Did you hear about the Scottish doctor
that couldn't stop saying "yes"?

He was an aye surgeon.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 13:46, 2 replies)

Last
Am bored of this QOTW now and want a new one please
(Darth Foxtrot A one-man army dedicated to making fetch happen, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 13:25, 11 replies)

Working on t'wards
I was once sent to offer a young lad and his father a hot drink while they waited to see the doctor.

The dad accepted a brew and a biscuit but the son already had a can of Dr Pepper.

'Ah, Dr Pepper! What's the worst that can happen?' I sang humorously, showing them to the cosy Rellies' Room. They didn't seem amused.

That may have been because, I later learned, when the doctor came, he was going to tell them whether or not the lad's mum was going to last the night...

Young man and Dad, I'm sorry.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 13:23, Reply)

Who's the coolest bloke in the hospital?
If the hospital in question has a decent air conditioning system throughout the building then you wouldn’t expect there to be much variance in the relative body temperatures of individual workers.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 12:59, 4 replies)

My mum's mastectomy
This may be a repost.

Back in the eighties, my mum had breast cancer. The recommended treatment at the time was to have her breast removed. This happened and went as well as could be expected and she was sent home.

I can't remember the details about this now (it was a long time ago and my mum has since died so I can't ask her) but my mum had been given some replacement dressings to put on the wound until it healed and the stitches could be removed.

One of the stitches broke and there was a bit of a gap. As we lived about 2 minutes away from our GP and my mum's GP was sympathetic, mum decided to pop along to have the dressing changed there.

OK - probably there were better people to go and see - the practice nurse maybe or go to A&E but it made sense at the time. She was worried about it and needed treatment and reassurance. She had been through traumatic surgery.

My mum's GP wasn't there and so she had to see a locum. What was the locum's carefully considered response to being asked to look at the would and fix the dressing? What was this healthcare professional's insightful thought on my mother's physical and emotional wound?

"Ew!"

I'm paraphrasing slightly. We didn't have that word in the eighties but she definitely pulled a face and made my mother feel like something found on the bottom of a shoe.

Nor did she actually do anything about the dressing. I had to deal with that and my mum was left with a bit more of a scar than was intended but at least the nice doctor didn't get her hands dirty.
(BearWithLittleBrain, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 12:52, Reply)

Who's the coolest bloke in the hospital?
The ultrasound guy :)
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 12:30, 4 replies)

Why is there no asprin in the Jungle?
Because of the continuing policy of price-fixing cartels within the pharmaceutical industry, making it nigh on impossible for even basic standards of healthcare to operate in the developing world.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 11:48, 11 replies)

Oh sister.
My college nurse was a legend.
She provided ample reason to skip lessons - 'headaches', 'migraines', a 'broken wrist', some weird painkillers which left me lying on a bed drifting in and out of colours, BCG injections, infected BCG scars.. The list goes on.
And my medical record gives credit to excuses even now.
(happy fluffy tree man is., Thu 18 Mar 2010, 11:41, Reply)

Nice to be offerred an early appointment
I phoned our local doctors surgery yesterday to make an appointment for an ingrown toenail. I was told the earliest they have is April the 6th - 3 fucking weeks!!! I was also offered to have the minor illness nurse Call me! To which my reply was "Call me? I think someone should have a look at this". After mentioning my right to see someone within 48 hours, I was told to ring back tomorrow morning at 10am which is when they took bookings for the 48-hour clinic.

A quick visit to youtube to see what the ingrown toenail surgical procedure looks like can quickly help you make up your mind.

I opted for DIY home surgery, which involves germoline, a jewellers screwdriver and side-cutters (and wincing). Swelling has now gone down and it feels much better.
( brown-wings Made with three kinds of butter, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 11:25, 3 replies)

Here's one in the eye
My mate R spent 6 months working in France, a time he greatly enjoyed until he developed a rather painful eye infection. The French docters were baffled, and after the thrid visit told him he had to return to the UK to seek medical advice from his own GP.

This he did and was promptly sent to a specialist. Within 5 minutes, the specialist, without consulting the history and just by looking, diagnosed the condition.

Chlamidia.

Moral of the story? NHS is better than private and the French, while claiming to have discovered the clitoris and the female orgasm have no understanding of sexual health.
(Spud Diechmann joined in!, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 10:33, 5 replies)

This is not about me...
Years ago I had a Prince Albert done. I was safe in the knowledge that this would rank me quite high in the most painful thing down your japs eye contest and was safe in the knowledge that I would win this pissing contest whenever anyone mentioned swabs.

2 weeks ago, for reasons I can't remember, a guy at work (we'll call him R), was regailing us with a story about the time he had a fiberoptic camerea film the inside of his bladder. The shame of it!

Yesterday, another guy from work returned from havine 3 kidney stones removed after repeated ultrasound had failed. He's had half the robotic cast of Star wars connected to a laptop up his. A camera, laser to cut the stones, claw to catch them and a basket to keep them in until removal.

R and I and now very downcast and many folk at work are still unable to uncross their legs. The wonders of modern medicine eh?
(Spud Diechmann joined in!, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 10:29, 3 replies)

Dessie dwangs his dong at the delightful Doctor
My little Brother was, and is, a pugilist of some renown, but not enough renown to reach the ears of the bullying 17 year old tosser that thought picking on a 14 year old would be fun.

One episode of unconsiousness and a few missing teeth later he realised the error of his ways.

Dessie had a problem though, 7 knuckles where there should be four.

Off to Morriston Hospital we trundled, Dessie, my Catholic ex-Nurse Mam, and myself 'cos TV was crappy. They did the x-ray, and decided that "a quick pull" would sort it. How prophetic.

The Anaethatist, was a vision, blonde, small, with that open approachable pretty face that said, "I am a nice girl, and a really good shag". As she lent over Dessie you could see his eyes flit from one perfect breast to the other, as they just ever so gently carressed his forehead. He was given a dose of the "gas and air" which rendered him just unconious enough not to hit the ceiling as they pulled his knuckles back where they needed to be.

As he came around, he dreamily opened his eyes and looked at Dr Awesome, and with the words "you are really nice, I like you" and pulled his beef baton from under his gown and dreamily masterbated.

My Mam was mortified, innefectually swatting at his hand as mhe massaged his ripidly growing pork python. I was so happy I couldnt talk. Dr Awesome looked at Mam, and said "This happens all the time"

No shit, I felt like joining him.

Pearoast, but its a good story
(micmac is happy as a pig in shite, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 3:29, 8 replies)

Daily...
...I take people to hospital in my ambulance and like most of my colleagues I tend to whinge a bit about some issues at the hospital.

However, having had a recent stay in intensive care (post-assault), I got to see things from the other side. The care I received was superb and life saving. Every aspect of my care could not be faulted, from A&E to intensive care and my recovery on the medical ward. They even arranged for a counsellor to talk to me about the assault. I thanked them when I was discharged and they told me I was a good patient and therefore easy to manage. They explained that too many people leave things too late and expect miracles, don't comply with the recommended treatment and in many cases shouldn't even be there. Too many people clog up the system when they could just see their GP for minor ailments.

So there you have it, no funny story, just a deep appreciation of a globally underfunded system trying to do its' best with the resources at hand.

edit: I even forgave them for the incorrectly inserted urinary catheter that caused pain like you wouldn't believe! We all make mistakes.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 1:55, 1 reply)

I had a really pleasant filling when I was six.
The dentist dispensed gas through an elephant-nose type contraption in the five or so minute run-up to drilling through my tooth. My first high.

I laughed. I pissed my pants. I cried.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 1:27, Reply)

Rhubarb yoghurt
Apologies for length.
After finding a lump in my breast and being reassured by the doc it was a harmless cyst that anti-biotics would sort out, I was a bit surprised to find it still there and still growing a few weeks later.
So an outpatients appt was made at the nearest hospital 40 minutes away to have it drained or whatever they do.
A friend took me as the public transport is one bus very 2 hours, and we expected with possible delays etc to be there at least 3 hours.
I get there and am told my bed isnt ready yet.
Bed?
No its an outpatient visit says I.
No, you are here overnight they tell me.
Its 10am and Im not happy, didnt bring a toothbrush or change of clothes.
Friend hangs around as we try to find out whats going on.
At midday I'm led to a room all to myself and a doc looks at the lump.
Yes says he, we can drain that and you can go home, will come back in a while and do it
At around 2pm my friend has to go, to pick up her kid from school.
The last bus back is 6pm so im not unduly bothered yet.
Although Iam now getting hungry.
I ask if I can get anything to eat and am told lunch is over but tea will be around later.
Im sitting in this room twiddling my thumbs when the cyst bursts, copious blood and pus all over my T shirt.
I call the nurse who brings in the doc, he looks and says something about not having to drain it now and buggers off.
So im sitting there thinking i cant go home with this all over me.
Go into the bathroom and using the paper towels clean myself up as best I can, and pack a load of loo roll over the weeping hole in my boob.
Wander to the nurses station and say I'm off.
They wont let me, say i have to go onto an anti-biotic drip and to go back to my room.
It was another couple of hours before the drip turned up, nurse says call me when the bag has emptied.
By then 6pm has been and gone and im resigned to being there overnight.
I buzz for nurse when the bag empties, no one comes.
Then the drip goes into reverse, and i watch my blood flowing into it.
Buzz nurse again, no one comes.
I wander off down corridor dragging the drip stand behind me, find nurses having a cuppa.
Point at drip bag slowly filling with my blood and ask if they can disconnect me.
Am told to go back to my room and someone will be along.
Eventually someone does, only to put another drip bag on, and laugh when i ask if the air bubbles in the line are dangerous.
I ask again if i can have something to eat, to be told dinner was over but they would see what they could find.
I then ask if someone could give me a dressing for the cyst.
Nurse seemed surprised by this request but did clean the hole with a saline solution and put a dressing on it.
Its around 9pm by now and i havnt eaten since the night before and my head is spinning.
Around 11pm im brought an apple and a rhubarb yoghurt.
A yoghurt that looked exactly like the expelled contents of the cyst I was in there for.
Funnily enough i couldnt eat it.
Somewhere around 2am I was caught trying to climb out of the window onto some scaffolding outside.
Got a right bollocking and was given something to make me sleep.
The cup of tepid tea, one slice of cold toast and a rubber egg they gave me in the morning was manna from heaven.
My friend who picked me up was appalled and urged me to make a complaint.
But quite frankly just to be out of there was enough for me.

2 years later the cyst returned, did i get help?
Did I feck, lanced it myself, cleaned and dressed it myself
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 0:42, Reply)

Special delivery
I once delivered a baby to 15 year old from Herne Bay. She wasn't the brightest spark, and when I took the vacuum cup off the baby's head and handed her a lovely girl, she asked me "will today be my baby's birthday?"
(peely, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 22:07, 3 replies)

this has sod all to do with doctors, but anyway - after my son was born
the meal being served on the post natal ward was roast beef with all the usual stuff - potatoes, veg, yorkshire pudding. And it was the single best meal I have eaten in all my life. I spent the whole afternoon marvelling about the amazing quality of catering in the NHS and wondering at the folk who complained about hospital food (in between gazes at my little screaming bundle of shit and jaundice).

the next day, the meal was apparently cold vomit on rice. I think 3 days in labour, copious vomiting due to the pain relief, and the sheer exhaustion that accompanies childbirth had left me with some sort of sensory deprivation which made the food edible.

Also, the best slice of toast I've ever eaten was served up by the NHS too - again, after baby was born. I got a slice of cold toast with marmite. Food of the gods. All photos of me after he arrived have me holding the baby with one hand and the toast with the other, tits out, blood everywhere, needles in both arms - and gazing adoringly at either toast or baby. Needless to say those pictures have not gone in the album...
( ascorbate, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 22:03, 2 replies)

anaesthetic
i've had several operations in my time and the anaesthetic has always been the same.
except for last year, when i had a hernia op. the anaesthetist said "i don't want you to panic, i'm going to press down on your throat. don't worry if you get a strong taste of onions, that's normal."
he squeezed so hard i could barely breathe and i was left with bruises. not his fault, i bruise easily. but can somebody please tell me why he had to squish my throat and why in the name of satan's unholy portion did the anaesthetic taste like really strong onions?
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 20:25, 11 replies)

Ah! The NHS...
Few years back, I ended up in the clap clinic at St Thomas' hospital. I hadn't actually been sticking Mr Wiggly in anyone at that time, I just happened to have a clueless GP.

Rewind three/four weeks (wavy lines optional here) and I'd woken up with a bit of an itch. When I say 'bit', I mean an infuriating one. It would be terrible in the mornings, when I was in the shower and it drove me insane to the point of scratching until my arms and legs bled. Naturally, I did what any sensible rational human being would do and looked up itching symptoms on t'internet.

10 minutes later and I have diagnosed myself with 5 potentially fatal diseases revolving around liver and kidney failure - I am, in short, convinced that I'm on 7.15 to the pearly gates. So, I run down to my GP insisting that even if the 7.15 is run by Stagecoach and unlikely to be leaving any time soon I want to be seen immediately. Eventually, he agrees and after a bit of poking and prodding admits he doesn't have a clue, takes a half dozen phials of blood to have it checked out and tells me to come back in a week.

One week passes. All is not well. Not only is the scratching driving me insane but I now have spots on my giblets. I have never had spotted dick before and trust me I wouldn't recommend it. The internet is now saying that I have Lupus and that my only chance is if Dr Gregory House MD ceases to be a fictional character. Bollocks. My doctor takes one glance at my wang and immediately diagnoses syphilis. I think he just wanted me out of there as quickly as my spotty bollocks would carry me. And so off he sent me to the Lydia clinic at St Thomas' hospital.

They're very caring at the Lydia. Hell, to put you at your ease they have (had?) cock shaped name tags in the men's clinic. How amusing! Writing "Hi, my name is Carl" in the nutsack of a downward pointing cock and balls. So amusing that I'll forget that I feel totally humiliated to be here. Oh. Anyhoo, sitting and waiting in the hall of shame for my name to be called out with all the other sheepish nice white middle class boys who've been less than careful where they stick their favourite bit of their anatomy and out she walks. This vision of breathtaking Mediterranean loveliness. She's got long black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones and a bottom to die for. She picks up a file and every man in that room sat up, turned towards her as one and for 1 second begged that it was their file.

And then we all realised what she was there to do.

"Mr Sugar-tits? Would you like to come with me please?"

I'm sitting there thinking, NO, NO, NO, NO, I would not like to come with you and show you my spotty cock. I get up and feel like I'm walking the Green Mile. I notice the pity etched into the other waiting room victims, as in my mind Tom Hanks calls "Dead Man Walking".

So, Dr Lovely takes me down the corridor to her little room at the end and I am panicking. How the hell do I stop this angelic piece of perfection from seeing my diseased bits? I flirt. As some sort of nervous reaction I start cracking jokes and flirting. And I'm great. She's laughing and we're getting on and then I run out of steam. Shit.

"Okay, well I suppose you'd better drop your trousers then."
"And my pants?"
"What do you think?"

The burning noise in my ears and the rising flush on my cheeks was now only punctuated by the 'schlapp' as she snapped on the surgical glove with which she was going to manhandle me.

And then she picked it up. My mind starts working overtime as to how the hell I can prevent the little fella from waking up. ABCDs, 43 times table, counting sheep counting sheep, Margaret Thatcher and Douglas Hurd getting it on. And I'm doing okay, Yes, I am. Then she starts to roll it in her fingers to get a better look. And then the little shit starts to wake up. I let out an involuntary whine and look down at her - and with Mr Floppy rapidly engorging himself into Mr Sausage in her hand without pausing for a breath she looks up at me with a smile and says "Oh! I'm so sorry."

It was without doubt one of the sexiest looks I've ever been witness to. I grab my pants and trousers up and sit down as quickly as I can leaning forward to try and hide the fact that Mr Sausage is now shouting angrily in my pants - confused at the fact that he's being locked up at his crowning moment of glory. I meanwhile am going from puce to beetroot as Dr Lovely asks to see my hand.

"Aha! I thought so - your GP really should have seen this straight away - you've got scabies. Don't worry you probably picked it up off a bus seat. I'll give you a prescription for some lotion."

And with that, she was gone. Although she did send me to get checked out by a very large disapproving Jamaican gentleman wielding one of those nasty sticks that they stick down your chap. All I can say was that he was quite vehement in his disapproval of the young men that came before him. Jamaicans have that sort of unique way of letting you know what a bad individual you are. Sucking through the teeth, tutting and then ramming a scraping stick into your Jap's eye. Oh Dr Lovely, I'd let 500 angry Jamaicans thrust scraping sticks into me for another 5 minutes with you....
(sugar_tits, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 20:02, 1 reply)

I said prick his boil nurse!
Oooh matron!
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Wed 17 Mar 2010, 18:19, 2 replies)

In the land of the deaf, the no-necked man is king.
I was deaf, and now I can hear. That's an NHS story which never fails to excite me. But I can understand it might be a bit dull for everyone else, so let me jazz it up with impropriety and gore.
I was laid up in a specialist ENT hospital after having had one of my rubbish ears fixed. Following surgery, my ear had been packed with surgical cloth stuff, and I had bandages wrapped jauntily around my head, leaving me looking like a gay Mr Bump and hearing like Mr Eh What's That Can You Speak Up I've Got Soil In My Ears. Anyway. It was visiting time. I had recently split up with a ladyfriend, and had more recently (and secretly) hooked up with a mutual acquaintance of ours, who came along to cheer me up and bring me sweets. Between the sweets, company and temazepam, I was feeling pretty nice. Right up until a nurse came over to tell me my now-ex had turned up for a surprise visit. Everything got very 'Terry And June', very quickly.
There was only one exit to the ward. My current visitor quickly ran into the breakfast room, begging the other patients to hide her. I didn't see her again after that. I couldn't for the life of me work out what they'd done with her. She's quite small, so I thought they must have stashed her in a cupboard or something. For the rest of visiting time, I was a bit worried someone might say something to my ex - and maybe they did. It's hard to tell. See, most of my wardmates were in for tracheotomy-related ops – either having their original voiceboxes taken out or their new robot ones put in – and were wandering around with their gaping neckginas on display (GIS: 'X Files The Host' for examples). Nice guys, but couldn't understand a bloody word they were saying (literally bloody btw, those things bleed like PETA members' hearts on Whacking Day). There was much gurgly laughter for the rest of the evening, but it was impenetrable to my ears and I eventually fell asleep puzzled.
The next morning, I went for some breakfast. I was still weirdly expecting my friend to jump out from under the sink or be dead in he fridge, as I just couldn't fathom how she could have escaped.
'Awgurgle urugle arghargle' said the guy sitting opposite me at the table.
'Pardon?' said I.
'Ahahrargle hurghurgle ararhal' he said. Imagine how Cuddles the monkey would sound if Keith Harris stuffed his neck with a sock soaked in swarfega.
'Eh?' I said.
'AWAHRAGLE ARRAGHARGLE WORRAGHAL!'
Blood spattered his Rice Krispies as he raised his voice.
'Pardon what eh?'
'He says,' bellowed Doctor Evazan down my 'good' ear '"What are you looking for – have you got another bird stashed away somewhere?'"
This was followed by a chorus of Smash robots falling down a staircase made of Optimus Prime voice changers (ie laughter). A crimson haze descended on the formica as the assembled slaked their bloodmirth. Turns out my incomprehensible new friends had found a way out through the roof, which led to an outdoor fire escape, and freedom. After that, they decided to keep that a secret and wind me up about it, because why not? To this day it remains the most surreal, memorable and oddly heart-warming way I have been pwned in my whole life. And also the second bloodiest.
(electricteeth, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 17:17, 4 replies)

language barrier
a couple of years ago, my mother suffered a brain haemorrhage. she was slim, fit, exceptionally healthy, only 54, had precisely zero warning signs, and basically just bloody unlucky. for the first couple of hours or so, she was awake but did not recognise or respond to anyone or anything - if i live to be 154 i will never ever be able to forget the sickeningly blank 1,000 yard stare clean through me that replaced everything that went before it - and then she lapsed into a coma. there were doctors and nurses running around everywhere doing tests, and we were waiting and waiting and waiting for the scan results.

eventually we were taken into a room by a doctor who barely spoke a word of english. he explained that there had been "a burst". we asked why; he did not know. we asked how; he did not know. we asked if she was in pain; he did not know. fair enough, there are probably no answers to these questions. but then we asked what next. he stumbled in his unintelligible english about the body and how it handled clots, and none of us really understood him. so my dad said, "are you saying that her body will start to break down the clotting and there will be some recovery?" the doctor nodded. yes, yes, that was what he was saying. we were all relieved, although of course terrified about how much recovery there would (or wouldn't) be.

but about three days later, there was no sign of any change. she was still in a coma, and still responding to precisely nothing. so we collared a different doctor, a scottish one this time, and asked him when the blood clot would start to break down. the doctor stared at us. then he said that we had all better sit down. and he said, "you have to understand this was a fatal haemorrhage. she will die in this hospital, probably in the next few days". now, these words shatter your life anyway. but after THREE DAYS of waiting for an improvement that was never going to happen? it was one of the few things that could have made this period worse.

a day or so later, we noticed they had removed the breathing tube. we asked the nurse. again, she barely spoke any english. she said "oh, she did not like the tube, so she bit it." immediately we all gasped, thinking that the scottish doctor was wrong, and there was some spark of life. we asked him. he apologised for his colleague and said, "her english is a bit poor, she means a gag reflex". oh. well, that's quite a different thing to a conscious action, surely.

she died about three days later.

now, nobody could complain about the standard of care, and i am very grateful for that, which at the end of the day is by far the most important thing. the hospital was clean, tidy, and the nurses were very gentle and respectful in how they dealt with my mum. nothing could have been done differently for her anywhere else. but the language barrier made dealing with shellshocked, devastated, bereaved relatives even harder for it to bear. surely it can't be too much to ask that the hospitals make sure that the staff who are dealing with relatives can just speak english??
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 16:55, 3 replies)

Incompetency of the highest order
At 3 years old, my girlfriend's cousin was diagnosed with retinal cancer. No other option than to remove the guilty eye. It was a simple choice for her parents. Her eye or her life.

What they didn't account for was for the incompetency of the surgeon performing the operation who removed the completely healthy eye.

Once they realised, they obviously still had to remove the cancerous eye and now she lives with 2 glass ones.

They were rewarded with a lumpy pay off from the NHS but does any amount of money make up for a complete loss of sight?

Answers on postcard...
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Wed 17 Mar 2010, 16:19, 16 replies)

The NHS are responsible for The Belmers *
As some of you know, I am one half** of The Belmers. The NHS have saved the use of my left hand (I'm a guitarist - a very bad one but a guitarist nevertheless) on several occasions.

First time was when I was stabbed in the left forearm - loads of internal stitching of tendons, blood vessels etc hand stapled to a heavy ball to stop any contraction of tendons and a year of physiotherapy with a full recovery of dexterity (should that be dexterity on the left hand? Surely that shold be sinisterexity or something like that, but I digress).
Second time was a nasty longitudinal fracture of the left radius. too close to blood vessels and nerves to be plated - good thing too as it would have severely limited the movement of my left hand - so it was treated conservatively with a pressure splint. Once again a full recovery.
Third time was far more complex. I'd started to get phantom pains in my hand and occasional loss of control of my left pinkie. Once reported to my GP - a great bloke who took me seriously because I'd only taken up his time when actually ill or injured. He referred me to 'a mate of his' who sent me for an MRI scan THAT DAY - no waiting about and scheduled me for a 2 level ACDF - two intervertebral discs removed, replaced with bone harvested from my hip and three vertebrae bolted together while the bone fused in.
I recieved nothing but the best treatment, the best aftercare and again made a full(ish) recovery.
None of this great treatment cost me a penny and has, in fact, allowed me to carry on abusing the public with my feeble guitar skills - dammit I even get paid to do so!
My point is this - had I been in a country that directly charges for medical treatment I'd be in a metric fuckload of debt. If I'd been in a country with less advanced diagnosis and treatment I'd probably have lost the use of my left arm long ago, lost my job/house etc.
The NHS ain't perfect but sometimes, when I think of all I could have lost/cost I raise a glass to them - left handed of course because thanks to them I still can.

*Laziest, second-least*** talented band in Christendom.
**Only numerically - talent wise I'm about one quarter, weight wise I'm about two thirds.
*** Jedward beat us to the top spot.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 16:18, 3 replies)

“So the boats flow down this channel and come to rest here...
"...and this is where we unload the goods in those big metal containers – if you look over there you’ll see we’ve got loads of those cranes. Perfect for this sort of work. Absolutely perfect. And if you’ll just follow me I’ll take you down closer to the water and you can have a chat with some of the workers. Watch out for seagulls – it’s like being hit with a brick if one of those little buggers shits on you.”

“Err… excuse me… BUT WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING HERE?!? LOOK AT MY FUCKING ARM!!! LOOK!!! AMPUTATED AT THE FUCKING ELBOW!!! I’M PISSING BLOOD OUT OF THE FUCKING STUMP!!! I CAN SEE FUCKING BONE!!! B-O-N-E!!!”

……

……

“I thought you said you needed a dock tour urgently?”
( SpankyHanky, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 16:00, 8 replies)

And just remembered
I worked for a company who supply equipment to the NHS - flow cytometers and blood culture machines were the dept I worked in. We had a call one day from a hospital trying to get a reduction in the increase in our service charge for the machine they had. I looked through the paperwork, and they'd got a 75% discount on the machine when they bought it, so we said no. Every day for a week she called, trying to get a 1% reduction in the increase. When I went and looked at the renewal cost, their increase of 3% amounted to £60 - yes, she was being paid to call me and ask for a £20 discount. The thought hadn't seemed to occur to the managers that paying someone to try and talk suppliers into meagre discounts was pretty stupid - they were probably paying her more than they were saving. *That* is what's wrong with the health service, in my humble opinion....
(vinny, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 15:56, 2 replies)

I've just been to the dentist
She took a cast, and then drilled my old filling out to be replaced with a crown in two weeks time. I now have a huge temporary wad of acrylic in place and it feels like chewing gum stuck to my teeth and it's most annoying as there's a small sharp edge of the tooth protruding through and I can't leave it alone. It's making my tongue sore.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 15:52, Reply)

High Wycombe A&E
In Sept 07 I had my first seizures at the age of 34. Two fits whilst asleep & the first I knew of it was when two paramedics were stood at the end of the bed (my then gf having called an ambulance). The local hospital A&E (High Wycombe) were fine, I was examined, questioned & sent home with a referral to see a neurologist. Other than feeling like completely disorientated, having no memory of the previous couple of days and having several torn muscles.

Saw the neurologist, had various scans etc (through company medical insurance to get it done more quickly). Told it was probably a one-off and to improve my general health & fitness (quit smoking, drink less etc).

All fine until New Years Day 2009 when I have another seizure (this time whilst awake although I ended up unconscious). This one was a biggie by all accounts (known as a grand mal tonic clonic) & the side of my head got cut from repeatedly rubbing against some furniture whilst having the fit. Taken to A&E in High Wycombe again feeling extremely tired (quite common after a fit apparently) and left to sleep in an A&E bed for three hours or so before being sent home. If all I had wanted was a sleep then I could have had that at home and not taken up an A&E bed.

I wasn’t checked for anything, didn’t realise I had cut my head (seizures leave me with an even more empty brain than I usually have) so didn’t ask to have it looked at. I had to see my GP to get another referral to the neurologist (who diagnosed epilepsy). The GP told me that I should have had 7 or 8 stitches in my head. Thanks hungover/overworked doctors in A&E!

Whilst I am a little hacked off about the cuts not being treated I cannot understand the reaction of some people I have told about this that I should sue/write to the board of trustees/go to the press. WTF? It’s not like they took out the wrong kidney or something. The NHS was there for me when I needed it, it isn’t perfect but I would much rather have it as it is than not have it at all.
( lkjshaglkasjdhglkhjz lkcvl; g;aodh;owih, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 15:47, 8 replies)

An attractive lady doctor touched my bits and pieces once.

(Vlad the Inhaler forgot his password, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 14:57, 5 replies)

Hospital Food
Having spent a few weeks in hospital, I found the hospital food - ok. It might not look amazing, but it tasted ok, and was cooked for me.

Its not gourmet food, but its certainly not horrible.

I remember people in my ward complaining of the quality of the food. These are the people who spend all day asking when they can go because they have meetings with their benefits officer etc.

A few guys on my bay would argue between themselves how the mash potato was too gloopy, or the gravy to thick.

Not realising that its not a hotel, but a hospital.

It really wound me up, they could be really nasty about the nurses behind their backs - for no reason.

I also remember one guy sneeking off to the toilets for a biff. This being on the chest/lung ward, where Oxygen is piped everywhere. Alarms started to ring, and the fire bregade were called. He spent the next day complaining he didnt like the baked beans on his meal and kicked off.

I was greatful for everything that hospital did for me.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 14:09, 5 replies)