Having survived the worst the NHS could throw at me and being slightly on the mend and once again in ‘care limbo’, I am prompted to have another good moan about our failing health care.

I suppose it started on Monday last week, when I felt a cramp like pain along the right side of my body followed by pins and needles. This lasted about five minutes and left my hand feeling cramped. As there were no chest pains I ignored the concept of it being a heart attack and got on with things. When it lasted fifteen minutes on the Tuesday, with more persistent hand cramps I became mildly amused and resolved to try and see the doctor Wednesday morning. I know I was hoping quite a lot here, turning up without my arm in a basket and blood gushing everywhere, but I would gamble on a sensible receptionist being on the desk.

Well, in some ways I was lucky and in others the ball didn’t quite drop in my court. Firstly, feeling awful I forced myself out of bed to take Annette to work (my day for the car for work) and as luck would have it she wasn’t at work that day. By the time I’d got back to bed the numbness was pretty constant and I’d noticed my right eye was out of focus. The receptionist was not in the mood to let me see a doctor (stupid self grandiose opinionated bitch – don’t like her attitude much) but, she did say if I rang in before 0900 hours Thursday morning I could get a sit and wait appointment. Note, the stupid cow could not just give me an appointment there and then.

Having cadged a lift to work and returned on the bus with my eye letting me down badly and not being able to grip a pen properly I went to bed and asked Annette to make sure I was up before 0900 to get an appointment. Just my luck, it was the one day she decided to sleep in and I managed to stagger downstairs dead on 0900. Fifteen minutes later I hadn’t been able to find the doctors phone number so gave up and got myself cleaned up and dressed.

Ten minutes latter I was in the reception arguing with the same stupid cow as yesterday demanding I be allowed to see the doctor. After demanding I calm down she decided that she had a space for me after all. Well you could have knocked me down with a feather as the surgery was deserted apart from the two of us. However, I had to wait until 1115, just over half an hour. I went home for a brew.

I got back and was amazed to be kept no longer that fifteen minutes, despite there now being a small group of eight people, who appeared to be in pairs. Had she booked everyone for the same time to look busy?  The doctor asked what he could do and I did not feel like telling him to try listening and treating the symptoms, so I calmly told him that my right side was all numb and my eye was playing up. He checked my blood pressure a mere 160/109 and launched off on his lecture about it going to kill me. Maybe he was right but, when he said I should have gone straight to the hospital yesterday, I replied; “Why would I do that? It didn’t seem urgent as I’d been told to come back today by your receptionist.’ Nicely timed to as the cow had just walked back in with some forms for me to take to New Cross.

So, with a slightly chastised receptionist phoning the hospital, I was given a prescription for some aspirin and told to go home and wait for phone call. Aspirin, about 35p a box, prescription charge over £7 and they wonder why the NHS is short of cash. Found one in the cupboard at home and had one with a life saving cup of cha.  Phone rings, they have an appointment for me at New Cross heart and chests Friday 1400 hours. Ah, well they must expect me to survive the night.

Next day Annette was at work until 1300 hours and although Andrew had kindly offered to take me to the hospital, I was pretty determined to walk and see just how bad thing were. As it turned out not too bad, had a couple of moments where I struggle with my balance but, otherwise managed the walk to the hospital without mishap and arrived about ten minutes before the appointment. This was when my real troubles started, they have taken all the signs down telling you where the departments are. They should hoist one over the main gate; Arbeit Macht Frei.

As look would have it, there was an ambulance just pulling in and I asked directions; it was the new building at the rear. I had been there about three years ago and couldn’t find the outpatients then, nothing had changed. There was a sign telling you it was the right building, but no signs pointing to wards or reception. Like most of the hospitals today, the main door is next to a canteen franchise and I asked at the counter. I was waved vaguely upstairs and thankfully met a nurse on the way down who told me which floor it was on and I was in with a minute to spare, although there was a thirty minute delay, which would become an hour before I saw anyone who was capable of more than filling out a form.

Once again the doctor obviously had English as a second language, although I could understand most of what she said and she seemed capable enough. Definitely a Muslim, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find she had come from Iraq or some other Middle East country. The point hear is not some racist rant but, rather that these doctors are probably working on the cheap by comparison to British born and bred and don’t always understand the idiom of our local accent. I personally don’t think this is fair on the doctors or the patients who may be struggling with a befuddled brain because  a stroke.

She asked me my symptoms again, got me to tell her what I could see and how much grip I had in my right hand, then it was a quick lecture on statins being the wonder drug, to which I replied I will die before I take those and besides what as cholesterol got to do with this? you haven’t checked my blood to see if my cholesterol level is high or low.  Given a cautious ‘we think it is a minor heart attack’  I sent off with a nurse to get a cardiogram, the results of which are still top secret. I will probably find out the majority voted NOT to Join the EU first time around before I get told what those results were.

Finally I was given a prescription for some blood thinning drug that wasn’t aspirin and told to come back Saturday morning for a ultra sound exam on the back of my neck to see if there was an obvious blood clot. They really make sure only the fit survive; my directions were, to find Greggs and the ultra sound department was below it. Everyone knows where Greggs is (except me).

Next morning Annette dropped me off where she though Greggs was and I walked along a surreal long corridor to the other side of the hospital, still no damn signs to let you know where you were or even where you might be going.  Bumped into a couple of porters moving some poor sod in his bed and they told me I was right by it. It was in fact just round the bend in a side corridor to the left.  Still no sign of the ultra sound but, there was another nurse just finishing her pasty who kindly lead me through the maze to the right entrance door. I told her I hadn’t been able to find any signs and she said there hadn’t been any for nearly two years. Now I know I am a stropy git but, had I been close to collapsing at any time like a lot of the even older people I saw wandering around, I could have popped my clogs just trying to get within a hundred yards of the place.

More delays and half soaked receptionists, but I did eventually get taken in and after about ten minutes scanning was told I could go.  When I asked what I was supposed to do next you would think I had suddenly demanded to be told the meaning of life and why we were all here. There was no, ‘Well that was all clear, nothing to worry about’ or any mention of any follow up or contact your GP in a couple of days. Nothing, just on your bike mate.

Having survived the week I was slightly annoyed today when I went back to my GP to see if he knew what was happening to be treated as I should know what to do and when to do it.  When pushed he started on about refusing to take statins and said I had been given some tablets to dissolve a blood clot, although as far as I know they haven’t found one!  Eventually he decided that I should be having a brain scan some time and they might let me know soon.  Meanwhile I was not to drive for a month. By now I was getting pretty Bolshoi again and said so if I haven’t  any treatment for my sight or heard anything from New Cross by this time next month I’m OK to a double decker bus? He didn’t seem amused and frankly neither was I.

When did the NHS stop treating people and letting you know what was wrong, how you were expected to behave (exercise or rest) what was being done to sort it all out.  Given that it is a pain in the neck finding your way round the hospital and you cannot get anyone to tell you what is happening it is a wonder anyone recovers.  If I did not know better, I would think it was part of a plot to reduce waiting lists by bumping off those not capable of finding their way through the maze of buildings and mysterious hints of actions to be taken.