National Health Service This is a funny fish. Often this works almost brilliantly. Almost, but, unfortunately, not quite.
I had this thing on my shoulder that, being where it was, I couldn’t really see. Although I felt it. Mole-shaped, warty thing. I'll spare you a more complete description.
And so I began my tried-and-true method of dealing with vaguely troubling symptoms: 1. Pretend it's not there. 2. Admit that this is true. 3. Convince yourself that it is growing. 4. Ask your loved one to take a photo of it. 5. Look at the photo, choking slightly. 6. Send to a doctor friend who will say: go see a therapist. 7. Forget about it. 8. Remember this. 9. Try to get an appointment with a doctor, but you won’t be able to. 10. Forget about it again. 11. Remember this again. 12. Make more efforts to get an appointment with a doctor and, therefore, succeed.
All this time, of course, I am balancing between two opposing beliefs: the first is that this is fatal, the second is that this is nothing. And in between these things nothing happens.
Moreover, I must admit that between stages 5 and 6 I complicated things by almost completely removing the bloody thing. He came back with a vengeance and looked even angrier than before. So, whatever I consider to be the faults of the NHS, I always bear in mind that they often deal with idiots like me.
The doctor said it might be nothing, but I should get it checked out. She gave me a referral code to log in and make an appointment. So far, so good. She advised not to worry about the words “suspect”, “urgent” and “cancer” on the form as it was just to get the ball rolling. Good. I think it's encouraging. And the referral system seemed reliable. Proper use of IT, technology, applications etc. Well done everyone.
I dug into the website, filled out a lot of things, moving from one level to the next as if I were good at a video game. And then there's a dead end. A dead end in the form of a message that there were no available beds in the hospital where I was sent. And, as far as I could see, there were no meetings anywhere else. And, just like in the video game, there is no one to call. I shrug. There was a field where you could leave a message/voice of despair, so I entered my number and email and hoped someone would get back to us.
Two days later I haven't heard a sound. Even if I had received an email telling me not to panic and that they would get back to us, that would have helped. Without this, as far as I knew, I was forever lost in the system. Perhaps due to a lack of trust on my part? Maybe. If so, then I feel bad. But I considered my options. I could wait, perhaps in vain, to hear anything from anyone. Or I could go back to my therapist and take up more of her time. Or go private.
One specialist didn't have an appointment until December but looked at a photo of what I was worried about for £250. The audacity of it. I eventually found an appointment for £210 at a dermatology clinic in a posh area of town. Obviously, I'm lucky that I can afford to go private. I did this partly because anxiety was making me dizzy; partly because I've at least saved the NHS a lot of trouble.
This place was located in a small stable. The air was fragrant. The receptionist looked like a model. I muttered something about a wart, and soon a charming dermatologist led me into her office. “Let’s check you everywhere,” she said.
I stripped down to my pants so she could begin a thorough examination of all my flaws. There were very few moles. Except for the time when she looked at my ass and then exclaimed that I had more moles there than everywhere else combined. For some reason I felt a surge of pride. I won’t tell you where she looked next time, I’ll just say that it was more likely her than me. And she was polite enough to ask permission first. The whole process, both leisurely and intense, took 45 minutes.
As for the thing on the shoulder, it had to be removed and sent for inspection, just in case. The price for this was £610. She said I might as well wait for the NHS to contact us and do it for free. But it didn't seem like cricket to me either.
While I was thinking about this, my phone rang. The NHS suddenly came to life, far too urgently for my liking, and within minutes I was on my way to a large teaching hospital in a less posh part of the city. There’s no need to fuss around here and count the moles on your butt, I’m telling you. The dermatologist called me, sat me down and examined my item. He said it may or may not be cancer, but either way it needs to be dug up sooner or later and they will get back to him.
I was in and out of there in exactly 10 minutes. He said basically the same thing the gentle woman told me just an hour ago, although the cancer/non-cancer outcome was more like a 50/50 chance. If I were to rate this experience on Trustpilot, I would say it was very business-like, although the nursing department was a bit lacking. But ok, no complaints.
Then, 10 days after my double dermatology day, I still hadn't heard anything about my surgery appointment and had no one to call. My faith in the system was fading again so I decided to find £610 and be done with it. At this point I suddenly received a call, text message, email and message on the NHS app. From no communication to too much communication.
It so happens that at the time of writing I went back to see the same abrupt guy to remove anything offensive, whatever it was. Let's. I doubt it will take him much time. Let's start bringing this saga to an end.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist.
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