I went to the doctor's a couple of weeks ago, not because I needed to but because I thought I should. "Oh that seems fine," she said, in a wholly reassuring way. "But perhaps we ought to do some checks."
And so this week I've been for three checks, coincidentally on three consecutive days, involving visits to three different health-based locations. I should say up front that none of the checks have thrown up anything out of the ordinary, so that was wholly reassuring too.
On Monday I went back to my doctor's surgery for Check 1. It's always fascinating watching the comings and goings while you wait, the constant flow of staff and patients, the latter mostly young or old. I had been expecting the reception desk to be a flurry of activity as potential patients rang in to try to get an appointment, it being that time of the morning, but it seems that's no longer the arrangement. The new normal is to request a telephone consultation*, a chat with someone who doesn't actually have to look at you, merely ascertain whether someone else ought to see you later. You could describe it as an at-distance triage solution, or as efficient use of limited resources, or as an example of the increasing impersonalisation of society.
* I had in fact bypassed all this two weeks ago by taking the self-important approach, which had been to walk in off the street and present myself in person. I was initially told I'd have to go away and ring up in the morning, but when I responded with a querulous stare the receptionist went away and checked. "Can you come back in an hour?" she asked, and I could so I did and the whole thing was sorted that afternoon.
Monday's visit was thankfully brief, being called through to the consulting room after not as long as I was expecting. The check was efficiently completed, not for the first time, and I managed to ignore how mildly unpleasant it was. Thankfully it all went very smoothly, the only unexpected thing being that Wednesday's doctor would be able to deduce what Monday's check had been just by looking at me.
On Tuesday I went to my local pharmacy for Check 2. Pharmacies do a lot more these days than just dish out tablets and offer advice, things which surgeries might have delivered in the past, thereby making greater use of their expertise and easing pressure on the NHS. I had a little scribbled appointment card as if everything was proper, which in the new paradigm it clearly is. I still had to sit around and wait while the usual palaver of pharmacy life took precedence, all the prescription-seeking, linctus-purchasing and paracetamol acquisition the local populace requires. I was at least offered a seat - they keep one for this purpose - but up close to the counter while umpteen medicines exchanged hands which isn't what I'm used to at the doctor's.
I remember the little room at the side of the pharmacy being built but had never been inside before, just thought it looked rather small. And indeed it was, but perfectly adequate for the check about to take place. What struck me most was all the paperwork the pharmacist had to go through before everything could kick off, in this case on-screen IT paperwork using a patently antiquated interface. Type this here, click, type more, click, type it again, next screen, and repeat. Maybe half the time I spent in that cubicle was spent dealing with the computer screen, not delivering the check, which can't have been the best use of a professional's time. But we got there in the end and I couldn't fault the care taken over delivery.
On Wednesday I went to my local hospital for Check 3. The system was very keen to make sure I went because I was sent an email, a text message, a text message and another text message in advance. What surprised me was that the text messages told me where to go, when and why, nudging me strongly towards turning up, whereas the email merely told me to 'Log in to see the details of your appointment'. That meant I had to go through the palaver of logging in to my NHS account, remembering the password and dealing with an unexpected error message that locked me out for an hour before it eventually told me what the appointment was. The email also advised me to "log in regularly" to get all further notifications, so seemed to be relying on me checking rather than proactively managing my visit. I wondered if I'd also get a letter but I didn't - the NHS isn't made of money - and what I ended up thinking was "blimey, no wonder so many people don't turn up".
I knew which hospital and which department to go to but that's as far as the information went. I hadn't been told how to get there, which door to use and which floor it was on, I was left to work that out for myself. What's more they've completely rebuilt my local hospital since I was last inside so I didn't know for sure where the front door was, it's quite well hidden, and inexplicably I'd never deduced where it had to be. It's bloody obvious now but I still walked round the wrong side of the building first and it amazes me that the appointment onboarding process doesn't provide sufficient information to nail down where to go.
As I wandered through the broad white corridors I thought "sheesh, this is completely different to the Victorian building I was wheeled through back in 2008", and also "hang on how many more swing doors have I got to walk through", and also "I wonder if that old man is a patient or a consultant", and also "why am I crossing back over the road again?" I eventually found myself where I was supposed to be, only to be directed down two more corridors past a nurse who asked me where I was going, and settled in the waiting space alongside a rack of leaflets about unpleasant medical conditions. Thank goodness for smartphones, all of us sat there seemed to be thinking, as we flicked through something less downbeat while we waited.
My check-up lasted less than ten minutes and I would give myself six out of ten for my performance. I failed to put my symptoms into words, I couldn't remember the date of my last check-up, I'm pretty sure I gave an incorrect answer to one of the questions and I really shouldn't have brought up that barely relevant childhood anecdote. Something about being in a room with a professional creates an undue amount of pressure, even when they're very pleasant, and I gushed to fill the gaps when I really should have kept quiet. I also misunderstood the part about the couch, because it turned out I didn't actually need to lie down and shouldn't have tried. It's just as well it wasn't my actions being checked, merely my body.
At one point the doctor stopped addressing me and started talking to the medical student who was in the room to observe, using my body as a canvas for educational demonstration. It took a while for me to realise that she'd given me the all clear and I had to ask again to doublecheck. When you're under the care of the NHS it turns out what you really want to know is "will I need to come back again or is this it?" and this needs to be explicit so it sets your mind at rest. I left the room entirely reassured, and then abruptly realised that I'd failed to put my clothes back on properly and that I should probably address that before I reached reception.
So, as I suggested, it looks like checks 1, 2 and 3 all had positive outcomes for which I am particularly grateful. I could still receive a future communication asking me to get back in touch but that now seems much less likely, so it's been a much better week than the week it could potentially have been. But as I walked out of the hospital yesterday I reflected that one day the news may not be as good, that this might one day be a building I become considerably more familiar with, and that engaging with the NHS won't always be the novelty it is today. May that day be as far away as possible.
