The Crippen Diaries (Week 26)
Monday 26th June
It seems now to be becoming a regular Monday lunch-time meeting.
The QoF chase.
Today’s topic for extracting a large sum of taxpayer’s money from the government is a depression audit of people suffering from heart disease and diabetes. We are not talking serious psychiatric depression here. We know those people. They are not difficult to spot. We are talking about what the government calls “mild to moderate depression”.
People who might benefit not from drugs but from “talking therapy”.
We know our patients pretty well. We see the ones with ischaemic heart disease and diabetes frequently. We are doctors. That is what we do for a living. Quite a lot of them are fed up. If I had had a heart attack three months ago, I would not be best pleased. But the government wants us to put a note on the computer saying “is/is not mildly depressed” and “is/is not in need of “talking therapy””.
Great stuff. Into battle.
I saw Bill this afternoon. He is a brick layer. He had a heart attack in February. He is still off work. Brick layers earn a lot of money, but most of them are self-employed. Bill is self-employed. Bill also has a great sense of humour. I put on my formal voice and said, “The government wants me to ask you if you are feeling fed up since you had your heart attack and lost your livelihood."
The gist of what he said was “yes”.
I said, “Would you like to see a counsellor?”
Bill looked at me for a while, then said, “Oh fuck off, doc!”
We have 421 patients in this category. Maybe twenty of them are fed up and would be eligible for “talking therapy”. Who knows? I don't. The government are going to pay my practice £11,000 pounds to find out.
Splendid. I will do it.
Trouble is, having identified all the patients in need of “talking therapy”, there is nothing more we can do. The government has taken away all our counsellors. “Talking therapy” does not exist in our area any more. Unless you go privately.
It will be good ammunition to throw at the psychiatric department.
What a waste of money. What a waste of time. But, once we divvy it up amongst the partners, it will pay for this year’s Glyndebourne tickets. We are taking our two oldest children to see Benjamin Britten’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, directed by Peter Hall. Benjamin Britten is one of the greatest composers in the world. After Mozart. And Janacek.
"One of the greatest performances you will ever hear ... Bejun Mehta as Oberon works his magic on Tytania played by Iride Martinez. Photograph: Mike Hoban"Mrs C and I saw Midsummer Night’s Dream at Glyndebourne a few years ago. We earmarked it for the children. It is as close to the most perfect production of that, or possibly any, opera that could be imagined.
The reviewers seem to agree too.
++++++++++
Tuesday 27th June
Lila is 78 and has been waiting five months for her hip replacement. To be fair to the government, these waits have come right down. I saw her today. She was in a tizzy. She went in to have her operation on Friday as scheduled. She had had the pre-op assessment by the “nurse-specialist” two days before and all was well. She was changed, gowned and pre-meded and waiting to go to theatre. And waiting. And waiting. By six o’clock nothing had happened and then a nurse appeared and said the operation had been cancelled. She was sent home. The hospital has an obligation to re-schedule the operation quickly and they will do that. But nothing can compensate Lila for the emotional turmoil. She is nervous of hospitals. She thinks she is unlikely to survive the operation. Well, not really, but the thought of death has crossed her mind more than once.
++++++++++
I did a rectal examination today on an elderly man with prostate cancer. When I pulled my finger out, the glove had split, and my finger had faeces all over it. It happens, I suppose. But it has never happened to me before. Oh dear! I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. I am not squeamish, or not much. I spent the rest of the day surreptitiously smelling my finger. Oh dear! Oh dear!
+++++++++++
Tony and his wife came to see me to referee a domestic argument. Tony is about two stone overweight, and his cholesterol is raised. He is a non-smoker, with normal blood pressure and no significant family history. He is trying to lose weight. Indeed, he has lost half a stone over the last three months. He does not think that is fast enough. I think it is just right because he has done it by sensible alternation of his eating habits and there is a good chance he will stick with it. Tony drinks two glasses of red wine a day. He reads Dr Tom Stuttaford in the Times (so naturally he has already asked me to check his PSA) and he knows about J curves and genuinely believes that drinking two glasses of red wine a day is good for him. His wife, on the other hand, who is virtually teetotal, thinks he should stop. Two glasses of red wine (particularly the glasses he pours) contain about 400 calories. 400 calories a day is a pound in weight every nine days. His wife wants him to stop. He will lose weight quicker. They have both been out on the Internet. Tony thinks he will live longer if he drinks in moderation and thinks he has data to prove it. His wife thinks that, all in all, it is better not to drink at all.
I rather suspect his wife is right. I tell my teenage children not to drink Alcopops because they are a confidence trick.
Alcopops are the alcohol industry's attempt to dress up poison to make it more palatable to children. They respond by telling me that the same applies to the wine I have laid down in Stevenage. Wine is the alcohol industry's attempt to dress up poison to make it more palatable to adults.I end up telling Tony that there is not likely to be much serious harm in drinking two glasses of red wine a day, but it certainly will not help his diet. And if he drinks it, he should drink it for pleasure, and not on the specious grounds that he is going to improve his health.
++++++++++
Thursday 29th June
Those idiots at NICE have told everyone in the country about the recommendations about beta blockers and hypertension. Everyone, that is, apart from the doctors. Four patients this morning appeared, quite reasonably asking if they should have the medication they have been on for years changed.
It is not easy. There is no money for drug companies in beta blockers. A month’s supply of Atenolol, for example, costs a few pence. A month’s supply of Amlodipine costs a lot more. The makers of Amlodipine spend a lot of money flying research doctors to conferences in Paris and Rio to discuss papers which demonstrate which it “the best” treatment for hypertension. Amlodipine turns out to be “better” than beta blockers. That is a surprise.
So we all met for lunch (paid for out of our own pockets) to discuss it. We are going to wait a few months before we start making radical changes.
Those who think we are being timid and conservative should look here and here.
++++++++++
An 87 year old lady is brought in by her daughter, herself in her sixties, as she has been having “funny turns”.
“I don’t know doctor, I don’t pass out or anything, I just feel a bit woozy for about twenty seconds, and I sit down and it goes off. I worry I might be going to have a stroke.”
This is a nightmare presentation for a family doctor. You could devote a week to it. There is not much else in the history. She has had occasional “funny turns” for a few years. There is nothing to find examining her. Her BP is 158/86 which some would say is too high and one must not be ageist about BP and it should be treated. I am not going to treat it and I do not believe it is too high for someone of her age and I think if I do treat it, she will probably have even more funny turns.
The daughter wants me to “do” something, and I want to “do” something. So we arrange for a few blood tests, including a blood sugar. We arrange for her to have an ECG. We arrange for the practice nurse to see her a couple of times to check on how things are going.
All the investigations are plausible. They will probably all be normal and even if they are not, they are unlikely to explain the “funny turns.” It is to some extent fraudulent. I could give you a list of twenty causes of “funny turns” and then some. Where do you start with investigations? That is easy. Where do you finish with them? That is impossible. So we bumble along and at the back of my mind I worry that I might be missing something. When, finally, something serious does happen, and she is whisked into hospital some junior doctor or nurse-specialist will say to the daughter, “And didn’t the GP check her for…(insert presenting condition)…?
Heigh-ho!
++++++++++
Friday 30 June
Hot sweaty day. Thank God for the air-conditioning. But duty doctor today and for some reason it is unseasonably busy. Lots and lots of phone calls.
Three patients phone for beta-blocker advice. The NICE guidelines are now on the internet, though we still have not had a piece of paper. Beta-blockers are out of fashion now, no doubt about that, but there is no need to stop them suddenly, indeed it could be dangerous so to do. I am having the same conversation over and over again. Do not panic. Come in sometime over the next few weeks. Yes, it will keep. Honest.
++++++++++
I have done forty seven phone calls, advised twenty-nine patients, made appointment for next week for ten patients and seen eight patients myself. Some of the phone calls have been nonsense, but some have not, and the patients who come in have perfectly genuine problems. I have no problem with that. It is the job, and I still enjoy being a doctor.
One phone call makes me angry. From the respiratory nurse-specialist. Nurse-specialists knock-off at five o’clock on Friday. Theoretically. But it is POETs day, so they try to clear their desk by about three o’clock.
The respiratory nurse specialist calls. “Sorry to disturb you, would you just leave out a prescription for some ciprofloxacin for Mrs Jones.” No I will not. I virtually never prescribe ciprofloxacin. I do not prescribe antibiotics for patients without seeing them. And I do not prescribe at the beck and call of nurses. Nurse is angry. “I have seen her and she has a chest infection.”
Well, why don’t you prescribe something then, nurse?
“You know I can’t prescribe.”
Why is that, nurse?
She does not answer. So I ask her to describe the problem.
“She has a chest infection.”
When Dr Crippen was doing respiratory medicine he was not allowed to use the expression “chest infection.” It does not mean anything. It was one of the Professor’s pet peeves, and now it is one of mine.
“Chest infection? Do you mean pneumonia, nurse?”
Oh not, it is not as bad as that.
“Do you mean bronchitis, nurse?”
Well, yes, I suppose so
“Why do you want to give her ciprofloxacin, nurse?”
She is already on Amoxil, and I think she needs something stronger”
"Stronger?"
You know what I mean, doctor.
“No I don’t. Why does she need another antibiotic?”
“Because she is still coughing.”
I know this patient. She is a smoker. She has had a chronic cough for ten years.
I do not have the time or the space to explain the stupidity of this conversation. Of the way of assessing chests. Of the appropriate use of antibiotics. Of the nonsense of talking about “stronger” antibiotics. Of the need to avoid prescribing ciprofloxacin. It would take forever. Pop into a medical school for five years and you would understand.
I have no way of explaining it to the nurse either. So I see the patient. Her chest is fine. Her hay fever is a bit troublesome. She needs to throw her bloody cigarettes away.
+++++++++
Five minutes to go before we close.
A 26 year old young woman, who is not registered, and has just moved into the area from Cornwall, walks in and says she is in severe pain. So I see her.
She had an IUCD fitted three months ago as post-coital contraception. Since then she has had intermittent severe pain, and it has been particularly bad for the last three days.
Why do they always leave it to the last minute on Friday evening? Because she has been at work all day.
She is not systemically unwell. She does not have a temperature. But she is in pain.
She has never been pregnant. I am not keen on IUCDs in young women who have never been pregnant. By the time I have established all this, the nurses have long gone.
I say I need to remove the IUCD but there are no nurses around. Can she cope without a chaperone? She is not in the slightest bothered. I am though. Every time you do this sort of examination without a chaperone, you are taking a professional risk.
Fortunately there are no problems. I remove the IUCD. It does not look infected. I put her on some antibiotics anyway. She is gratifyingly grateful. I will follow her up next week.
If she had accused me of sexually assaulting her, I would have been in difficulties. But what can you do?
I leave half an hour later than I should and postpone, yet again, the wadge of paperwork I was going to clear up.
Not quite Tannochbrae
Secretary of State for Health

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