Doctors are Like Policemen

That is, you don't value your doctor, or your police until there's a crisis and you really need them. So when there's a crisis . . I'll call on either or both. In the meantime . . I can't stand them. They're a necessary evil if you need to state the bleeding obvious. My usual visit to the doctor is as follows: "I have a cold" he replies "Well all you need is bedrest, fluids and Panadol." I retort, "Yes I know but my employer compulses me to turn up for a Dr's Certificate to prove that my snot is real". The certificate is written, I have two days off and it's business as usual. He doesn't send me for ENT tests, he doesn't insist on a chest x-ray or do a blood test, he doesn't worry about Avian Flu despite the posters in his surgery. He doesn't even want a snot sample.

However, at my age, things start to happen. I'm not going to venture into the oestrogen zone for fear it might put some off but that's where I am at the moment. So, this morning, I pops into my local Doc for a quick diagnosis and expecting to be prescribed HRT or a low dose contraceptive. No. Doesn't happen. "So, you're a widow? Are you feeling any stress?" - "No it happened 20 years ago". "How did your father die?" . . .um Bowel Cancer . . ."Ah, better have your bottom probed by a complete stranger". "How did your mother die?" ummm car accident. "Oh dear . . . we'd better test your stress and thyroid levels." "Are your children healthy?" Well there is the odd allergy "When were you last allergy tested?", "When was your last blood test, ECG and cardiogram?", "When was the last time you had . . .." (you get the gist, one of those proddy things stuffed up yer nether regions - note plural!)

So I walked away with a referral for: Colonoscopy, Ultrasound, Blood Tests, Allergy Skin Pricks, Mamagram, Chest Xray, psychological counselling and a Thyroid Biopsy . . for crying out loud! I'm approaching menopause! So the crimson wave has turned into a sunami and I cry a bit - but not a lot! . . . Why can't I just go into day surgery have an unconscious grease and valve grind so they can do all these procedures at once with me blissfully absent (mentally anyway).

Bugger all that. I'm going to the women's health centre on Monday . . . one little patch and life will be normal. Two little patches and I can give up smoking. Two little patches and a small white tablet and I can deal with life, give up smoking and lose weight - Magic! And no hose up the . . you know what. When I get run over by a bus or beaten by a thug . . then I'll call on a doctor and maybe a policeman. Until then, keep me out of this perpetual cycle of tests, pathology, procedures and prodding. I am not here to keep auxilliary health services in business or to improve state revenue through random breath testing. (Sorry that was a tenuous link to the police theme).

He's not a real doctor you know - But he's much better looking than mine!