A day in my life: Hospital, Library, Pub

My time in London started with a fight against bureaucracy from banks and – as I developed through that – I found at the end of my time in London a bigger opponent: NHS.

I was very ill. I had a sore throat (still have it) and ear aches. But I have to write four papers in three weeks (still have to write 3 of those). I tinkered with the idea of just not writing the papers. Or just writing the feature, but that was already finished and I don’t like incomplete things (I also still hate the non-layout of the blog), so I decided to search for a GP nearby.

I found one. Not only a GP, also a health-centre included. It had a website, looked legitimate. I went there exactly at the opening time. Still wasn’t very sure, because it’s in Clapton and I don’t trust Clapton. But it was Lower Clapton and I could walk there, so I had to fight my fear of crazy-drunken-female–cockney-doctors-who-were-bus-drivers-before-they-decided-to-do-a-medicine-degree-at-London-Metropolitan-University.

I went in and walked to the reception. I couldn’t really talk (the receptionist was also the first person I talked to this day) and she couldn’t really understand me. I was a bit proud that you could really hear that I was ill. I always want to show the doctor that my concerns are serious. But unfortunately this had communication problems as a result. She asked for my birth date and I said that I’m a new patient. ‘Not registered?’ – the woman said in her brisk Indian accent. ‘Not registered’ – I whispered with the thinnest voice I can do, so that the woman had to lean forward to hear me. ‘Go to hospital and register and then come back. Then you can see the doctor’. But I didn’t want to go to a hospital and register (Where? Is there a registration office? Why can’t I register here? I have an emergency!) But my answers and wishes were not heard. The woman gave me some papers to register and said ‘Got to Homerton Hospital’.

Homerton! Nightmare! But I had to. I wanted to be done with these health things, because I wanted to stay at the library all day (time pressure). I took the bus, got off and followed other people to the entrance. Fortunately, the bus driver didn’t hop off and put on doctor’s overalls. I went to the reception, where a friendly old lady was sitting. I told her my story: temporary resident of the UK, not registered, want to register, but want to see a doctor as soon as possible. She said that I could a) register and go back to the GP b) register and call a land-line number where someone would tell me the nearest GP I could go to or c) go to emergency and do a short-time registration. I took package c which sadly didn’t include a holiday in the Cook Islands but a trip to accident & emergency.

At the emergency reception I told my illness history and my personal data. Then I could sit down. After five minutes, I was called to come to the doctor’s office by a good-natured looking male nurse who had a decent age to be seen as experienced in nursing. I suppose.

I sat down. Told my story. But he only took temperature and pulse. Then I had to wait again in the waiting hall. People there didn’t look ill. I think I was the most urgent patient. I was coughing. The man in the corridor was only hobbling.

Then – finally – the doctor called my name in a very creative way. I followed him to another office. I said down. Told my story. He was looking at me. Because I had the feeling that I have to show that I’m seriously ill, I told him that I’m concerned because of my tinnitus. He was a bit irritated by then. He looked in my mouth and in my ear and said. ‘You have a sore throat. The infection is coming from there. Ears are not infected. Keep on taking Paracetamol’ That I said that Paracetamol didn’t work, he ignored.

So I went outside. First time at the doctor's abroad. First time in hospital. After that I spent eight hours in the library. Afterwards, I went to a pub.

I feel better now. Guinness helps. Always.