Confessions of a GP - Benjamin Daniels [2]
When I think back to that KFC, I can still recall my shock at what I perceived to be the terrible ill treatment of this poor man. The callous, heartless actions of the restaurant manager only increased the feeling that my true vocation was to become an amazing doctor in order to cure just such vulnerable people who needed my help…
Ten years later, after a long day of inner city general practice, my brain was heavy with the multitude of sufferings that I had encountered. Chronic pains, domestic violence, addiction, depression, self-harming and a fairly big helping of broad-spectrum misery were the principal orders of the day. After many hours of putting my heart and soul into my patients’ problems, I knew that my competency that day would be judged not on my diagnostic skills or my bedside manner, but by how many targets I had reached from the latest pointless government directive. While finishing the day reading the latest newspaper headline about how GPs were lazy money-grabbers, it was almost a relief to receive an emergency call from reception to tell me that a man had collapsed in the waiting room.
Rather than springing up into life-saving action, I heaved myself out of my blissfully comfortable chair and ambled down to the waiting room. Over the last ten years that limitless enthusiasm had been gradually broken down and replaced with a defeated resignation. I took no satisfaction in this time getting my diagnosis spot on. Still waiting for that spontaneous pneumothorax to heroically cure, I was greeted instead by one of our local street drinkers in a drunken stupor in the children’s play area of the waiting room. Using the expertise I perfected during endless Friday and Saturday night shifts in A&E, I skilfully escorted the intoxicated man from the surgery back on to the street.
In a wave of sad nostalgia I wondered what that naïve 18-year-old me would think about what he had become. Would I have even bothered to have gone on to study medicine if I could have foreseen how so much of that initial hope and optimism would drain away. Not even out of my twenties yet, I began to wonder if being a doctor was anything close to the career I thought it was going to be. As I returned the drunk homeless man on to the street, I offered him an appointment to come back and see me the following morning when he was sober, explaining about organising an alcohol detox. ‘I’ll be there, Doc,’ he told me as he shoved the appointment card into his pocket. We both knew that he’d miss that appointment, but at least we were mutually left with a faint glimmer of hope for something better.
Please don’t imagine that this book is about me looking for sympathy or commiserations about my broken dreams, or assume that I have lost my empathy and respect for the people who expectantly seek my help or advice. I guess it’s just that the often grim reality of practising inner city medicine is not quite what I had expected it to be. I no longer dream of miracle cures and magic bullets and I have definitely given up waiting to dramatically reinflate that collapsed lung. Instead, I acknowledge that my role is to listen and share the pains, concerns and sufferings of the people who sit before me. I offer the odd nugget of good advice and provide some support at times of need. Perhaps just occasionally I even make a small difference in someone’s life. The intention of this book is simply to give an honest but light-hearted insight into some of the joys, frustrations and absurdities of being an inner city NHS GP today. I hope you enjoy it.
I have only been a GP for three years but I do genuinely love the job. I like the variety and getting to know my patients. I find it challenging and rewarding. Sometimes I even make a diagnosis and cure someone! I’m currently working as a locum which