Dear Health Professional I had the displeasure of being treated by this morning,

It was our first meeting today, we’ll be seeing each other every week or so for the next 6-8 weeks. Your first words to me were to lecture me on being 10 minutes late. You didn’t ask how I was or realise that for me to make my appointment at all today was a minor miracle given how ill I have been and how difficult it was navigating two different forms of public transport to get to you in the first place. I also tripped down an escalator en route too and was lucky to make it to your clinic rather than casualty.

You then proceeded to take my case history without having done any prior reading which I suppose is a good way to go to have a complete picture and make your own assessment, but you clearly didn’t believe what I was saying. You went off to consult the computer, came back some minutes later and clucked about the amount of procedures I’ve had in the past in a manner which seemed to indicate that I was an inconvenience. You read the printouts and a light went on in your head.

You proceeded with your assessment speaking to me loudly in words of one syllable just in case I couldn’t understand you and so everyone else could hear. You asked me to remove my clothing and watched while I did so. On the treatment trolley you prodded away and asked me to move in certain ways. I obliged as I needed out of there quickly, very quickly.

Then you asked what I did for a living and suddenly another light went on. Words of two or three syllables could be used. You asked what I understood about my condition. I explained using some medical terminology as I have had this condition for 15 years and am just a bit of an expert on my body. More lights going on in the brain. Patronising tone decreased ever so slightly.

You then suggested a treatment plan, printed out the things I would need to do in the meantime and outlined what you would do next week. I nodded and indicated I understood, but you proceeded to say it all again anyway.

I came home to a letter which says that it will be 5 months until I can get the accompanying treatment which you said I needed now to really deal with my current situation. It’s not your fault but when I tell you next week about it please understand my frustration and helplessness as you prod and probe and humiliate me further.

Until next week

Yours not so faithfully,

Maman Poulet