thanks. Sadly, he wouldn't accept it...and given the floor show created by drinking such filth, I'm not all that suprised.

Fast-forward a few hours and Ms D is tucked up in bed snoring and sleeping off the bacardi breezers or whatever else it was sloshing down her gullet, and I go and join her.

Shutting the door behind me...

In the morning I wake up, I'm desperate to give birth to a brown food baby. I walk to the door, and....of course, there's no bloody handle to turn. I try squeezing the blood stained, copper sharded end and twisting, but to no avail. I'm really getting ready to beam down a Shatner now, and am jumping about in pain and clenching my fart clappers like my life depended on it, when I spot a cereal bowl by her side of the bed.

I look out the window for a Michael Jackson-like kid hanging alternative, but alas there's people out there walking their dogs and they don't need that for breakfast, and so I decide on the bowl.

Fully refreshed, I then set about opening the door by wrapping a towel around the sharded end and keep turning until I get the door handle to turn. I go downstairs, open the cupboard and pull out some hundreds-and-thousands.

You know what came next.

I slept in the spare room that night and the night after.

Still, that'll teach her.

Length? It was the morning after the night before, so probably more deep than long.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 19:30, 2 replies)
general anestetic has to be one of the oddest sensations out there.
"count backwards from 10 for me please"

What the fuck!? i'm in a different room! i've been teleported!

i've only had the same effect one other time, smoking weed and drinking cider while camping aged 16.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 18:37, 2 replies)
A visit to the pokeyman (proctologist)
This is very traumatic so bear with me.

A few years back I was having a bit of bother with the nether regions. Not for me the joy of inflamed or bleeding chalfonts, not even a ruined pilonidal sinus nor impacted faecal matter. No. I had lost all feeling in and around the ringpiece. This may not seem very serious but when you can’t feel whether your poo has stopped or if a small fart is following through, it can be quite embarrassing. My GP scratched his head in puzzlement and sent me off to the specialist bum chappy.

After a couple of months wait my appointment came and off I trots to the hospital. I explained the problem and he asked me to remove trousers and trolleys, bend over with my legs slightly apart and rest my hands on the low stool he had provided. He then said he would stick something up my bum to check whether there was any feeling and if so how far it extended. I heard him lube up and felt some pressure and told him so. He made a “Hmmm.” Noise and said “How about now?” At that point I could feel something about 5cm in and told him so. He repeated the “Hmmm” noise and said “How about now?” And oh boy could I feel it. He said “Ok then, I’ll just wiggle it around bit, tell me if that feels different.” And he did so. It was at this point I discovered I could feel something else, both of his hands on my shoulders.

I cried on the way home.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 18:03, 6 replies)
Not a particularly interesting story, but might be good to hear other's experiences
I have been registered with the same doctor for some 4 years, and despite a few visits to the surgery over those years I have never once met my doctor.

Every time I phone for an appointment it is because there is something wrong with me at the time, and every time I am told "Sorry, Dr Roberts doesn't have any appointments today, his next available one is two weeks on Friday"

Unfortunately this seems to be because he is the only competent GP at the surgery.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 17:27, 1 reply)
I have just returned
from a visit to my GP, as I have been having a sort of odd feeling around the general vicinity of my liver. Now, I'm hardly Oliver Reed, but I have shifted more than my share of units over the last fifteen or so years, and so I have had a slightly creeping dread that maybe the old gulliver had finally decided to pack in or worse, start sprouting unwanted appendages.

My mind is now a good deal more at ease, and I'm being scheduled as we speak for an ultrasound in a few weeks time to check for gallstones and the like.

I'll still worry like a mentallist when it comes time, but for now I feel much better.

The NHS, eh? Just smashing :D

I only had to wait one day for my appointment too, and was taken in less than 5 minutes :D
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 17:22, Reply)
My dad,
was in rehab in the same room as Peter Cook. I was too young to know who he was though.
Does that count?
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 17:15, 5 replies)
Everyone smells of shit
When I was about 5 my mum noticed that I was omitting a very strange smell. Turns out that it was a piece of paper that I'd decided to stick up my nose, apparently it had been up there for so long that I'd started smelling of rotting rubbish. Doctors had to pull the decomposing mess out with a very long pair of tweezers.

I haven't really got an opinion on the quality of care I received as I was way to young to remember but I guess it was good as I've never had a problem with doctors.

About 2 month ago my nephew stuck and lost a raisin up his nose, it almost made me cry with pride.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 16:23, 1 reply)
Not the op, but the consultation some weeks earlier....
I had been diagnosed with a hernia. I was in my early 30s, and according to my GP, in good physical shape. He'd write to the consultant at the local hospital, and they'd have me fixed in a jiffy.

A letter duly arrived some weeks later inviting me to see the consultant, and off I went at the appointed date and time.

I was ushered into his office, to be met by a pleasant, smiling consultant, who shook my hand and beckoned me in.

"Morning Reverend, I'm Dr Whatchamacall it, do come in and take a seat."

I then became aware of another presence in the room - just off to the side, towards the window. A young lady - nay, in fact a vision of loveliness - early 20s, brunette, incredibly attractive, and a body that could burst a man's gusset at 20 paces.

"This is Miss Goodhead*, she's a medical student, would you mind awfully if she sat in during your consultation?"

"Er...well..um...ah....no, not at all..." I stammered, trying not to glare at the one-to-many buttons undone on her oh-so-slightly-snug-fitting blouse.

"Excellent, well if you'd just like to pop behind the screen, strip down to your underwear, and we'll get cracking!"

Off I went, stripped down to my undies, whilst desperately trying to calm myself down.

I reappeared from behind the screens, and both consultant and vision approached me.

"Right, off you go Miss Goodhead*, you may begin."

I'm not kidding here. She knelt right in front of me, her face literally inches from my I'm-not-entirely-sure-how-but-still-thankfully-flaccid member. She then proceeded to prod, kneed, and generally fondle my groin area for a number of minutes. How I didn't manage to poke the poor girl's eye out I'm not entirely sure, but it was the most frustrating experience of my entire life.

Myself and the consultant exchanged a knowing glance. I suspect I was not the first, or indeed the last, victim that day.

*Completely made up name. Artistic licence in use. I was too busy staring at her norks, to be honest.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 16:22, Reply)
I just went to Boots to buy some co-codamol.
My prescription for codeine is running out and I don't see the GP until Thursday morning. The pharmacist refused to sell it to me on the grounds that I'm visibly pregnant. I wouldn't mind so much if they hadn't already dispensed my prescriptions for codeine (twice the strength of over-the-counter stuff) and tramadol within the past fortnight.

Another night of pain, yay.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 15:52, 20 replies)
Health Care
My mate Mally is still paying for the healthcare he recieved in the US. 12 years ago.

He got hit by a pick up truck, was flown to hospital by helicopter and spent 2 weeks in ICU, followed by 3 weeks of rehab before getting sent back to the UK. He wasnt insured. The hospital hounded him for years, and he pays them back monthly, at about £700 a pop.

He has paid back about half of the $198 THOUSAND he owes yet. The hospital bill (before his lawyers intervened) was originally $400K. Apparently if you are uninsured, you play a game. They make up ridiculous numbers and so do you. You do this for a while until they get annoyed and make all sorts of threats.

I've told him to stop paying, see what happens, surely there's no jurisdiction over here but he keeps on paying.

America is shit.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 15:41, 11 replies)
The day I was a pirate
So I used to work for a magazine about the NHS. Glam, hey?

I went to an NHS conference in Birmingham, forward wind through drinking and revelling with the NHS administrators, to find me participating in a piggyback race (carrying) through the cobbled streets in a suit, and more to the point, in black shoes.

So next thing, I wake up in casualty, without my glasses, and a rather impressive cut right under my eye. Like, RIGHT under, due to the lens of my glasses coming out, and then into my face. Basically millimeters from being blind. Now I'm actually fine with my own blood, and despite there being lots of it, I was a model casualty patient, replying, "no don't worry, you see to that car crash first" until they eventually got to me at about 6am.

Junior doctor comes and looks, and notices me still wearing an "NHS Clinical Excellence" badge, and pretty much runs away immediately to go and get someone senior. Eventually patched up and so far, so good. Yay, the NHS works.

BUT THEN, and this still annoys me to this day, the buggers were really unhelpful to my utterly blind and hundreds of miles from my spare pair of glasses state. Took sodding ages to get anyone to help me find a phone (literally can't see more than a foot away without glasses) to get a cab.

And the pirate thing? On the train back to London, I looked a right old state, and everyone else was ignoring the seeping stitched up mess under my eye. Except a girl aged, I guess, about six, who promptly asked me if I was a pirate. I, obviously, replied that I certainly was, and had one of the most entertaining conversations of my life. She was very intrigued that the worst thing about walking the plank was getting splinters.

***EDIT*** Oh, and, can I just say that having spent many years working with the NHS (although not for them) they do a frankly astonishingly good job, almost all the time, given the task facing them. The poor buggers just get kicked publicly for the incredibly small proportion of cock-ups.

And this comes from a fairly irredeemable free-market capitalist. They are the slightly irritating, but welcome, exception to my general rules...
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 15:02, 3 replies)
Nick Riviera... Calling Dr Nick Riviera...
Way back in time, 15 years ago, I had gone back to Uni in Leeds early as I was doing a year out in industry as part of my sandwich degree. It was a warm summer as I remember it, and I seemed to be drinking a lot of water, like a litre or two every half hour, putting it down to the heat. Then I felt weak as a kitten and was shitting bullets so thought I'd better go and see my GP. I told them my symptoms, they took some blood and asked me to come back in the next day.

I went into the GP's office and had the following exchange, all the time him writing some notes into my folder and not even glancing up at me..

"Well Mr DeadEye, your tests are back, and it looks like you have diabetes"

"Oh. (pause) Er, what does that mean? Does that mean I will have to inject myself?"

(Now at this point I should point out I was pretty ignorant about diabetes at the time apart from the fact I had had a friend who had it. Not only was she a massive pain in the arse about it, passing out all the time and being generally sweaty, ruining a holiday in Ibiza.. I digress... But I knew it involved her acting like a human pin cushion. At the time I was so scared of needles that I wouldn't even have an anaesthetic at the dentists, I would rather put up with the pain than the needle)

"Yes, I'm afraid so" replies the Doc.

"Er, well I don't think I'm going to be able to do that.."

Of course I'm naively expecting him to say something along the lines of "Well it's a good thing we've got this miracle cure pill", but alas no.

Without missing a beat or looking up from his notes he replied

"Well, looks like you're going to die then doesn't it?"

Length? About 5mm four times a day, but it's only a small prick.
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 14:59, 12 replies)
Cubicle Wrestling
The only operation I’ve ever had was back when I was fifteen to exorcise my nut sack of an unwanted ET*.

Prior to having the op I had an appointment with the old chap who’d be performing the exorcism on my haunted ball bag. As I sat there looking at the old boy over the desk all I could think was: This geezer’s gonna slit my furry pink bagpipes open, reach inside and wrestle with the bollock-from-another-dimension. The surgeons name was Chapman (the brother of that fella out of Monty Python, no less), and he was an all round decent fella. Though, understandably, I was still absolutely shitting bricks.

He had the stentorian demeanour of a high court judge. If he said jump, I’d say how high (only not too high on account of the severely swollen manbag). Thankfully he didn’t ask me to do any physical activity – but he did ask if I’d provide him with a stool and urine sample.

Piss – no problem. I could piss for Britain on command. But shit? I nodded that that would be ok and disappeared back into the waiting area, my arse hanging out the back of the surgical gown I’d been put into, where my mum was waiting.

After a while I was given a couple of little tube thingies in which to make my deposits by one of the two nurses who worked the desk, and I was ushered towards a toilet.

Inside, I immediately filled the first container with the finest grade yellow cock water known to mankind, secured the lid, and felt the lovely heat of my fresh piss through the clear plastic. Hadn’t spilled a drop. If they did GCSE’s in pissing in a bottle, I’d have got an A star.

Then I examined the second container... Jesus, this has gotta be a piss take!!!

The second container was the same size and dimensions as the first – basically a teeny-tiny test tube with a plastic cap on the end. I stood for a bit, frowning down at it, trying to imagine the best logistical way to take a dump in the damn thing.

Eventually, after several minutes of furious thought and having come up with fuck all, I fell back on plan B: Fuck it, what’s the worst that can happen? I hitched up my gown, squatted over the bog, held the tube under my quickly dilating stinky barndoor and proceeded to try and squeeze one out. Thankfully, I’d had an egg McMuffin for breakfast - this had lubricated my insides in the same way Castrol GTX lubricates a car engine. When my brown eye started winking and the tip of the first turd rocket prepared for gravity-bound lift-off, I could feel it coming out a little slick, a little oily, with the consistency of treacle pudding put in the fridge for a few minutes.


Clenching my arse I squeezed and – allowing for the second drop time - felt something heavy, wet and warm land on my wrist. Fuck! I glanced down between my legs, I’d missed my target; I’d laid a fat one on my lower arm, it coiled round my wrist and looked up at me accusingly, it resembled a baby poo python or a wristwatch made out of shit. Fighting the need to spew, I dispatched the fucker to the watery depths with a quick flick, then prepared for another attempt.

The second time I was closer, but the velocity of this turd was faster than I’d expected. It shot out my sphincter like a prized racehorse at the starting gate. It almost whistled as it cut the air on its descent. It achived perfect splashdown before I had a chance to react.

Then I gave it another go, turd number three... Missed!!! SPLASH!!!

Shit! I’m running out of shit! I thought. Fuck it.... Only one thing for it....

...and I’m not proud of this....

I assumed the full-on standing squat with extra arse-stinking-in-the-air to maximize the distance between poopchute and bog. And I let fly a super-sized log into my waiting palm.

I lifted the container I held in my other hand and as quickly as possible, rammed the head of the turd into the damn thing – it squished inside, over the side, elements of the now mashed turd working between my fingers like wet, steamy hot rancid chocolate pudding (with extra sesame seed bits). Tendrils of shit fell to the floor. A fine spray of sphincter dough squidged and splattered onto the door and walls of the cubicle. Almost crying, I wiped my hands clean, wiped my arse, wiped the outside of the shit container, wiped the cubicle – I must’ve used up Northampton General’s entire month’s supply of bog roll in about ten minutes.

Blubbering, I went and started rubbing my skin off with soap and hot water.

After a while longer when I’d calmed down a bit I ventured back into the real world, the world where you don’t wrestle with your own faeces like some Roman gladiator with a poo fetish. I took my tubes of bodywaste – filled, and in one case packed to the brim by my own fair hand. I placed both containers down on the counter in front of the nurse.

She looked at the containers, I could almost read her mind: HOW THE FUCK DID YOU MANAGE TO GET ALL THAT IN THERE??? But she was a professional; she didn’t say a word. Not one fucking word. But as I was walking back to sit with my mum I did hear her whisper to her colleague, the other desk jockey who gave me the empty vials to fill in the first place:

“Sharon – if Dr Chapman asks for a stool sample and a urine sample, don’t give out two urine samples. We’ve got a bigger container for the number twos... God only knows.... That poor, poor boy....”

After the horrors of that half an hour, having my genitals ravaged by surgery didn’t seem that bad. Not that bad at all.

And a little advice: If you ever feel the urge to shit in your hands. Don’t. Just don’t.

*Extra Testicle. (Actually an aqueous cyst).
(, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 14:13, 10 replies)

This question is now closed.

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