The District Staff nurse phoned the GP surgery this morning, telling them I needed a home visit (got a temp of 37.7C) – that won’t happen, I said, it never does – at best I’ll get a phone call – so she went round in person to impress upon them that I needed a real, live, doctor! And soon.
Didn’t get one.
Sometime after 15.00 I got a phone call from their reception asking if a doctor had been – well, no, but don’t they bloody know?
Later, I got a call from one of the doctors – who doesn’t know me at all, but she has announced her intention to bugger up my pain meds without giving a toss about how much damage she’s doing. And I think I’m on safe ground when I say that she appears to have not the slightest idea how appalling the pain of lymphoedema can be. If she wants to know she can ask my neighbours how often they’ve heard me screaming in agony, especially if I have to get out of bed in a hurry. Or the nurses for that matter – removing dressings that have welded themselves to raw flesh is as much fun as it sounds.
So, I’m writing this blog post because at this rate they’re going to Continue reading →