I met the first nurse in 2022 when was living in a city in the midlands of England.
It was late summer. The air in a crystal clear sky was becoming fresher as autumn approached and then my favourite time of year would arrive. Winter. I've only ever met one other person with an equally intense dislike of summer. Kindred spirits adrift in a world where the rest of humanity exchanges cheerful greetings appreciative of yet another gorgeous and grand sunny day.
I'd phoned the surgery in the morning and was given an appointment in the early afternoon. So early, in fact, that I was the only person in the waiting room. It was really quite peaceful and I felt much the same way. Time for a period of quiet reflection. I've always been like that. I hold on to important memories and embrace my introspection.
With a loud buzz my name appeared on the screen on the wall. I've often wondered why the NHS does that sort of thing. Isn't it a breach of confidentiality? But I guess having your name displayed in lights is better than hearing it shouted at a crowded waiting room. Thankfully I'm not a celebrity and in the greater scheme of things it probably doesn't matter.
Off I went in search of the relevant consulting room, knocked on the door and came face to face with the first nurse.
He was huge. As in tall and muscular. He could have done with some scrubs several sizes larger and his BMI would probably have been higher than an international rugby prop forward's. I wondered if he was, or had been, a military man. He looked like someone who wouldn't hesitate to come to your aid under fire, get a quick tourniquet in place, heave his medical bag over one shoulder and you over the other, throw you into the nearest Chinook and head back out for more.
He invited me to take a seat beside his desk and with a welcoming smile asked how could he help me. What a nice chap.
I told him that several weeks earlier I'd first noticed some unusual rough spots on my head. I even pointed them out. This was completely unnecessary because I lost most of my hair many years ago, long before shaven heads became fashionable. I missed my chance. I've also missed the chance to get a nice tattoo but perhaps it's not too late to do something about that.
He seemed fascinated and said he'd like to take a closer look with his lens. Picking up a very impressive magnifying glass he wandered over to me and examined my scalp from various different angles. Then he returned to his desk, settled into his chair, looked straight at me and said: "I'm afraid it doesn't look too good."
I hadn't anticipated this. I wasn't a regular attender and was used to being told that as we get older these things tend to happen and they also take longer to fix. This guy had gone off script and I wondered what he might say next.
His voice seemed to soften but his words were measured and deliberate. He was going to refer me to Dermatology and I was to contact the surgery if I hadn't heard anything from them in two weeks' time.
I nodded. The dreaded 'two week wait'. I'd heard that before, six years previously when I was living in another part of the country, and a GP was about to introduce me to the local colorectal team.
I thanked the first nurse and remarked that I wished I could shake his hand but knew Covid had put a stop to that sort of thing. He smiled warmly and turned to his keyboard.
And I felt a bit lonely on the drive home.
