Monday, March 06, 2006
It's A Medical Emergency, God Damnit!
I wrote here about the nightmare that is trying to get my prescriptions, and today surpassed even that in terms of gobsmacking lunacy. My doctor's is in Stourbridge, but I'm living in Manchester at the moment, and I don't particularly want to travel 100 miles for a ten minute interview with a doctor who knows full well that I need to carry on with the prescription because my condition is really quite serious and short of being touched by Jesus or finding a genie in a bottle, there's no way it's going to have gone.
So, I tried to join the doctor's where my housemate goes, but apparently, I live outside the catchment area. He doesn't count as outside because he registered when he lived inside the area, whereas I didn't, which is apparently the crucial point in all of this. The result was a twenty minute walk to the next Health Centre, where I was told I could register, but it'll take weeks before I actually get the meds, which is useless because I'm going to run out on about Saturday.
However, the woman there told me I could go to the walk-in centre at Withington Community Hospital and pick them up there. Little did I know that Withington Community Hospital was closer to Watford than Withington, or so it felt like walking there. There was something about the name, though, that hardly inspires confidence. Community? I was half worried I'd see someone having the wrong leg amputated by the postman.
Surprise, surprise, fifty minutes walk later - and two stops to ask for directions - and I got there to find a receptionist telling me that there was no GP on site. Never before have I really understood why they have those 'Don't blame the receptionist' signs, but I did then. I wanted to grab him by the tie and pull him close to my face and say, 'Listen, you supercillious slab of shit, I've been walking around Manchester for an hour and half trying to get these fucking pills, and this is the last fucking straw. It's not like my problem is a particular secret - you can see it with your own eyes. To OD on these pills, I would have to take about 400, because they are approximately the strength of a Scotch egg - and just what the fuck is the point of a hospital without doctors anyway?'
So tomorrow I have to go to Manchester Royal Infirmary, which is where the really sick people go. Great. Now I have to queue up with people with bullets in their stomachs, or who've just had their arm put through a machine so that it looks like extended piece of Gruyere cheese. Fantastic.
I tell you what, I'm glad I don't pay any taxes.
So, I tried to join the doctor's where my housemate goes, but apparently, I live outside the catchment area. He doesn't count as outside because he registered when he lived inside the area, whereas I didn't, which is apparently the crucial point in all of this. The result was a twenty minute walk to the next Health Centre, where I was told I could register, but it'll take weeks before I actually get the meds, which is useless because I'm going to run out on about Saturday.
However, the woman there told me I could go to the walk-in centre at Withington Community Hospital and pick them up there. Little did I know that Withington Community Hospital was closer to Watford than Withington, or so it felt like walking there. There was something about the name, though, that hardly inspires confidence. Community? I was half worried I'd see someone having the wrong leg amputated by the postman.
Surprise, surprise, fifty minutes walk later - and two stops to ask for directions - and I got there to find a receptionist telling me that there was no GP on site. Never before have I really understood why they have those 'Don't blame the receptionist' signs, but I did then. I wanted to grab him by the tie and pull him close to my face and say, 'Listen, you supercillious slab of shit, I've been walking around Manchester for an hour and half trying to get these fucking pills, and this is the last fucking straw. It's not like my problem is a particular secret - you can see it with your own eyes. To OD on these pills, I would have to take about 400, because they are approximately the strength of a Scotch egg - and just what the fuck is the point of a hospital without doctors anyway?'
So tomorrow I have to go to Manchester Royal Infirmary, which is where the really sick people go. Great. Now I have to queue up with people with bullets in their stomachs, or who've just had their arm put through a machine so that it looks like extended piece of Gruyere cheese. Fantastic.
I tell you what, I'm glad I don't pay any taxes.
Comments:
<< Home
Bastard doctors, they're all lazy cunts. Have fun at the MRI and try not to get shot, will you?
(you should get your doc to send your prescriptions to your local chemist or Boots every month)
xxB
(you should get your doc to send your prescriptions to your local chemist or Boots every month)
xxB
The irony is that it would probably have been easier going to Stourbridge to see your own doc. Unpleasant.
Boudica - Cheers! I tried that trick with getting the doctor to send it to Boots, but the doctor said I had to come back every time 'to check on progress.' My only progress has been downhill for four years. I don't understand it, I really don't.
Ill Man - It probably would, but that would send me insane. I may still have to do it yet, though.
Post a Comment
Ill Man - It probably would, but that would send me insane. I may still have to do it yet, though.
<< Home
