Conscientious Doctors, Dumbass Politicians, and the Numbers Game.

The problem with the doctor’s surgery to which I’ve referred in recent posts was settled amicably this evening. I’d already had the blood test and so I was given a phone consultation appointment for 5.15. The call duly arrived at 6.40…

So why, you might ask, did the call materialise nearly an hour and a half after the due time? Well, it’s like this:

Doctors – at least the conscientious ones – define success by reference to clinical outcomes. Politicians, on the other hand, define it strictly in terms of numbers. Numbers are easy to handle, you see, and since neither politicians nor the general public are required to have at least a reasonable IQ in order to exist in their respective forms, numbers are the natural means by which both parties may be satisfied. But it causes a problem:

Some years ago, when even the more mentally challenged were coming to realise that our grand socialist flagship, the NHS, was beginning to creak at the seams through underfunding, the politicians introduced a new policy of restricting the length of GP appointments to ten minutes. That was so they could put out press releases to demonstrate that GP surgeries were now treating more patients, and could cry from the rooftops ‘Aren’t we just wonderful? Vote for us again next time.’ (Because numbers don’t lie, you know. They don’t. At least, no more than politicians do.)

But the doctors saw it differently. Many of them – especially the more conscientious ones – knew that to treat patients effectively it was necessary to spend as much time as was needed to give the patients’ conditions proper attention. Ten minutes was often not long enough, and so their appointments grew later and later as the day wore on. My doctor happens to be one of the more conscientious types, and that’s why he was an hour and a half late calling me. I respect him for it; he’s a good man. And I even managed to convince myself that it really didn’t matter that my evening meal was stewing quietly away on the hob. I’d arranged it that way because I’m an INFJ and therefore a master of anticipation (a quality which causes me a hell of a lot of stress sometimes.)

But back to the issues. The appointment was required because I was due my annual medications review, and the results were as follows:

Blood cholesterol good, kidney function good, liver function good, blood pressure just about perfect. And so I asked him: ‘If my liver function is good, may I now increase my consumption of whisky?’ to which he replied ‘The phone signal was breaking up just then. Bye.’