Dear Doctor: an open letter

4 minute read time.

Dear Doctor,

How many patients do you see in a day? What about a year? It’s been four years; you might not remember me, but I want you to know I will never forget you.

In September 2010, I came back from a holiday in Egypt with a little too much pool water in my left ear. I booked an 8:10am appointment to get it looked at before I went back to work. At 8:40am I lost patience, I was going to be late for work so I rescheduled.

A few days later we met. You were a lovely new GP at the practice. You referred me to a clinic, problem solved.

Pretty mundane if I’m honest, I’d probably have long forgotten it if it wasn’t for what came next.

Six months later, on 2nd February 2011, you met my dad. He was a young, fit and healthy 47 year old but his symptoms were worrying. You suspected it could brain tumour. Most GPs would typically only ever see two or three cases during their careers but you didn’t hesitate. You immediately sent him straight to hospital for further tests.

You were right. When you found out the results, did you wish you had been wrong? Did you hope that you were just being cautious and that the scans might show something less deadly?

You’d done your job, it was now up to Secondary Care to fix it so we could go back to normal. Dad had his operation. Then he had radiotherapy, chemotherapy, steroids and all that comes along with cancer treatment.

But it’s difficult watching your dad go through that, it takes it’s toll. Everyone tells you that you’re so strong, but you don’t feel it.  You can put on a mask, but under pressure it starts to slip.  So I came to see you again.  If I’m going to be there for dad then I need to be there for me.

I made an early morning appointment; 8am, first of the day. Dad was in hospital and I was still working so it was the only time I could squeeze it in.  Only it certainly wasn’t a squeeze was it. You sat with me for 45 minutes; I cried, you told me what I wanted to know, you comforted me until I felt ready to go and then I cried again. You told me to stay until I felt ready to leave. You supplied me with tissues but most importantly you supplied me with compassion and care. You can’t have been much older than me. You were honest; you didn’t pretend to have all the answers, you told me that you don’t know how you would cope if it was your dad.You were there for me when I really needed it. I left at 8:45, head dipped because I was the reason that your other patients were looking at their watches in frustration.

Our next appointment was the last one of the day at almost 8pm. No need to worry about a backlog this time. I’m sure you had a family of your own to get home to, at the very least you probably needed to eat. But you didn’t rush me. Just like last time, you gave me all the time that I needed.

Over the year, you weren’t just there for me. You were there for my brother. Your were there for my dad. And you were there for my step-mum. On 2nd February 2011 a young, fit and healthy 47 year old walked in to your surgery and from that day on you were there for his whole family.

I now work for a cancer charity on support for carers. We work closely with Primary Care and when I speak to GPs I cannot sing your praises highly enough, because you are my shining example, you made the difference. You made the hardest year of our lives just a little bit better. You made it manageable. You didn’t send me on my way with a prescription. You didn’t just refer me to a counsellor. Over the year, of course, I needed both of these things and you were there when I needed them. You were there when I needed a sick note because my dad’s condition deteriorated and I needed to be by his side. But I don’t remember you for the pieces of paper you handed over, I remember you for your compassion.

When I’m in a waiting room now, checking my watch because the doctor is running late, I don’t get frustrated and I don’t throw a temper tantrum at the receptionist, I just hope the person with them is getting the personal compassionate care that they need. That rash that needs checking out, or recurrent pain in my foot, probably isn’t going to get worse whilst I wait an extra 20 minutes, but someone else’s life might get just a little bit better.

I cannot say it enough, all of my warmest wishes, thanks and eternal gratitude,Victoria

Anonymous