Having started my day in agony, taking paracetamol (slightly improving my comfort but only just), I decided to phone my local surgery. Success! An appointment was available! “When?” I asked. “5:40 but that is the only one we have available for a while.” Well I wasn’t taking my chances and so I booked it, emailed my lecturer to let him know I would not be able to make my seminar (it would take me an hour and half to get to my appointment and leaving university at 5pm was therefore not an option.)
After deliberating with myself about whether I wanted to go, having only rang them with encouragement from F*****, I rang A***** so she could give me a pep talk and so that she would ensure I would not chicken out. I am after all deathly afraid of dentists, opticians and doctors.
At 5:50 pm I was still waiting for the GP. To be fair, this was not the GP’s fault, his previous patient only arrived at 5:40 for his 5:20 appointment, and I know this is true because the patient was confirming his arrival when I got in.
When I finally got to see the good doctor, I knew this was going to be severely uncomfortable. He was that type of guy, very nice, but very graphic, not very mindful of my tender sensibilities. Yes, I do have them, even if I am relatively shameless.
At his behest, I launched into why I was there, my symptoms, the reasons I could not put up with them i.e. my allergy to NSAIDs. I mentioned certain tablets as an example to which he replied, “That isn’t an NSAID.” “Is it not?” I questioned, wondering where I had gotten that impression from, determined to check it up later though I assured myself the GP had to know what he was talking about. After some deliberation and the excessive use of references to certain body parts (quite a lot of emphasis actually, on his part not mine), he advised me upon a certain medicinal route having ruled out the new age healing type remedies. He handed me my prescription and with that I was on my way to the chemist to pick up my drugs.
When I got back home I checked up the tablets I had mentioned, lo and behold, it is in actual fact an NSAID. My mother has now forbidden me from using the drugs he prescribed me until I speak to a friend of hers who is also a GP.
The drama did not end there my friends! Oh no! When I finally got into my comfy home clothes (my pyjamas), we heard an urgent knock at the door. The type of urgent you would expect from an individual whose house was burning and needed to use your phone or if your neighbour’s wife had gone into early labour and needed someone to babysit the children, that particular sort of urgent.
Who was it? The pharmacist’s wife of course! Her husband could not find my prescription and thought he may have accidently given it back to me. I searched my bag for the packet of prescription drugs I had yet to take out and examine, I could not find it. As my mum went to look for our telephone for Mrs. Pharmacist to call her husband and let him know she could not find it, I noticed her looking around our home. I invited her to sit down as she was shuffling her feet but she informed me she was merely looking around as our house was so lovely. My mum had returned with the cordless by then. Mrs. P repeated her observation and enquired as to whether our home was ours. My mother looked as if she was about to have an aneurism. Why could we not be the owners of a lovely home? My mother has worked tirelessly inside and outside our house so that it really is quite lovely alhamdulillah.
Essentially, today I have discovered two things. GPs should not be trusted and my family evidently appear to be the type of people who could only ever rent a home or worse yet eternally live off benefits with the council paying for our home.
I always knew I was destined to be a chav.
Run just as fast as I can
To the middle of nowhere
To the middle of my frustrated fears
And I swear you're just like a pill
Instead of makin' me better, you keep makin' me ill
You keep makin' me ill
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