Further Confessions of a GP

A tide of genuine shame washed over me. Danni was suffering from that such basic but unpleasant of human sensations – hunger. And oddly enough that was one of her few problems I could help with. There wasn’t a huge amount of food in the building, but I found an apple, four packets of spicy tomato and vegetable cup-a-soup and half a packet of chocolate digestives. I shoved them all into a carrier bag and pressed it into Danni’s hand. It didn’t constitute the most appetising or nutritious of suppers, but it was likely to contain more calories than she had eaten in days. I did at one point consider giving her a tenner so she could buy herself a hot dinner, but giving cash to patients is crossing a boundary too far, and besides, however hungry she was, the money would have been spent on drugs rather than food.

Danni clearly felt a bit awkward accepting my gift but hunger soon took precedence over pride and she gratefully shoved the food parcel into her handbag.

‘You really didn’t have to do that, Doctor. I could have nicked myself something from Sainsbury’s.’

‘It’s no bother, Danni. The last thing you need is to get caught shoplifting again.’

Danni gave me a smile and left. She looked genuinely touched by what she perceived to be a great act of kindness. The reality was that I was relieved to be able to do something simple, practical and worthwhile rather than squirm in my chair feeling completely useless in the way I normally did. Danni was still drowning in the swimming pool of excrement, but at least she could nourish herself with a few chocolate digestives chucked at her from the side.

Unnoticed

Sue, our receptionist, was always the first to know everything about everyone in our surgery, so it was no surprise that she was the one to tell us that Mr Brading had died. ‘Oh yeah, Mr Brading. Not seen him for a while,’ was my comment when she first told me the news.

‘Well, that’s not surprising. His neighbours reported a smell coming from his flat. When the police broke in they found him half decayed with an army of maggots having taken up residence. There was unopened post from over four months ago.’

I could actually remember Robert Brading very well. He was a big chap who smoked and drank too much. He came in fairly often and he liked to talk about his time doing military service and his love for motorbikes. I mostly lectured him on stopping smoking and improving his diet. At his last appointment with me I organised a blood test and asked him to come back and see me the following week. He made the appointment, but didn’t turn up. That was four months ago and was probably the week he died. How could no one on the planet have noticed he was gone for all that time?

Perhaps saddest of all is the fact that last month was his 70th birthday. Rather than celebrating with family and friends, he had been lying decaying in his armchair, the day passing by unnoticed. I hope that the pile of unopened mail on his doormat included at least one or two birthday cards.

I, of course, am equally guilty of being oblivious to Mr Brading’s sudden demise. I had sat at this desk seeing patient after patient with ailment after ailment. I was focused on those in front of me rather than wondering why a patient had suddenly stopped visiting me. Scrolling through the notes of our previous consult-ations, I see that we had seen each other numerous times in the few months before his death. Never once did I ask about family or friends or find out who he was as a person. All that I appeared to have offered him was a series of lectures on improving his lifestyle: Give up smoking! Lose weight! Eat less salt! A bombardment of instructions guided by my computer flashing up a succession of targets that Mr Brading was failing to meet. He had wanted to talk to me about motorbikes and his days in the army but I hadn’t had time for that.

I went home that night trying to imagine how anyone could live for 70 years and then die unnoticed. I hadn’t known Mr Brading personally, but surely there must have been times in his life when he had friends and family. Was there a moment that he knew he was dying and if so, did he regret how isolated he had become? Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative care nurse, wrote a fascinating essay listing the biggest regrets of the dying. She consistently observed that one of the biggest regrets of those soon to depart was losing touch with old friends. I spent the evening phoning a couple of old university friends who I hadn’t seen for far too long. A reunion was organised and after some happy hours of catching up with old chums, I quietly toasted Mr Brading for reminding me of life’s priorities.

Man flu

Man flu can be a cruel, cruel illness. My empathy levels for grown men coming to see me with a sore throat and the sniffles might be low, but when I myself am afflicted with this unforgiving disease, I crumble into a ball of snuffling self-pity and will complain endlessly to anyone who has the misfortune of my company.