Last month I had my own medical assessment with ATOS. Despite clearly showing my fear and discomfort around people, I was found to be fit for work, and placed in the Work Activity group. I appealed in writing, of course. My counsellor provided me with several copies of a letter to support the appeal - she's good that way. However, I was dismayed to discover that my GP had left the practice I attend, and that I had to discuss my appeal with another doctor.
He was thoroughly unpleasant. There was no bedside manner of which to speak, and he barely made eye contact with me. However, he presented Leo with a near-twenty-minute tirade about governmental policy, ATOS and the DWP, which went straight over my head, both figuratively and literally. He declined to lend his support to my appeal, telling Leo - not I - that my counsellor's letter would be quite enough, and that the decision makers never read the supporting material anyway. When he was quite finished, I asked him about an unrelated blood test. He mumbled something about referring me to haematology at the hospital, and sent us both on our way.
Outside, Leo called him a meat puppet. I called him a sexist meat puppet.
Aside from his poor attitude, I was disturbed by his eagerness to being politics so directly into our - well, his and Leo's - discussion. Whilst it's true that more and more doctors are dealing with patients' appeals against ATOS decisions, is it really prudent for general practitioners to launch into such diatribes in the surgery? We're there for health reasons, not political opinions. A simple "no, you have enough supporting evidence already" would have been perfectly acceptable as a response. Instead, I was left feeling very uncomfortable and considering whether I should move to another surgery to avoid this awful man.
The appeal is still ongoing. The DWP have written to me to say that they have received the appeal and that a decision is imminent. Meanwhile, Leo and I are struggling financially again. Worse, for reasons related to the state of our local mental health service, I have been unable to meet with my counsellor for three weeks. I feel suspended, helpless. Once again, my biggest problems are those beyond my control. Only time will tell.
Showing posts with label doctor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label doctor. Show all posts
Saturday, 23 February 2013
Friday, 13 April 2012
Strands
One
I love my GP's surgery. It's a five-minute walk around the corner, tucked away inside a community centre, and always immensely peaceful. The most people I've seen in the waiting room at any one time is three - a far cry from the over-subscribed circus Leo and Alba attend.
The GP herself is marvellous. Her bedside manner has struck exactly the right balance between matter-of-fact and sympathetic; too much of either tends to intimidate me. I visited her yesterday for a duplicate medical certificate, an update on my counselling referral, and more medication. She gave me an extension on my certificate without my needing to ask, apologised for the long waiting list for counselling services, and corrected my repeat prescription to show my correct dosage. I was in the surgery less than five minutes. My GP seems to be the exception that proves the rule within the NHS.
I collected my medication from the awful pharmacist, who looked far from pleased to have a customer so close to closing time. Earlier today, the Jobcentre faxed my certificates to head office whilst I waited - taking no risks this time - and later sent me a text message to confirm that my back payments would be released within three working days. I won't feel a sense of relief until the money enters my account, but the promise is there.
Two
Truman has been over several times since I cleaned up his room. Unfortunately, my own hatred of conflict barred me from confronting him about the mess he left, but Leo conveyed the message for me. No apology has been forthcoming yet, but this comes as no surprise.
Meanwhile, Truman is already regretting his hasty decision. Both Poison Ivy and the person in whose flat they are staying - an old enemy of Leo's - are frustrating him to no end. I can happily report that Leo has told him to lie in the bed he's made for himself.
Three
Since writing that I neither have bad dreams nor recurring themes from night to night, I have experienced both. I dreamed that I had killed a monstrous person in self-defence, and was running from two things: the police, and the dark fog slowly covering the city. Despite my overwhelming guilt, the people I met all sympathised with me and hid me from the police, but the fog was awful. It moved slowly, mockingly, in that near-sentient way it does in horror movies. It was inescapable and evil.
The next night, I dreamed I was ill and unable to walk, so I had to be driven everywhere by my family. We left the house in the middle of the day only to confronted with the darkness and the fog again. More horrifying still, the fog was somehow refracting the moonlight so that there appeared to be three full moons overlapping each other in the sky. I've been disconcerted by dreams about planets appearing too large in the night sky before, but combined with the creeping fog from the night before, those three moons absolutely terrified me, even upon waking.
I am considering starting to write a dream diary to help with analysis. Perhaps it would be useful.
I love my GP's surgery. It's a five-minute walk around the corner, tucked away inside a community centre, and always immensely peaceful. The most people I've seen in the waiting room at any one time is three - a far cry from the over-subscribed circus Leo and Alba attend.
The GP herself is marvellous. Her bedside manner has struck exactly the right balance between matter-of-fact and sympathetic; too much of either tends to intimidate me. I visited her yesterday for a duplicate medical certificate, an update on my counselling referral, and more medication. She gave me an extension on my certificate without my needing to ask, apologised for the long waiting list for counselling services, and corrected my repeat prescription to show my correct dosage. I was in the surgery less than five minutes. My GP seems to be the exception that proves the rule within the NHS.
I collected my medication from the awful pharmacist, who looked far from pleased to have a customer so close to closing time. Earlier today, the Jobcentre faxed my certificates to head office whilst I waited - taking no risks this time - and later sent me a text message to confirm that my back payments would be released within three working days. I won't feel a sense of relief until the money enters my account, but the promise is there.
Two
Truman has been over several times since I cleaned up his room. Unfortunately, my own hatred of conflict barred me from confronting him about the mess he left, but Leo conveyed the message for me. No apology has been forthcoming yet, but this comes as no surprise.
Meanwhile, Truman is already regretting his hasty decision. Both Poison Ivy and the person in whose flat they are staying - an old enemy of Leo's - are frustrating him to no end. I can happily report that Leo has told him to lie in the bed he's made for himself.
Three
Since writing that I neither have bad dreams nor recurring themes from night to night, I have experienced both. I dreamed that I had killed a monstrous person in self-defence, and was running from two things: the police, and the dark fog slowly covering the city. Despite my overwhelming guilt, the people I met all sympathised with me and hid me from the police, but the fog was awful. It moved slowly, mockingly, in that near-sentient way it does in horror movies. It was inescapable and evil.
The next night, I dreamed I was ill and unable to walk, so I had to be driven everywhere by my family. We left the house in the middle of the day only to confronted with the darkness and the fog again. More horrifying still, the fog was somehow refracting the moonlight so that there appeared to be three full moons overlapping each other in the sky. I've been disconcerted by dreams about planets appearing too large in the night sky before, but combined with the creeping fog from the night before, those three moons absolutely terrified me, even upon waking.
I am considering starting to write a dream diary to help with analysis. Perhaps it would be useful.
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Thursday, 5 April 2012
Certificate
If the British benefits system is broken, then my local Jobcentre is surely the San Andreas Fault. If you are unlucky enough to be within its catchment area, anything that can go wrong with your benefits claim most certainly will. Its staff seem to straddle the fence between having their hands tied by red tape and simply not caring anymore; several advisors there are quite openly hostile to their customers. So when my doctor first told me that I would need to be signed off, naturally I was quite concerned. Making the change from a Jobseekers' Allowance claim to an Employment and Support Allowance claim didn't sound remotely simple. I had heard horror stories about Work Capability Assessments and how stringent the system had become in order to kick spongers back into work.
Imagine my surprise, then, when my opening gambit was immediately accepted. I handed my doctor's medical certificate to the advisor I was due to sign on with that day, and he closed down my JSA claim there and then. I spent a merry 45 minutes on the phone opening an ESA claim, and the follow-up paperwork came through my letterbox the very next day. This unexpected efficiency is the exception that proves the rule: the Department for Work and Pensions knows not what it does.
When I was at a particularly low point last month, my doctor extended my sicknote and Leo collected the certificate from the surgery for me. He delivered it to the Jobcentre on my behalf, who promised to fax it to the regional head office dealing with my ESA claim. Meanwhile I filled in one of those long forms detailing my condition and how useless it renders me: the cyclical nature of my mental state, my fear of people and going anywhere alone, and what I call my "black letterbox" days. Leo posted that for me too, and that should have been that.
Except that the Jobcentre hasn't faxed my second certificate at all. Having wondered why no payments had been forthcoming six weeks after I opened my claim, I called head office today to make enquiries. Everything was in order, but for a current medical certificate that should already have been received. Until they get one, I am apparently expected to live on fresh air. I cannot speak to my doctor about the situation until next week; the Easter holidays are upon us. Whilst I do not celebrate Easter, I cannot complain about the disruption. If the working calendar were based upon my own faith, the world would be relegated to a three-day working week.
Yet I count myself blessed that my claim is at least underway. Leo, too, is trying to make the transition from JSA to ESA, but lightning never strikes twice. After the initial phonecall to open his claim last week, he is still waiting on the follow-up paperwork. Again, this could be down to Easter-related issues with Royal Mail, but my beloved Leo does not have the patience that I do. He is quicker to see injustice and personal vendettas, however unlikely. Perhaps I would feel the same had I been caught up in the system as long as he has.
Unfortunately, several points about our situation do count against us. Unemployment is well above the national average in this city, and our local Jobcentre is busier than most. There are also many whose sense of entitlement outweighs their actual need; the riots that took place here last summer are proof-positive of this, and recovery is still ongoing. Things are made that much more difficult for those with genuine issues to receive the support they need, whilst those who are playing the system to receive welfare for nothing laugh behind our backs. It is a culture that young adults in this area have been immersed in since birth. One wonders, if the system had been fairer in the first place, whether these pressures now placed upon it could have been avoided.
Looking at the city through a window and a computer screen, I hold out very little hope of seeing positive reform in the area. Like so many other individuals in my situation, all over the country, I am limited to hoping that, just for once, the system will do right by me - and knowing that it will only be a matter of time before it fails me again.
Imagine my surprise, then, when my opening gambit was immediately accepted. I handed my doctor's medical certificate to the advisor I was due to sign on with that day, and he closed down my JSA claim there and then. I spent a merry 45 minutes on the phone opening an ESA claim, and the follow-up paperwork came through my letterbox the very next day. This unexpected efficiency is the exception that proves the rule: the Department for Work and Pensions knows not what it does.
When I was at a particularly low point last month, my doctor extended my sicknote and Leo collected the certificate from the surgery for me. He delivered it to the Jobcentre on my behalf, who promised to fax it to the regional head office dealing with my ESA claim. Meanwhile I filled in one of those long forms detailing my condition and how useless it renders me: the cyclical nature of my mental state, my fear of people and going anywhere alone, and what I call my "black letterbox" days. Leo posted that for me too, and that should have been that.
Except that the Jobcentre hasn't faxed my second certificate at all. Having wondered why no payments had been forthcoming six weeks after I opened my claim, I called head office today to make enquiries. Everything was in order, but for a current medical certificate that should already have been received. Until they get one, I am apparently expected to live on fresh air. I cannot speak to my doctor about the situation until next week; the Easter holidays are upon us. Whilst I do not celebrate Easter, I cannot complain about the disruption. If the working calendar were based upon my own faith, the world would be relegated to a three-day working week.
Yet I count myself blessed that my claim is at least underway. Leo, too, is trying to make the transition from JSA to ESA, but lightning never strikes twice. After the initial phonecall to open his claim last week, he is still waiting on the follow-up paperwork. Again, this could be down to Easter-related issues with Royal Mail, but my beloved Leo does not have the patience that I do. He is quicker to see injustice and personal vendettas, however unlikely. Perhaps I would feel the same had I been caught up in the system as long as he has.
Unfortunately, several points about our situation do count against us. Unemployment is well above the national average in this city, and our local Jobcentre is busier than most. There are also many whose sense of entitlement outweighs their actual need; the riots that took place here last summer are proof-positive of this, and recovery is still ongoing. Things are made that much more difficult for those with genuine issues to receive the support they need, whilst those who are playing the system to receive welfare for nothing laugh behind our backs. It is a culture that young adults in this area have been immersed in since birth. One wonders, if the system had been fairer in the first place, whether these pressures now placed upon it could have been avoided.
Looking at the city through a window and a computer screen, I hold out very little hope of seeing positive reform in the area. Like so many other individuals in my situation, all over the country, I am limited to hoping that, just for once, the system will do right by me - and knowing that it will only be a matter of time before it fails me again.
Tuesday, 27 March 2012
Asthma
I was born with eczema. The family photo albums are devoid of baby Cambria; future generations will probably be led to believe that I sprang into existence around my first birthday, once my skin and hair had grown back. My earliest childhood memories are of itching, itching and more itching; of teachers horrified by the state of my skin; of my baby sister getting into mortal trouble for painting the bedroom with handprints of my precious E45 emollient cream.
The summer I was seven, I developed hayfever. If I had been bored at school before, I was positively distracted now. I could scratch my itchy skin, but I couldn't itch behind my eyes or inside my nose. Every successive summer from then on brought its own brand of antihistamine - my body seemed to develop a resistance to each one as it came along.
Skip ahead a few years, and grown-up Cambria moves to the big city. Neither eczema (except on very cold days) nor hayfever (except in spring when tree pollen season begins) has plagued me with anything like the ferocity it did when I was small, and my skin and sinuses are grateful. Still, I've never shaken the habit of biting my fingernails. The decision to have either beautiful manicures or skin to hold oneself together makes itself, and to risk one for the other is something I'll probably never be able to do.
For those first few years in the city, I counted myself lucky. My health was better than it ever had been, and unlike several of my relatives, I showed no signs of developing "the full package" - the triple threat of eczema, hayfever and asthma. Then the coughing started. Then it persisted. Then the chest infections started and kept coming, one after the other, mere weeks apart, relentless and mysterious and exhausting. Finally, on Halloween 2010, I had my first trip to A&E with an asthma attack. Unfortunately it took another two attacks before I was officially diagnosed and treatment began, and by then the physical and psychological damage had been done.
It killed off my career before it started, you see.
*
Yesterday I wrote about my awful pharmacist. I admit: I was psyching myself up to collect my prescription, and a little expression of my frustrations was in order. However, it turned out to be a beautiful day, and I collected a list of errands together in order to go outside, but for as short a time as possible. (Sadly, sunshine alone does not cure anxiety.) One of these other errands was the booking of my bi-annual asthma review, so I visited the doctor to make my appointment on my way to the pharmacy.
Any therapeutic effect the writing of yesterday's entry had on me was obliterated for two reasons.
He asked if I would like to take a test to gauge how well my asthma is currently controlled, by measuring my inhalation with a sort of reverse version of a peak flow meter. Apparently I failed at this; he berated my technique at length, and made no attempt to explain how to improve. Having berated him myself at similar length not more than three hours earlier, I listened with a smirk on my face, before meekly responding:
"But my asthma nurse says my technique is perfect. In fact, my next asthma review is tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps she can speak to you about it afterwards?"
His shitty grin turned to fury. "You do that," he snarled.
This time, I didn't wait for the door to close behind me before loudly proclaiming "wanker."
So imagine my horror at his having the last laugh, when I discovered at home that he had only provided me with half my monthly dose of antidepressants.
*
"Ooh, aren't you easy!" said the nurse as she found a fresh filter for her peak flow meter. "We'll be done in no time!"
It's true that my asthma hasn't bothered me at all lately. With the unseasonably warm weather, I haven't needed to use my Ventolin inhaler. My BMI is normal (which I knew), my blood pressure is spot-on (which is a surprise, given how my mood has been lately) and I don't smoke (I was loath to inform her about the amount of secondary smoke I'm exposed to).
My peak flow was a consistent 400, which is below my target of 435 but pleased my asthma nurse to no end regardless.
"Have you brought your inhalers with you today?"
I produced both Ventolin and Qvar.
"Show me how you use your blue one, please."
I shook the inhaler and expelled all the air from my lungs, right down to my diaphragm, just as I was taught in singing classes. Then I removed the cap, held it to my mouth, and activated the spray simultaneously with a deep breath inward. I held my breath for five seconds, then exhaled slowly.
"Excellent," said the nurse. "Perfect technique. Your asthma is well under control."
The summer I was seven, I developed hayfever. If I had been bored at school before, I was positively distracted now. I could scratch my itchy skin, but I couldn't itch behind my eyes or inside my nose. Every successive summer from then on brought its own brand of antihistamine - my body seemed to develop a resistance to each one as it came along.
Skip ahead a few years, and grown-up Cambria moves to the big city. Neither eczema (except on very cold days) nor hayfever (except in spring when tree pollen season begins) has plagued me with anything like the ferocity it did when I was small, and my skin and sinuses are grateful. Still, I've never shaken the habit of biting my fingernails. The decision to have either beautiful manicures or skin to hold oneself together makes itself, and to risk one for the other is something I'll probably never be able to do.
For those first few years in the city, I counted myself lucky. My health was better than it ever had been, and unlike several of my relatives, I showed no signs of developing "the full package" - the triple threat of eczema, hayfever and asthma. Then the coughing started. Then it persisted. Then the chest infections started and kept coming, one after the other, mere weeks apart, relentless and mysterious and exhausting. Finally, on Halloween 2010, I had my first trip to A&E with an asthma attack. Unfortunately it took another two attacks before I was officially diagnosed and treatment began, and by then the physical and psychological damage had been done.
It killed off my career before it started, you see.
*
Yesterday I wrote about my awful pharmacist. I admit: I was psyching myself up to collect my prescription, and a little expression of my frustrations was in order. However, it turned out to be a beautiful day, and I collected a list of errands together in order to go outside, but for as short a time as possible. (Sadly, sunshine alone does not cure anxiety.) One of these other errands was the booking of my bi-annual asthma review, so I visited the doctor to make my appointment on my way to the pharmacy.
Any therapeutic effect the writing of yesterday's entry had on me was obliterated for two reasons.
He asked if I would like to take a test to gauge how well my asthma is currently controlled, by measuring my inhalation with a sort of reverse version of a peak flow meter. Apparently I failed at this; he berated my technique at length, and made no attempt to explain how to improve. Having berated him myself at similar length not more than three hours earlier, I listened with a smirk on my face, before meekly responding:
"But my asthma nurse says my technique is perfect. In fact, my next asthma review is tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps she can speak to you about it afterwards?"
His shitty grin turned to fury. "You do that," he snarled.
This time, I didn't wait for the door to close behind me before loudly proclaiming "wanker."
So imagine my horror at his having the last laugh, when I discovered at home that he had only provided me with half my monthly dose of antidepressants.
*
"Ooh, aren't you easy!" said the nurse as she found a fresh filter for her peak flow meter. "We'll be done in no time!"
It's true that my asthma hasn't bothered me at all lately. With the unseasonably warm weather, I haven't needed to use my Ventolin inhaler. My BMI is normal (which I knew), my blood pressure is spot-on (which is a surprise, given how my mood has been lately) and I don't smoke (I was loath to inform her about the amount of secondary smoke I'm exposed to).
My peak flow was a consistent 400, which is below my target of 435 but pleased my asthma nurse to no end regardless.
"Have you brought your inhalers with you today?"
I produced both Ventolin and Qvar.
"Show me how you use your blue one, please."
I shook the inhaler and expelled all the air from my lungs, right down to my diaphragm, just as I was taught in singing classes. Then I removed the cap, held it to my mouth, and activated the spray simultaneously with a deep breath inward. I held my breath for five seconds, then exhaled slowly.
"Excellent," said the nurse. "Perfect technique. Your asthma is well under control."
Monday, 26 March 2012
Pharmacist
In a city full of unfriendly people, it's surprised me to discover that one of the least friendly is my local pharmacist. Besuited and obnoxious, smug and surly by turns, he regards the people that walk through his door as cows to be milked. If he can't drag you into a monetary transaction, he treats you with the same disdain as one might treat the soil found on one's shoes.
When I was first diagnosed, I visited the pharmacy to set up a repeat prescription service. If ever there were an ideal situation for a pharmacy in relation to a residence, this would be it - it lies just around the corner, five minutes' walk away, and directly opposite my doctor's surgery. This little convenience might only have meant one less thing to worry about, but in times like these you're thankful for every convenience you're given.
So there he was, in his too-crisp suit, with his ever-present glare and a badge bearing an oddly feminine name, giving me a lingering first impression that he might have been over-compensating for something. The surgery had already forwarded him details of my medication, so all we had to discuss was how often I would want each item and whether I paid for my prescriptions. My answer clearly disappointed him, and my wallet remained unopened.
Then he offered me a free diabetes test. Sure, why not? My family has a history of type 2 diabetes, so anything to keep it at bay before it has a chance to set in is always welcome. He handed me a form to fill in and asked if I needed help calculating my BMI. I said that I didn't; at this stage I was still playing Wii Fit Plus every day, and I knew that my BMI was within normal levels. He handed me a tape measure to take a waist measurement and headed back into the dispensary for a moment. With my usual lack of common sense, I measured not just around my waist, but around my sweaters and jacket too, thus adding a couple of inches to what is normally a very respectable waistline. My mistake.
The form completed, I handed it back and he looked it over. Scanning down to my waist measurement, I noticed his eyes light up. Alarm bells started to ring. When a disagreeable person gets a gleam in their eye, experience has taught me that the end result is most often an unpleasant mood for me.
He proceeded to try to sell me an entire range of weight-loss products.
I stared at him disbelievingly as he prattled on with his pitch, joyous at the prospect of making a sale and entirely oblivious to the offence he was causing. It's one thing to tell a woman that she's overweight, but what sort of self-respecting medical practitioner tries to convince a woman she's overweight when she's visibly and statistically not? Answer: a salesman. It dawned on me that I wasn't a patient to him; I was merely a punter.
I refused to be drawn, not bothering to disguise the steel in my voice. "I'll discuss it with my doctor before I commit to buying anything." The light in his eyes faded. "Am I at risk of developing diabetes, please?"
He mumbled "no", stood up and strode back into his dispensary, visibly disgusted by how impervious I was to his sales patter. Not for the last time, I left muttering curses under my breath. Whilst it is a sad fact that most marketing techniques rely on making women paranoid about their health and/or appearance, I can happily report that I have no such insecurities. Grimly I wondered whether he would have been so frustrated with his failure to impress had I been male.
*
Several months later, he made another attempt. After delivering my prescription, he ushered me into the interview room for a medication review, which I thought was a little presumptuous of him until I discovered it was standard practice. Choosing to ignore my "weight issues" this time, he zoned in on my other ailments.
"What are you taking codeine phosphate for?"
"I have an old knee injury that flares up in cold weather."
That light switched itself on again. "I see. We sell Tens machines for twelve pounds if you're looking for an alternative to painkillers. Now, your inhalers - do ever get a cold sensation on the back of your throat when you use them?"
"Very rarely," I replied icily.
"Hmm. A cold sensation means that your lungs might not be receiving the full dose when you're inhaling. You should consider using a breath-actuated spacer. They aren't available on prescription, I'm afraid."
"Not interested, sorry."
More peevish mumblings from him, more epithets through gritted teeth from me.
*
Pharmacists have different responsibilities from doctors, this is true. They have to run a business alongside fulfilling NHS prescriptions, and I have no problem with a little promotion here or a whispered recommendation there. But I'm living on benefits, and I haven't paid for a single prescription since Iosing my job last year. If my pharmacist had had anything resembling the bedside manner one expects from a medical professional, he would have realised that I am not in his target market. There are people in this city, increasingly fewer but still in abundance, who earn a wage, who can pay for prescriptions and who can afford to consider alternatives - lucky, lucky people leading normal lives and wielding disposable income, to whom he should be pitching. Marketing entities are, by definition, indiscriminate in their lack of social conscience, but a little common sense never hurt anyone.
Not to mention service with a smile. That's not too much to ask for, surely?
When I was first diagnosed, I visited the pharmacy to set up a repeat prescription service. If ever there were an ideal situation for a pharmacy in relation to a residence, this would be it - it lies just around the corner, five minutes' walk away, and directly opposite my doctor's surgery. This little convenience might only have meant one less thing to worry about, but in times like these you're thankful for every convenience you're given.
So there he was, in his too-crisp suit, with his ever-present glare and a badge bearing an oddly feminine name, giving me a lingering first impression that he might have been over-compensating for something. The surgery had already forwarded him details of my medication, so all we had to discuss was how often I would want each item and whether I paid for my prescriptions. My answer clearly disappointed him, and my wallet remained unopened.
Then he offered me a free diabetes test. Sure, why not? My family has a history of type 2 diabetes, so anything to keep it at bay before it has a chance to set in is always welcome. He handed me a form to fill in and asked if I needed help calculating my BMI. I said that I didn't; at this stage I was still playing Wii Fit Plus every day, and I knew that my BMI was within normal levels. He handed me a tape measure to take a waist measurement and headed back into the dispensary for a moment. With my usual lack of common sense, I measured not just around my waist, but around my sweaters and jacket too, thus adding a couple of inches to what is normally a very respectable waistline. My mistake.
The form completed, I handed it back and he looked it over. Scanning down to my waist measurement, I noticed his eyes light up. Alarm bells started to ring. When a disagreeable person gets a gleam in their eye, experience has taught me that the end result is most often an unpleasant mood for me.
He proceeded to try to sell me an entire range of weight-loss products.
I stared at him disbelievingly as he prattled on with his pitch, joyous at the prospect of making a sale and entirely oblivious to the offence he was causing. It's one thing to tell a woman that she's overweight, but what sort of self-respecting medical practitioner tries to convince a woman she's overweight when she's visibly and statistically not? Answer: a salesman. It dawned on me that I wasn't a patient to him; I was merely a punter.
I refused to be drawn, not bothering to disguise the steel in my voice. "I'll discuss it with my doctor before I commit to buying anything." The light in his eyes faded. "Am I at risk of developing diabetes, please?"
He mumbled "no", stood up and strode back into his dispensary, visibly disgusted by how impervious I was to his sales patter. Not for the last time, I left muttering curses under my breath. Whilst it is a sad fact that most marketing techniques rely on making women paranoid about their health and/or appearance, I can happily report that I have no such insecurities. Grimly I wondered whether he would have been so frustrated with his failure to impress had I been male.
*
Several months later, he made another attempt. After delivering my prescription, he ushered me into the interview room for a medication review, which I thought was a little presumptuous of him until I discovered it was standard practice. Choosing to ignore my "weight issues" this time, he zoned in on my other ailments.
"What are you taking codeine phosphate for?"
"I have an old knee injury that flares up in cold weather."
That light switched itself on again. "I see. We sell Tens machines for twelve pounds if you're looking for an alternative to painkillers. Now, your inhalers - do ever get a cold sensation on the back of your throat when you use them?"
"Very rarely," I replied icily.
"Hmm. A cold sensation means that your lungs might not be receiving the full dose when you're inhaling. You should consider using a breath-actuated spacer. They aren't available on prescription, I'm afraid."
"Not interested, sorry."
More peevish mumblings from him, more epithets through gritted teeth from me.
*
Pharmacists have different responsibilities from doctors, this is true. They have to run a business alongside fulfilling NHS prescriptions, and I have no problem with a little promotion here or a whispered recommendation there. But I'm living on benefits, and I haven't paid for a single prescription since Iosing my job last year. If my pharmacist had had anything resembling the bedside manner one expects from a medical professional, he would have realised that I am not in his target market. There are people in this city, increasingly fewer but still in abundance, who earn a wage, who can pay for prescriptions and who can afford to consider alternatives - lucky, lucky people leading normal lives and wielding disposable income, to whom he should be pitching. Marketing entities are, by definition, indiscriminate in their lack of social conscience, but a little common sense never hurt anyone.
Not to mention service with a smile. That's not too much to ask for, surely?
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