Good-AIDS counselling
Back in the mid-90s I was going to be heading off for a year in Moscow, and in those days the Russian authorities made it a requirement that all foreigners staying for longer than three months had to get an HIV test before being granted a visa. So off I trot to the GP and ask for an HIV test. The nurse takes the blood sample and it's sent off. Then my GP tells me that under government regulations, all patients taking HIV tests must receive counselling from their GPs prior to the results coming back. So the doc and I go ahead and have our "counselling session".
"Ever been to Bangkok and fucked prostitutes?" he asks.
"No," I reply.
"Ah well, then you're fine!" was his reply. Counselling session over.
( Biffins Bridge, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:49, Reply)

legs
My grandma (95 this year) has one leg. She lost her other leg well over 10 years ago, after falling out of bed and breaking it. She had all sorts of treatment for it, but eventually it had to be amputated. She had a false leg for years, but a couple of years ago got sick of it, and these days gets around with just the one leg and an incredibly fast motorised wheelchair.

To get from her flat into town, it's easiest for her to go through the park. The park has a rather nice lake (and when I say nice, I mean green and shit-filled) with swans, and when she went towards it in her chair, she didn't see a foot-high step down and fell over it.
She was rushed to hospital, had the cuts on her face cleaned and stitched up and was sent on her way feeling rather well cared for.

Without anyone noticing that she'd broken her leg too.

She was in hospital for several weeks, then in a halfway care home for a few more, while it healed.
(and now for someone completely different, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:41, Reply)

I have lots...
When my wife was having our first baby, I kept asking for the machine that goes Ping! to no avail. When the doctor heard me ask for the thirtieth time he just rolled his eyes "fuckin nerd" he said.
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:40, 3 replies)

I love health care in Dorset
in London I lived a few doors from my GP, he was a nice bloke but the bitches in the gun-turrets guarding him meant you couldn't get an appointment in less than a fortnight - yet the place was always empty when you finally got in, bar said batty old women chatting at full volume the whole time.

So when we moved to Dorset I was expecting the same - what we found was far from it. I can all my GP, either wait a few minutes or be put straight through, we'll then discuss the situation and decide if I need to come in, if I do have to I've never waited more that a couple of minutes - there's even a chemist next door! I thought this was just my GP but the times I've visited my local hospital have been the same, loads of parking, no wait and great service.

I know it's all a bit of a 'postcode lottery' (hate that expression) but I'm moving nowhere - I love the NHS!
(Chopper3, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:35, 1 reply)

Falling down the stairs will make you pregnant
My sister fell down the stairs. Not uncommon, she's a bit accident-prone. And she knacked her left ankle. It blatantly wasn't broken or sprained, she could put her weight on it without crying in pain, but it did hurt and it was a bit swollen so she popped it in a tubigrip and waited for it to stop hurting.

Fast forward 10 days or so and it's still pretty swollen and sore, so she makes an appointment with her GP to get it checked out.
She goes along with our mam, explains what happened and points out that it's been swollen for a while now, for a twisted ankle.
"Are you pregnant?" Um. No.
"Do you have any of *reels off long list of pregnancy symptoms*?" Er, no? She fell down the stairs. Only a couple of stairs, she just slipped cause it's a shiny wood floor just outside the bathroom. We've all done the same.
"Alright...but are you sure you're not pregnant?"
(and now for someone completely different, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:24, 7 replies)

hernias, mixed wards and chav women
A couple of years ago I had an operation to repair an incisional hernia. The previous year I had an operation on my stomach, leaving a 9 inch scar right up the middle, and a hernia had burst through where the incision had been made.

The morning after the op, whilst taking a dump, the hernia repair came apart. I felt it 'go', and realised I needed to get myself straight back down to the hospital. Once there I told the receptionist in A&E what had happened and I was sent straight away to the Surgical Assessment Unit for, ummmm, assessment.

I was given a bed in the SAU and for the rest of the day various doctors came along to prod my stomach, which by now had swollen up to the size of that of a heavily pregnant womans, and turned that blue/purple colour of a bruise (internal bleeding, they told me, wahoo!!!). I was scheduled for another operation the following morning, but by now any movement was incredibly painful, so I just had to lay there and wait it out.

The SAU was a mixed ward. Opposite me was an old woman who kept offering me a distressing view up her gown, and a young teacher who had taken a full on 'field goal' type kick to the bollocks from one of his pupils (including run up). After talking to him for half an hour I began to sympathize with the pupil, and if I had been able to get out of bed I would have booted him in the scrote myself.

Anyway, this is all scene setting for the next part of the story.

That evening a middle aged chav woman was brought into the ward and put into the bed next to mine, adjacent to the window. She was a great fat beast of a woman, all home-done tattoos and gold Argos jewellery, with dark bags under her eyes and a right shitty attitude. Her fat chavvy family were with her, 2 teenagers in shell suits and the obese husband in ripped oily t-shirt and filthy jeans. She was constantly shouting about how much pain she was in, the painkillers weren’t working, the nurses didn’t give a shit, the doctors were useless, why didn’t they give her more painkillers, no one cares, and so on, and so on. All the while her family and various nurses were trying to calm her down.

"I’m sorry Mrs Pond-Scum, but you've already had the maximum amount of painkillers that the doctors have prescribed."

"Well the doctors are fucking useless then, cos I’m in soooo much pain, I NEED MORE FUCKIN' PILLS DONT I"

"You can’t have any more, I can give you a sleeping pill but no more painkillers"

"What fucking good will that do, I want MORE PAINKILLERS! No one fuckin' cares about me...."

And so on.....

This continued for a depressingly long time, until she decided that she needed to be a little more persuasive in her argument....

"Look, if you don’t get me some more painkillers RIGHT FACKIN' NOW, I’m going to THROW MYSELF OUT OF THAT FACKIN' WINDOW, YOU SEE IF I DONT!!!"

An awkward silence descended on the ward, broken only by the sound of her incessant sobbing. After a minute her husband, who up until now hadn’t made a sound, said in a gentle voice...

"Don’t throw yourself out the window love...... its only 3 foot off the ground"!!!

Laughter didn’t come easily when I was in such pain myself, but I managed. Sure enough, in the daylight of the following morning, I saw people walking along the footpath right outside the window. By the way, she took the offered sleeping pill, snored like a warthog all night, and as soon as the nurses woke her the next morning, she started off again “I’m in so much pain, I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night....”
(Lionel Tiger, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:23, Reply)

Fathers of medicine
That’s the Greeks. Oh yes. Pioneers in the field of modern medicine, they are. Never better demonstrated than when the missus lived on Kos, home of Hippocrates, and had just been confirmed as being pregnant with Sweary Junior. She was told this joyous news by the local quack, who lazily swung on his chair and flicked his cigarette in the general direction of the already overflowing ashtray that was perched on his desk.

Of course, the question foremost in her mind was when the baby was due. His response?

The 31st of February.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:13, 1 reply)

Absolutely loads...
My older brother was a medical student and so I always managed to blag my way into the parties held in the residencies.

I popped my cherry to nurse after one of these and developed some suitable skills with a coterie of other nurses in the ensuing years.

That is health care at it's best.
Thank you, NHS...
(bof, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 15:13, Reply)

"Nil by mouth" should not be the default state.
I recently spent 9 days in hospital at the mercy of the NHS. The staff were really wonderful, the drugs rocked, the room was clean-ish, and the place was much warmer than my house. The problem? This:


I'm resorting to pictures because words cannot accurately portray the abysmal standards of NHS catering. That's my dinner. Cheese, peas, and a carton of orange juice labelled "for hospital use only". I lost 4lb in weight in my time there, which wasn't great considering I am 5 months pregnant and hungry on an hourly basis.

If your loved ones are in hospital, forego the flowers. Bring them food: a flask of soup, a sandwich, enough fruit to open their own greengrocers, or (thank you, sister of mine) pancakes with lemon and sugar on Shrove Tuesday.

Also, if you're getting injections of pethidine, ask for a chaser of phenergan to stop you copiously vomiting up the cheese and peas into those cute cardboard sick bowls.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:56, 10 replies)

You will never know the pain....
of having an arterial blood sample being taken from your wrist.

And don't try and say that childbirth blah blah blah, because i'm not a woman and therefor I don't really care.
( Bamboo Steamer, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:53, 10 replies)

I suspect there will be a lot of stories of this nature...
Some of you may remember the first part of the story, if not, here it is: www.b3ta.com/questions/soundtrack/post625458

So, there we are, with our new son. Me sitting, Mrs Mork lying, in the recovery room at the hospital. The midwife suggests that the baby might want to have some milk and, after a rather unsuccessful attempt at breast feeding, I offer him the bottle and he sucks on it like his life depends on it (which I suppose it did, really).

The midwife then noticed that our son was going “dusky” and, on the advice of the Paediatrician, he was admitted to Special Care, where it turned out that his blood was not getting enough oxygen for some reason. The Registrar said that, as he was a caesarean birth, his lungs probably had some mucus in them and this should clear up soon.
So Mrs M was transferred up to the maternity ward where we chatted and looked at the Bounty pack and waited for the in-laws to turn up.

At about 10:30 the Consultant from special care turned up to see us.

“What have you been told about what’s happening to your baby?”

We explained the whole mucus/lung thing that we had been told. The doctor then explained that they had, by chance, been visited by a specialist from the Royal Brompton Hospital (Heart & Lung Hospital in London) who had checked our son and it appeared that his heart had developed incorrectly. Instead of sending blood to the lungs to get oxygen, some of it was going back round the body, hence the low oxygen levels.

This would require an operation, assuming the deformity was above the diaphragm.

And if it’s below the diaphragm?

Well…let’s worry about that when it happens.

I can’t remember a lot about the next few hours: I remember my in-laws turning up shortly afterwards and having to compose myself to give them the news, I remember organising an emergency baptism, I remember weeping my eyes out in the hospital garden. Eventually, the ambulance arrived to take me and our son to the Brompton. (Mrs M, having had an operation was pretty much immobile so had to stay behind.)

We were rushed into the intensive care unit and I was taken aside to have everything explained to me: what was happening, what the problem was, what was going to happen etc. Then several doctors turned up to carry out scans on my son’s heart. At this point I started hearing people saying “normal”, over and over. The Consultant explained that my son’s heart problem was not what was originally thought. He still had a problem, but he wouldn’t need an operation. The particular problem he had would be expected to resolve itself quite quickly given a bit of TLC.

I remember being told “this is good news.”

So, in the end, the boy ended up spending a week in intensive care in Brompton, followed by two weeks in special care back home. The Brompton put us (me and Mrs M) up in one of the parents’ rooms in the hospital and even managed to find us an en suite.

Those three weeks have so many memories and stories which might come out in the future. I cannot thank the doctors and nurses involved enough. They didn’t just take care of our baby, but they took care of us as well. I could fill pages with all the kind and thoughtful things they did for us which were above and beyond their “day job”.

I’ll echo the comments of many other posters in praising the NHS. When you need it, when you really need it, it’s wonderful.

Length? felt like an eternity.
(Mork, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:22, 1 reply)

Wiggle your fingers for me
Whilst doing an MSc in Loughborough I did myself a mischief on the way to hand in a bit of coursework. A combination of wet trainers from the never ending rain and 1 hours sleep the previous night resulted in my feet sliding out from beneath me on the top step to my department's reception and then me landing with my left elbow connecting first with the metal edge of the 6th step down.

I went crossed eyed, said some very naughty words, dusted myself down and went off to lectures. After about half an hour of trying to concentrate the throbbing (in my arm) wasn't stopping and I started to feel a bit queasy. I went to the student medical bay and the nurse made me wiggle my fingers and thus deduced it was only bruised and nothing was broken. Thank god for the wonders of modern diagnostics. She recommended I got it X-rayed just in case I'd chipped a bone and told me to piss off in the direction of Loogabarooga's walk-in NHS hospital. Despite having fleeced us of £10 a head at the start of term and this being only the 4th week in, there wasn't a sling in the place. So off I pissed to said walk-in centre, slingless.

Shortly after arrival I was sent to the radiographer who also deduced that the ability to wiggle fingers was a classic sign of bruised student and nothing more. Still, pictures must be taken, so she placed the xray under my elbow and asked me to straighten my arm. I couldn't. So, she grabbed my wrist and pulled sharply to straighten it for me. I've never known pain like it. With my eyes streaming and my mouth painting the air blue she told me to stop being a baby and proceeded to take her happy snaps.

Turns out I had broken my elbow in four places.

Guess which two fingers I wiggled at her next?
( Draconacticus Reject shampoo. Demand real poo!, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:18, 1 reply)

Unqualified Doctors, etc
I've been happily sober for 14 years now (long story for another QOTW) and one of the responsibilities of said sobriety is helping others less fortunate (i.e. ripped to the tits) get some help. Cue my mate Steve calling me at the wee hours to join him in helping another mate who had *badly* fallen off the wagon.

Seems Jeff had been on a screaming bender for 3 weeks, consuming up to 2 litres of Bacardi 151 a day and now was trying to sober up on his own. Not a good idea as a grand-mal seizure is a real possibility at this stage. We decided to drive him ourselves to the ER (A&E) of our choice as the local paramedics would only take him to closest facility. Bad choice. We arrived 20 minutes later with our barely coherent mate (who twice spewed in my car) unable to sign himself in due to the early onset of the DT's. Two hours (and much pleading with the nursing staff for help) later we final manage to speak to a doctor who had the worst "it's his fault and I don't give a rats arse" attitude I've ever encountered. His advice? Take him home and let him sleep it off. No amount of pleading/yelling/threatening would make him or the staff change their minds.

We bundled him up (now at this point seriously off his gourd with the shakes and hallucinations) and, not waiting for the disinterested staff to properly discharge him, took him to a second ER about 30 minutes away. The change could not have been more different. Jeff was immediately put on the proper anti-seizure medications (Ativan) and was promptly admitted to the hospital for 4 days. The admitting MD was astonished at Jeff's treatment at the first hospital, saying that "not all doctors are trained in the handling of acute alcohol withdrawal". WTF?

Wanker. Had we followed the first doc's advice and taken him home the poor sod would have either had a seizure or continued to drink himself into a coma.
( venezuelan beaver cheese is mortally afraid of spoons, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:17, 4 replies)

of testicles, cricket, and comical misunderstandings.
as a much younger and more innocent peteloaf, i was once engaged in a cricket match, as batstop. i was not dressed for the occasion, and, finding myself devoid of a box, i was taken somewhat by surprise when an errant backswing caught me right in my newly descended testicles, causing one of them, the poor long-suffering 'lefty' to do some kind of backflip and get a kink in his little hose, AKA a 'torsion of the testicle'

so a few hours later, in hospital, screaming with pain, i was given a nice dose of something painkillery, and popped in a bed. i was told i would go to theatre at midnight. in my 9yr old mind i was envisaging a play, so i did my utmost to stay awake..imagine my chagrin upon realising 'theatre' was the name given to the room in which a doctor would tear my poor scrotum asunder and manipulate my love eggs like a pair of those chinese stress balls.

now at this point, i feel it relevant to mention me, and my dad are both VERY resistant to anaesthetic. so much so that i counted to twenty, instead of ten, then they redosed me, i got to sixteen, THEN went out.

it's somewhat blurry after this apart form a clear memory of seeing a very concerned top half of a masked face restraining me from sitting up in a very brightly lit room... apparently even a full adult dose of anaesthetic wasn't enough to keep me down for the count.

the worst was yet to come however. i awoke in the following mid-morning, bewildered, alone, and scared in a strange room, and immediately sat up, and swung a leg across with a view to getting out of bed.
i then screamed, and blacked out.
when i came to later that afternoon, it transpired that the REASON for this scream was that i'd been a little too enthusiastic in the post=operative bleeding stakes, and my dressing, along with my poor beleaguered nutsack, was firmly glued to the sheet. this resulted in the tearing open of both by sack, and the stitches the doctor had kindly put in place to hold my boy-eggs in place against the abdominal wall.

i now have two one-inch scars on my nutsack, and may be unable to father kids.
thank god for that.
i HATE kids.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:06, 5 replies)

Imagine a long, rambling story...
...about travels in the Australian bush, falling ill during said travels, and being cured by getting marsupials to collect leaves which are then steeped in hot water, ending with a pun about koala tea health care.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 14:01, 10 replies)

THE AFTERNOON WAS NOT GOING WELL
I had my good lady in my favourite position: jeans and pants off, legs up in the air (in stirrups, no less), with her trembling gash on show like a frightened pink earthworm, naked and slimy, nestling in a bush of fine, silky dark hair. She looked like she was mid-way through an alien abduction, waiting to be probed by a horny grey alien with a raging hard on.

The door opened. A random doctor or nurse stuck their head in, caught a glimpse of the four of us: The nurse, myself, the Mrs, and the Mrs’ cunt. Then without a word fucked off. This was the fifth or sixth person who’d barged in and barged out like this.

The nurse looked over at us and said: “Nice weather we’re having...”

The Mrs. and I looked over as if to say: It’s hard to talk about the fucking weather when you’re waiting to have some stranger route round your most intimate of body cavities with the level of care, tact, and dilligence you’d more commonly expect from an alcoholic psychopath with tourettes and a nasty temper, who’s wife’s just left him getting a job working on the Samaritans helpline. We’d been kept waiting here for nearly an hour already. And prior to this we were waiting for two hours in the area with the crappy uncomfortable chairs and whiff of vomit in the air. Our appointment time had come and gone and was lost in the mists of time, a fable, something we could tell our grandchildren about in the same mystical tones you’d associate with tales about Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.

The nurse continued: “I’ll just go and see where the doctor is...”

And she goes, returns momentarily with what I can best describe as a foetus wearing a rumpled shirt and a pair of chinos. The ‘doctor’ was about ten. I’m sure any day now puberty would hit the poor fucker like a ton of bricks and his days singing soprano in the school choir would be well and truly over.

“Now, then – where to start?” said the doctor absently in a weedy little whiney high-pitched voice that probably had dogs within a mile radius barking, freaking out and generally chasing their tails.

“Erm... It’s just here,” I said helpfully, pointing down between the Mrs’ legs from my vantage point up at the other end of the gurney where I was busy on hand holding duties.

He explained he was a junior doctor and that the proper bona-fide fanny surgeon was busy elbows deep in another wonky vag someplace else. He sat himself down on a stool and regarded my Mrs’ spam holder as if it was the first one he’d ever seen in his life, twisting his head this way and that, screwing up his eyes and pursing his lips. I expected him to proclaim: “AH-HAA! I KNOW WHAT THIS IS! IT’S A FEMALE CUNT! I’VE SEEN PICTURES! A REAL LIFE FEMALE COCK HOLDER, A GENUINE IN-THE-FLESH SPAM SHEATH! WHO’D HAVE THOUGHT?!?” But he didn’t.

Instead the junior doctor slipped on a rubber glove and splurted cold, thick lube onto a couple of fingers while eyeing the Mrs’ poorly pussy in the same way a mechanic examines a knackered old engine. I thought for one moment he was going to give us a quote or say with a tut: “I can get it working again but you’re gonna have to replace before it gets worn out completely.”

His gloved hand fully lubed and looking like an extra out of a dodgy underage German fetish porn flick, the junior doc approached the Mrs’ quivering flaps, and he said almost absently: “I’m going to insert a couple of fingers inside the vagina and locate the cervix.”

The Mrs had been strangely quiet up ‘til this point, resigned to another round of ritual humiliation at the hands of the NHS, but I could tell she’d had enough. She just about shouted back: “Most men who’ve used that line on me have at least bought me a drink first.* I don’t even know your name, son.”

The nurse laughed. I laughed. The junior doctor went red and tried to hide his face, lowering it, until he realised he was probably within eating-out distance of the Mrs’ exposed cunny-hole. We stared at him. Is he going to??? No, surely not??? Naaahhh, that would be fucking... WRONG!!! He shot back up, stripped off the glove, suddenly all flustered, and fucked off out the room, mumbling to himself.

“He’s new,” said the nurse. “Give him a few minutes and he’ll be ok.”

“New? New!?! Looks like he was only delivered out of one of these things a few years ago,” said the Mrs, pointing at her fuzzbox as she swung her legs round and started hunting round for her knickers. She was off on one now: “And if he’s scared of a vagina he’s really in the wrong business. Don’t they show them photos of vaginas in the interview? Don’t they say: ‘this is what you’re gonna be working with, if you don’t like it or are afraid of it for any reason, go and be an elbow doctor?”

Awkward silence...

Followed by more awkward silence... Then the nurse disappeared too.

Eventually the proper surgeon fella came and sorted the Mrs. out (examination-wise, he didn’t fuck her or anything).

TIP FOR THOSE THINKING OF GOING INTO GYNOCOLOGY**: 1) Don’t keep women waiting round knickerless for hours on end. 2) If you’re going to ram your hand up a ladies snatch at least tell her your name first, it’s polite. 3) And, probably most important of all, make sure you have yourself actually gone through puberty. Otherwise it’s just a little bit too fucking freaky. Who the fuck wants to get fingered by Dougie Howser M.D???

* Believe me, this line has a shitload more gravitas when the person saying it happens to have their genitals on full view at the time.

** As a profession, not as a hobby.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:54, 13 replies)

Yeah for St. Thomas' Hospital - they saved my life
In 1996, late one december night, the hospital finally told me to come in as I had been contracting for about eight hours.

I got to the hospital and was being wired up to a monitor by half eleven - at which point they discovered my son's heart beat was erratic. They wizzed me up to have an emergency caesarian and after poking my belly saying "can you feel this" repeatedly, they finally cut me open when I said no as the epidermal kicked in. Within one hour, I had given birth to my son.

As soon as they took me up to the anti-natal ward, I threw up and started hemorrhaging blood furiously. I passed out and actually had an out of body experience - I could see my partner and my son in his arms and all the doctors rushing about furiously.

They brought me back to life again and put me on watch through the night while pumping five pints of blood into me. After five days of their excellent care, I was able to go home - and not in a casket.
Hurrah for the NHS!!!!

ps: apparently I had a very good looking doctor, according to the nurses, but it's hard to take that in when he had his arm half way up my vagina. I'm sure he was lovely tho.
( camp freddy well, would you look at that!, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:53, 1 reply)

before launching into any of my amusing and occasionally downright scary anecdotes
i fell compelled to point out. people are all too happy to bag on the NHS. in reality, as with any organisation, there are cretins, regular joes, and aabsolute solid fuckin gold superstars. the issue isn't with them, it's with the management and funding, the upper echelons who never so much as SEE a grubby squalling child with a cut head, or a car crash victim, or that weird rash on your scrotum. THESE are the fucking assholes. if you have a SHRED of decency, you'll castigate them, but remember that when speaking to, or indeed about the poeple you see in the treatment room, there's EVERY chance that they are simply fettered by their options and their guidelines and rules, and that if they COULD wave a wand and cure you, they would. just noteworthy because i happen to be goin out with someone who works FAR harder and under FAR more pressure than anyone i've ever met, for a lot less money, out of a desire to help people, who's been reduced to tears before by people slagging off the NHS, ande it's not fair.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:51, 2 replies)

Ski resort doctors
To my mind this doctor was like doctor dog out of rex the runt. Anything for a tenner or in this case $50

I managed to wipe out whilst skiing in Canada, knobling my knee in the process. Que fun in the blood wagon and much royal waving as i trundled down the slope.

Anyway at the doctors itself i was quickly whisked in and given a good poking around. By this point my knee is starting to swell fast (it eventually turned into a small football of a thing). After some prodding and umming and roughly 5 minutes of seeing the doc i was told it was just a sprain and should be find by tomorrow, that'll be $50 please.

Numpty.

Later that day i gingerly put a tiny bit of weight on it and promptly found myself sprawled on the floor screaming in agony. However i gritted my teeth since i had a plane to catch the next day and thought bugger it, i was silly for trying that, its sprained.

when the swelling hasn't gone down for 2 weeks after (and the swelling was huge and "squishy) a trip to the doc revealed that i had sever my ancruchia ligament (a later op revealed it wasn't just severed but gone, nothing left).

So thank you special Canadian doctor for massive misdiagnosis and brownie points for Air Canada who, whilst giving me an isle seat for the flight back after i pointed out my wheelchair state and leg, stuck me on the wrong side of the plane, meaning my knackered knee was pressed up against some reclined arse for 8 hours.

joy, but big thank you to NHS for fixing things.
(moronic50, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:48, 1 reply)

Hmm
A few years ago I went through a period of awful insomnia - for about a month and a half I slept about 2 or 3 hours a night. Eventually I went to the doctor to see if I could be prescribed sleeping pills. This is the conversation I had:

Zapiola: Hello Doctor, I've been sleeping terribly. I keep on waking up.
Doctor: Hm... yes you do look rather run down. I'm going to prescribe you some *name of sleeping pill brand I've now forgotten*. Take one of these three nights a week an hour before you go to bed and you should drop off like a light.
Zapiola: Thanks Doctor. Will they affect my other medication?
Doctor: Other medication?
Zapiola: Yes... anti-depressants
*blank look from Doctor*
Zapiola: The ones you prescribed me a few weeks ago after the suicide attempt?
Doctor, ruffling through notes: Oh. Yes. No, they should be fine.
Zapiola, looking at prescription: Are these enough sleeping pills to commit suicide with?
Doctor: Oh yes.
Zapiola: Good to know.
Dcotor: You're not planning on committing suicide are you?
Zapiola: Hmmm... no. Not right now.
Doctor: Oh OK. Well come back in a few weeks if the sleeping problem persists.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:43, 4 replies)

Doctors - never believe what they say
I have been unfortunate to have a fair few medical issues in my time resulting in having a camera shoved up just about every orifice on my body. Only my ears have been left unadulterated so far and I'm sure that is just a matter of time. During this time, I have discovered that the medical profession is very adept at lying. Most of you will have had an injection or a blood test at some point. The nurse always says something like 'you will feel a small scratch'. No you won't. What you will actually feel is a sharp stab.

Last year, I had a few issues with my waterworks which required a trip to see a specialist willy doctor. After all sorts of tests he decided that he wanted to 'take a look inside'. This meant shoving a camera down my little fella. Now, any blokes reading will shudder at the mention of this (you are right to).

When the day came, I turned up at the hospital and was ushered into a room containg the doctor in question and 2 hot nurses (why did they have to be hot?). This is where my utter humiliation began. I was asked to get undressed but leave my t-shirt on (to make me look like a plonka I suspect) and to sit on this kind of dentists chair. Suffice to say, despite the presence of 2 hot nurses my knob was so small it was as if it was trying to escape up inside my body due to the horror that was about to come.

Now this is where the lying started. The doc proceeded to tell me how small the camera was. Lies! He pulled out this scary looking contraption that was at least the thickness of a ball-point pen. Now, giving the technology its dues, that is pretty small for a camera, but not when some bloke is about to shove it into your Jap's eye.

The evil doc then proceeded to squeeze some kind of lube into my poor little shriveled fella and begin to feed the camera into into it. Now this was pretty nasty, but not quite as bad as I had feared. Phew I thought, I am going to get through this. It was also quite interesting to see the picture from the camera on this little TV. Then came his next lie. He had reachd the little valve between my bladder and my willy tube. He proceeded to say 'This is going to sting a little'. Lies! As he gave the camera an almighty shove, the most intense burning pain I have ever experienced shot through my body. My eyes began to weep, I felt faint and I thought I was going to be sick. Don't forget the hot nurses. They were still just standing there watching (not entirely sure what they were there for apart from to make me feel even more stupid).

After that he had a quick look around my bladder, told me I might have cancer (I didn't in the end - phew) and pulled it out. The relief of the toture instrument being pulled from my, now beaten, willy was one of the most relieving feelings I can remember.

After all of this, he played his most evil card of all. He told me to drink plenty of water over the next few days. I did as was asked and by the time I got home I felt like I needed a wee. As per usual, I stood there ready to go and relaxed. The moment the first drop hit that valve he had buggered my knees buckled and my head spun. It was even more bloody painful than the camera abuse. The bastard. I imagined him sitting in his doctors canteen chuckling to himself.

However, there has been one doctor that I can remember who did tell me the brutal truth. A few years ago, I had a really bad chest infection that got so bad I had to go to A&E (ER to you Merkins). Whilst I was there this nice African doc told me that they need to check the level of oxygen in the blood in my arteries. They best way for them to do this was to draw some blood from the artery in my wrist, the one that people cut when they are doing themselves in. I told him that it didn't sound very pleasent and he agreed. In fact his exact words were 'This is really going to hurt'. He wasn't lying.
(Tom Jones's Mojo Hasn't had any since, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:36, 5 replies)

The missus
was with child... our first.... and she'd been pissing her pants all day, but was 4 weeks early for the delivery date. So we trots off to hospital and we see a midwife. The midwife has a poke around and says to the wife "we're going to have to section you".

Now we both looks at each other, and admittedly we didn't and don't know much about baby delivery, but the wife said to me through tears "I'm having a baby NOT fucking mental!".

About half hour later of worry and planning how to do a runner, another midwife explains they meant a "C-Section".

"Oh.. that's ok then. Hack away!"
( Piper Alpha is being a grumpy northerm bastard on:, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:32, Reply)

The Examination
Girlfriend goes into hospital with severe abdominal pains. Nurses admit her into what appears to be some sort of holding bay for a mix of hypochondriacs, seniles and drunks. After a further 2 hours of nausea and whining the curtain opens to show 2 dashing doctors staring at my bed stricken girlfriend.

Now I have to admit that the younger doctor was clearly of a high caliber of male, higher than I can claim to be with my expanding waist line and plummeting life prospects. To further destroy my ego, the girlfriend starts flirting slightly with said doctor until that is, he mutters the words...

"rectal examination"

and then stares intensely at me. Girlfriend's face goes pale with terror, or excitement - not sure which - but the intense stare forces me to reply.
"I'll just go get a coffee".
Let me tell you, there is no dignity in walking out of a room to let another, better looking, more successful man stick his finger up the arse of the woman you love while another, older man watches.

I returned to the scene of the crime half an hour later to see my girl blushing gently whilst subtly relaying to me "I didnt mind that he stuck his finger up my arse but did he have to wipe it afterwards?"
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:31, 3 replies)

Personal effects
I fell through a house in El Salvador a few years back (half-built, drunk and running etc.) and ended up in 'hospital' with a considerable amount of wood in my bum (not in that way!).

Anyway, I don't remember much, thankfully, but as I was being discharged (less than 24 hours later!) and stumbling out the front door, one of the orderlies comes running after me, jabbering away in foreign, tears running down his face, thrusting a plastic bag my way.
I didn't remember bringing anything with me, and I was somehow still in my original clothes, so I didn't understand what he was on about.

The whole A&E fell silent as I looked into the bag. About a foot and a half of gory timber befell mine eyes, whereupon I did emit a girly yelp. The natives thought this was hilarious - 'doctors', 'nurses' all in peals of laughter.

What could I do? promptly took the bloody wood and chased the nearest titterer around the room with it until I collapsed all over again ...
(Clerk T Hazarde are all the wine, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:23, Reply)

Useless fuck-up of a dentist
was grinding away at a molar when I was quite young. Then he slipped and the drill carved majestically through my tongue. I couldn't feel anything, but was mildly freaked out at the sight of blood spurting copiously from my gaping mouth.

Ever had stitches in your tongue? It feels very very odd, and it is sore as fuck. I spent two weeks speaking like a mong, and still (30 years later) have a ridge of scar tissue running across it, sadly not in a place to assist in pleasing the ladies.

My Mum reported the dentist to 'the authorities' which caused a minor local scandal as it transpired that (a) he wasn't properly qualified and (b) he also worked as a vet about 20 miles away. So the fingers that had been poking around in my gob had also been up the bottoms of countless animals, touched their genitals and god knows what else.

It took the local health authority 2 years to stop him practising as a dentist, and I've never really trusted any of the bastards since.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:09, 3 replies)

I broke two toes playing football
and my friends were like, "No you didn't" and I believed 'em and sat there for a while before my dad came to pick me up. During this time a bloke who came to watch the game said he knew some massage thingy wanted to see if it was broken and I sat through the agony of him pulling on my toes (I think it is what medieval torture feels like, yes). After i reach the hospital they take the X-Ray and the nurse tells me I broke two toes (not a hairline fracture but completely without exposed bones) after which they take me upstairs to fix me up.

The doctor gets a huge needle and injects anesthetic into my foot. Literally pumped it in and as if that wasn't enough, the bastard left the needle in my leg to refill the syringe. After it was numbed they covered my face and began to do something or the other to my foot. I fell asleep outta boredom (not anesthetic, mind) and when I woke up I see this cute nurse with awesome breasts bending over my right foot (the one which was injured) while she was standing on my left.

She hadn't noticed I was awake. So how do I let her know? I lift my left leg. Nurse: "Oh". Ah, the softness. It's been a long while since this but I still haven't forgotten.

Size? Definitely a D if not bigger.
(Archeleus hates cabbage, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:04, Reply)

My Sister.
This one is a bit of a gutter so be warned.

When she was younger my sister had cancer of the thyroid and was quite poorly. In those days kids were sent to the Children’s Hospital and regulations on visiting hours were rather draconian. So she’d had her operation to remove the tumour and was lying in bed feeling very unwell and obviously wanted her mum. So she asked the nurse when her mum was coming “Later.“ was the terse answer. She asked again and again, always receiving the same answer. Eventually she was becoming very upset and, as she described it to her mum later, almost frantic. So she got out of bed and approached the nurses station where the matron was sitting. Once again she asked when her mum was coming and the matron answered as follows:

“You’re mother isn’t ever coming to see you again you whining little girl. She doesn’t love you, nobody loves you. Now go back to bed and stay there.” By the time visiting hours arrived she had become hysterical and was sedated.

My sister was three. It took almost fifteen years for the mental scars to be overcome.

Thank you NHS, treating the disease isn't your only responsibility. I'm pleased things are better now.

Just checked, she was actually five. Sorry.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Thu 11 Mar 2010, 13:01, 7 replies)

Don't get injured on public holidays
Several years ago, I managed to break my arm on easter. We went to the hospital where a woman in a white coat duly took an X-ray of said arm. She returned later to make an X-ray of the other arm too. I inquired what was the use of that, whereupon she told me she just couldn't figure out what my broken arm was actually supposed to look like.
We later found out she was an oculist, only there because everybody else had wandered off home before her.
( BringYourOwnParachute Meet me here on, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 12:55, Reply)

Ripping yarn
Well, ripping cotton, at any rate.

A few years ago I decided to put my money where my mouth (or rather scrotum) is, and do something positive for the planet. Children are evil, serve no useful purpose (with the sole exception of my nephew, that is. He's ace), and there's no way on earth I'm going to contribute to the overpopulation of the planet by spawning yet another mewling parasite to add to the legions already crowding the place. Came to that realisation almost thirty years ago, and it's still true today.

So I got snipped. The anaesthetic injections hurt like the very devil, but once it took effect I didn't feel a thing. That joke about being macho enough to jog home after a vasectomy isn't much of a joke; it took several hours for the anaesthetic to wear off.

After the doctor had finished messing around down there I asked him if there was anything I needed to know about taking care of the dual wounds he'd just inflicted on me. Should I use bandages? What about antiseptic creams, or anything to reduce the chance of infection? Never mind all that, I was cheerfully told, just wear tight, supportive underwear, and wash at least twice a day.

So I did.

What the kind doctor didn't tell me is that cotton is absorbent, and an open wound (well, a stitched wound) leaks no small amount of fluids, which permeate the fabric touching the wound and dry to a crust. Every time I undressed I ripped the crust off the wounds, causing plenty of pain into the bargain.

Eventually things healed up, but it'd have been nice if I'd been told to, I don't know, put some Elastoplast over it and change that twice a day.
( flake has nothing against your right leg, Thu 11 Mar 2010, 12:54, 11 replies)