– – The patient version – –
A 35y young man, slowly entering my consultation room.
Hunched over with a walking stick, with a look on his face of pure doom.
Doc I’ve done my back in, the pains so bad.
Take these painkillers I said, no need to be so sad.
A wimp, who probably has a low pain threshold, I thought.
Next time you should seek the help of a physio, I retort.
– – The doctor’s agonising version – –
From when I open my eyes, in the early morning.
The engines of pain fire up, and begin churning.
Undignified positions and noises emanate, as I extract myself from the bed.
Three minutes it takes to stand straight. Enough said.
I just about stop myself from uttering the ‘F’ word.
This pain I have had for 6 days, it’s absurd.
Will cauda equina cross their mind?
I can picture having to drop my trousers and someone standing behind.
Go to my local A&E…where I know all the staff?
No way I decide, I don’t feel like giving them a laugh.
‘No neurology’, I proclaim within seconds of entering my GP’s room.
Thank goodness he decides against a PR, there was no need for me to apply perfume.
Diazepam I demand, and an MRI if he see’s fit.
The tablets I get, but the MRI is not needed, not one little bit.
Two milligrams is nothing. Four is a joke.
Eight to ten is what you need, if you want to play your golf stroke.
I ration the diazepam, the best I can.
But their running out quick, I’m desperate…should I steal some from my gran?