Confessions of a GP Read Free Page A

frame or slipped on a rogue Murray Mint. She was back to her normal self now and common sense told me that this lady would not benefit from a whole load of tests and new medications that in the long run would probably only increase her confusion and make her more likely to fall over.
    I’m allowed to be puritanical because I’m not a partner and so don’t make any money from the QOF points. But would I have been tempted to diagnose Mrs Tucker as having had a stroke if I knew it meant that I would pocket some extra cash in April? Amazingly, in the vast majority of practices that I have worked in, the doctors are incredibly honest about achieving their targets truthfully. However, shouldn’t we remove the temptation altogether? Surely, doctors should be able to make sensible decisions about what is in the best interest of our patients without needing targets and cash incentives?

First day
    I can still remember my first day as a doctor very clearly. It is something that I had been looking forward to since I first chose my A level subjects eight years earlier. Now the actual day had finally come I was absolutely shitting myself and wondering if I wanted to be there at all. We spent most of the first day having induction-type talks. These consisted of a fire safety talk and an introduction from a medical lawyer on how best not to get sued. Not particularly confidence boosting.
    As the induction day drew to a close, most of the other new doctors went to the pub. Not me though. I was doing my first ‘on call’ on my first-ever night as a doctor. This may have been the short straw for some but, although frightened, I was excited and keen to get my first on call over with. This night would be the making of me, I thought to myself. By this time tomorrow, I would be feeling like an old pro and be regaling heroic stories of my life-saving antics to my admiring colleagues in the pub. It was going to be like losing my virginity all over again. My brand-new shirt was ironed and although a couple of sizes too big, my white coat was starched and gleaming. I had a sensible haircut and a stethoscope round my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror astounded that I really was a doctor!
    I picked up my pager at five that evening and sat there looking at it timidly. This small black box would come to be hated by me during my future years as a hospital doctor. This box would wake me from sleep and interrupt my meals. When completely overloaded with work and feeling like I couldn’t cope, this small inconspicuous little box would bleep and tell me that I had another five urgent things to deal with. Of course I was unaware of all of this on that first innocent evening. Instead, I had a naïve excitement that I was finally considered important enough to have my own pager and that it might actually go off. I had been practising how I should best answer it:
    ‘Hello, it’s Dr Daniels, vascular surgical house officer.’
    That’s right, my first job was as the junior in the vascular surgery team. I didn’t really know what vascular surgery was, but I liked the sound of it. Perhaps I could drop the house officer bit and just answer by saying: ‘Hi. Dr Daniels, vascular surgeon.’ Hmm that would sound much more impressive. I could just picture the attractive nurse swooning on the other end of the line.
    To my surprise, at about ten minutes past five my pager did go off. I took a deep breath and answered the call: ‘Hi. Dr Daniels, vascular surgeon.’ There was a sigh from the other end of the telephone. It was my consultant and new boss. ‘You are not a vascular surgeon, you are my most junior and least useful helper monkey. Some poor bastard has popped his aorta and I’m going to be in theatre with the registrar all evening trying to fix him. I need you to order us a chicken chow mein, a sweet and sour pork and two egg fried rice. Have them delivered to theatre reception.’ The phone went dead. That was it. All those years of study and my