NHS Doctors

Reflections on National Health Service doctors in England

I was thinking back over whether I ought to have become a doctor. It once seemed an attractive idea. Then I thought that in a way, there is no relief. Everywhere you look there are more bodies. Say hello to someone you meet on the street or in shop, and you are presented with another set of symptoms and another diagnosis that you probably could not help but arrive at … cold hands and outer third of eyebrows missing – look’s like an untreated thyroid complaint …

It makes me empathize with doctors who see patients in their surgeries. It must be like being wheeled in front of a succession of patients and asked to spout magic mumbo jumbo. Serious magic that affects people’s lives. The stress must be horrible.

Perhaps surgeries could be redesigned. The patients move on a conveyor and stop in front of the doctor’s box. The box is a coffin upended. The box opens and the doctor moves forward, as though on wheels. He looks and speaks. He diagnoses and prescribes. Then he retreats into the box, which closes.

I imagine doctors might feel like that sometimes – wheeled out to perform miracles (or fall short of performing them) and then on to the next patient. Bring in patient number 486 please.