Banana-land (Ireland)

There is no doubt about it my decision to return to the land of my birth is gonna kill me!  Or at least shorten my life by ten years.

This has been an 'eye-opener' week.  all health ...

monday I go to the endocrinologist in big general hospital, big reputation, specialist bla bla bla. I wasn't referred by my gp who had had my thyroid in his care up till now, but by a neurologist who felt this big shot very specialist specialist could unravel the complexities of my neuro-endocrine system. 

Well obviously no-one read the consultants letter because i was allocated an appointment with another doctor, and waited a good 6 months for monday's appointment.  Not knowing the name of the 'whizz-kid' endocrinologist I thought this was him.   More later.  So I trot off in a taxi to the big medical castle in the sky and paid 75e to taxi man.  See it was a mega journey.  I set off at 2.30pm - took an hour to get there, took seat, was called an hour later to see registrar.  Only to be told a) my thyroid could be 'looked after' by my gp and b) they had no blood tests so better go get them.  I said they were done by my GP and told him results.  This is normal, your gp can look after your thyroid.  It was now 4.30pm. I got home at 7.30 by public transport as I wasn't going to pay 75e home.

I had sort of forgotten I was supposed to see whizz-kid, but thought that was Doctor Smith (pseudonym) name on my opd letter. Well yes, I could see him if it would make me happy!   A comment by a male doctor that this feminist woman took extreme exception to.  That actually translates "you neurotic woman have nothing wrong with you but you can see the consultant who will make you happy".

I told the reg that at this precise moment NOTHING makes me happy, I have parkinson's, I have cancer (awaiting radiotherapy) and I've just paid 75e out of my disability pension to come to his hospital to be told my gp can look after my thyroid, and they'd do blood tests that have already been done, and the consultant would 'make me happy'.

Today I find out that Mr Smith was NOT the consultant whizz-kid I'd been referred to by neuroconsultant, no, whizz-kidd was Mr Brown (pseudonym) . 

So had I seen Mr Smith it would not have helped because it was Mr Brown I was supposed to see.  Mr Smith of course could have made me 'happy', but in fact Mr Brown might have made me better!  But I never got to see Mr Brown, in any case I had no idea what Mr Brown was supposed to be doing.  And since I hadn't been told it was Mr Brown I was supposed to see anyway, I could not have helped the situation anyway. But I didn't get to see Mr Smith who would make me happy either, so I was neither happy or better...was I?

This all happens of course because I'm a public patient.  How do I know?  Because I was told the reason I'd see Mr Smith and not Mr Brown (though as I've said, I never even saw Mr Smith), was because they 'parcel you out' . 

Neat little package that I am this clinic plays pass the parcel and when the music stops I land in any consultants, registrars, or house doctors lap.  In other words when the music stops you might either live or die depending on whose lap you've landed in ...when the music stopped.  Provided of course they 'unwrap the parcel' to look see what needs to be done.

That was Monday.  Today is wednesday.

Twino and I are off for our botox injections in the beauty parlour of the 'castle in the sky' aka this fab big fancy specialist hospital.  Botox for twino means injections in her neck to stop it twisting in agonising contortions due to dystonia (look it up!) , I have botox in leg to stop my foot twisting in agonizing contortions so I can actually walk (of a fashion). 

Botox Consultant didn'nt want to hear about debackle of Mr Smith or Mr Brown on Monday (though it was she who sent me there) because she had to concentrate on the botox so she didn't paralyse either twino in neck or me in foot.  Fair enough, I don't want paralaysis, shut up, yes, good idea.  After botox and with now no danger of paralysis she STILL did not want to hear about Mr Smith or Mr Brown because all of a sudden she has chest pain, and was not well herself.  So for God's sake shut up or you'll give your consultant a heart attack.  Better get out before we are paralysed or doc has heart attack.

Drive home.  Decide to phone about when my radiotherapy might start.  Secretary to radio-oncologist had said St Lukes had my papers, or rather Dr Radio-oncologist was dealing with this.  So ring St Lukes, no, no idea who you are, not on system.  Well, funny this.  I saw Dr Radio-oncologist who buys his suits in Mullingar, by the way, two weeks ago.  He told me if I went private I'd start radiotherapy Tuesday after easter.  If I went public, St Lukes, I'd start a few weeks later.  Reassuring me the extra wait won't decrease my life chances (how does he know?) .  I was opting for St Lukes because living in the country a daily trip for radiotherapy for 5 weeks and with Parkinson's was likely to knacker me! Whereas in St Lukes I could stop over in 'The Lodge' monday-Friday.

So don't worry says the breast clinic nurse the public sector operates JUST THE SAME as the private sector, for sure if it didn't would'nt that be unethical.  Well, yes it would, but it's NOT THE SAME AS THE PRIVATE sector.

Right now no-one knows who I am!  Let alone has marked me in blue indelible ink for the zaps zappedy zaps I'm waiting for.

I won't be starting radiotherapy tuesday after Easter because a) I've gone public, b) I live in the country c) because I got Parkinson's (and can't cope with daily journeys) and d) because there is no residential unit in the Private sector hospital e) no one yet knows I exist!

So in effect this week has taught me

1) Mr Smith was Not Mr Brown
2) I am a 'parcel'
3) My neuro consultant might have a heart attack if I stress her
4) Public services is NOT the same as private so nurse don't tell me it is
5) I don't exist.

Yep, I'm gonna die in this country - Welcome Home to Banana - Land