Confessions of a GP

The problem was that the phone calls to the on-call doctors were recorded so if she was to be discovered dead tomorrow, I couldn’t claim ignorance. The coroner’s court case would be very embarrassing as I tried to explain why I did absolutely nothing after being told explicitly about a suicide attempt. ‘I thought she was just a bit of a time-waster, your honour’ probably wouldn’t be a very successful line of defence.

Very reluctantly, I drove to the house. As I pulled up to her address there was already a pissed-off-looking ambulance crew at the scene. They had also received a phone call threatening suicide from Angela. Nobody was answering the door and after much pointless shouting through the letter box, we grudgingly decided we really needed to break in. One of the paramedics apologetically told me that they weren’t allowed to break the door down for health and safety reasons. I would have happily kicked the door down but was held back my general weediness. We made a contrite call to the police, who, after an hour or so, came round and with irritating ease bashed down the front door with one kick.

We all charged into the house and ran into each room in turn loudly shouting Angela’s name. I dashed into the bathroom and then stopped dead. There was a woman lying in the bath. Her face was under the water with open eyes staring up at the ceiling. I could feel my heart pounding and was frozen to the spot. I assumed she was dead but then spotted a couple of bubbles coming out of her mouth. Her eyes had also moved from staring at the ceiling and were now looking straight at me. I grabbed her under the arms and pulled her up out of the water.

She was barely out of breath and looked me calmly in the face: ‘Are you Dr Daniels? You owe me a new door.’ Angela had clearly been patiently waiting for us to break the door down before sticking her head under the water.

She had evidently carefully planned the whole episode and was wearing a black swimming costume to protect her dignity for our anticipated dramatic entrance. She looked distinctly pleased with herself as she sat up in her bath with two paramedics, two policemen and me, all crammed into her tiny bathroom expectantly waiting for her next move.

I called the on-call psychiatrist.

‘Oh, Angela. We all know her a bit too well. Has she pulled one of her stunts again?’

The psychiatrist was greatly amused by my account of the evening’s entertainment. Apparently, she had made well over a hundred ‘suicide’ attempts and to date had never actually come close to causing herself any real harm. The professional viewpoint would be that Angela was a vulnerable person who struggled with effective communication and expressed her frustrations by making elaborate cries for help. One of the coppers on the scene was slightly less sympathetic and suggested that she was, in fact, a time-wasting piss artist who, after over a hundred failed suicide attempts, should have got a bit better at it by now. The psychiatrist had a chat with Angela on the phone and agreed to see her in clinic the following afternoon. I went home to bed.

I don’t like some of my patients

Marcus Smythe is one of my patients and I just don’t like him. He is privately educated and well-spoken but also has a drinking problem and beats up his wife. He is regularly rude and aggressive to the reception staff and bullies them into giving him immediate appointments that aren’t necessary. He is also rude and demanding with me and if he doesn’t get what he wants, he threatens to complain to his MP and write letters to the local paper. As each minute passes in his presence, my empathy, patience and tolerance rapidly dwindle away. During my medical school training, I learnt all about many rare diseases that I am unlikely to ever encounter, but I was never really given any preparation for how to deal with the Marcus Smythes of this world.