Happy no ear

“So what were you thinking I would do for you today?”

It was Bank Holiday Monday and so I was watching these words plop steadily from the mouth of an out-of-hours GP. Whilst my own doctor was parked at home counting the festive gravy stains on his shirt, the man in front of me had drawn a short straw. Maybe that’s why he didn’t seem very interested in my reason for sitting before him (why wait?). A lack of interest so overwhelming he had forgotten his role in the transaction. An hour earlier I had drifted into the surgery in a fog of pain and confusion. Pain because…well…I hurt, and confusion because I didn’t know why. All I had done was go to sleep and had woken up with my ear blocked and a pain so intense that I was unable to have any thought other than “oww”. I consoled myself with the knowledge that although I was only able to think about one thing, at least that thing was relevant.

I described my symptom to the doctor and having had his verdict (sounds like a perforated eardrum) waited to hear what he planned to do about it. I was quite surprised that this was a decision I was to make myself. Not least for the fact that my description had not only involved an in depth discussion of the pain (“I have a really intense pain”) but also a helpful indication of where the pain was located (“here” [points to ear]). I was confident that my efforts would be rewarded with more than a declaration that there was something wrong with my ear that was resulting in pain. At least it was now official though. I had a hurty ear.

“So what were you thinking I would do for you today?”
“Nothing, I just don’t get out much and wanted to share. Bye!” I didn’t say.
“Well, I had hoped for something for the pain” I said.
“Ok” said the doctor, and handed me a paper permission slip to buy some painkillers.

Over the next day or so I decided I needed to see my regular GP. This was for two reasons:

1- I wasn’t satisfied that the other chap had shown sufficient interest in my hurty ear, and my regular doctor has a long history of tilting his head sympathetically and generally letting you feel it’s ok to feel sorry for yourself. He may call you a c**t when you leave but I that doesn’t bother me, I assume that of most people.

2- In the preceding 24 hours my ear had started leaking. A lot. Leaking to such a degree that I could have extinguished a small fire simply by shaking my head in disagreement nearby.

Sitting by his desk I described my symptoms (I was now ill in plural) and my doctor tilted his head sympathetically. I was reminded why he is a good doctor and promptly let myself feel sorry for myself.

“Let’s have a look at the ear” he said, and produced one of the small illuminating funnels that doctors keep for such activities. It didn’t help.

“There’s really too much stuff there to see the eardrum, so it’s obviously infected” he said.
“Right” I said, sponging gloop from my shoulder.

And so, clutching a prescription for anitbiotics I departed, feeling sorry for those people whose GP I had seen on Monday, but not sorry enough to trade places with them. I was soon to be fixed, and that knowledge was enough to make me ignore the faint ‘c**t’ I heard as I pulled the surgery door closed.


So, a belated happy new year to you.

Cheers.

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