As everyone knows, the NHS is in a mess in all four countries in the UK. Too much demand and too few resources. Aside from 'resus' care, there are even waiting lists of several days before assessment in some A&E departments.
The power-sharing politics of the devolved government in Northern Ireland are complex and complicated. When disagreements can't be overcome the government is suspended. This has happened multiple times in the last two decades. When it happens, decision-making and funding considerations grind to a halt. There have been obvious consequences for the NHS in this country and waiting lists are now particularly lengthy.
And so it was that at the end of June 2026 I found myself triaged by the Department of Dermatology onto its Red Flag list. I knew this only happened when two types of cancer were strongly suspected; melanoma and squamous cell carcinoma. These cancers could spread and were therefore placed onto the most urgent of the lists. My anticipated wait was six weeks.
The next step down the hierarchy was confusingly called the Urgent list. Basal cell carcinomas were regarded as typically very slow growing and posed virtually no risk of spreading. These referrals were destined to linger unmonitored on this list for well over a year.
At the bottom of the hierarchy was the Routine list. It took everything else and you were guaranteed several birthdays under your belt before your first appointment offer.
Both lesions continued to gradually develop while I waited. The larger lesion grew steadily darker in colour and wider at its base. The smaller lesion was little more than a flesh coloured pointed bump and stayed that way for a long time. This period of transformation was slow and steady. Things would change less than three months later when it was to accelerate at an alarming rate.
When I reached the start of my eighth week on the Red Flag list I decided to enquire when I might expect to be offered an appointment. So I phoned the waiting list enquiry number and asked.
After the usual security checks my presence on the list was confirmed and I was very nicely told the wait had become 20 weeks from the date of the GP referral. I had a very long way to go. I wasn't even half way there yet. Also, I had little doubt that the waiting time would lengthen, as these things do. The chances of being offered an initial appointment before the end of the year seemed slim to negligible to me.
My son had been keeping an eye on this undesirable situation for a while and decided to do something about it. Private treatment was the only sensible option and he used every which way to make his point. I couldn't argue with anything. Why would I? I had two horrible growths on my scalp and wanted to get rid of them just as much as he did.
But private treatment was going to cost a lot of money. I had something set aside for work on my house that could go towards it. I considered selling my car. A loan was another possibility. I even considered selling my house.
My son, of course, had other ideas. He wanted to pay for it. I resisted that very easily. But he was in negotiation mode and sensed there was a deal to be done. And he can be very persuasive. Those who love us tend to do be like that. He wouldn't give up. I tried to dig my heels in but every time I looked in a mirror I moved closer and closer to defeat. When I eventually realised that if I'd found myself in a similar position with my own father I would have been equally persistent, I knew I was beat and caved in.
After a short period of research I found somewhere that looked very good (as indeed it was) and made an appointment to meet the third dermatologist.
