It sometimes fascinates me when couples come in for an appointment and, without warning, break into a completely unnecessary argument that I really did not need to witness.
It must be a type of love language. 🥰
Even more adorable are the men who attend appointments and, when I ask how I can help, say something along the lines of:
“Well… my wife is worried about this rash on my back.”
Or:
“My wife says I should get tested for diabetes because I’ve been passing urine a lot.”
Because, of course, no real man has ever been worried about a rash.
Many of them will also say, very earnestly:
“Could you write down the diagnosis and the medication? My wife will ask me when I get home.”
Like, he himself has no interest in the diagnosis whatsoever. But his wife will be need a full debrief, bless him.
Call it what you like. I call that true love.
My patient today is a lovely woman in her sixties who has brought her extremely enthusiastic husband to discuss her knee pain.
The consultation is going perfectly well until he suddenly declares:
“It’s because she’s too fat. Tell her, doctor!”
I was getting there, you busybody, I did not say.🙄
Out loud I say, in my most diplomatic voice:
“Well… having a high BMI probably doesn’t help.”
He grunts with satisfaction.
Then he asks:
“What about those weight-loss injections? Can she try those?”
I allow the question to float gently in the room and wait for her reaction.
It is… not good🫨
She begins shaking her head vigorously. Eyebrows raised.
My cue to jump in to Operation Rescue.
“Actually,” I say, “I don’t think she would qualify for them on the NHS at the moment, but we can look at other measures like diet and activit...”
“We can afford to buy it!” he interrupts. “I just need you to tell her she should have it.”
Yeah, right. Hell Nope... I did not say.
She slowly turns to him and says, in the calmest yet most terrifying voice I have heard all week:
“I. DO. NOT. WANT. WEIGHT. LOSS. INJECTIONS.”
The room suddenly feels very cold.
I swiftly redirect the conversation back to her knee, wrap up the consultation and encourage them out.
I sincerely hope he made it home safely.🤔
My next patient arrives with his wife, the appointment is for him but it is clear that he had "been brought" here. They’re in their late forties.
He begins explaining that he works night shifts and isn’t sleeping well, and he’d like help with that. But Mrs is not having it.
“The main issue,” she informs me, “is that he has developed a bad attitude.”
Apparently, because he doesn’t sleep well, he becomes cranky. He wants to sleep when she wants to talk. Then he wakes up and leaves the house “to stay out of her way.”
“He needs to understand that I’m going through menopause,” she says. “I need more support and attention.”
He responds: “I stay out of your way because you’re so irritable.”
This is not going well.😔
Then she adds:
“And what about your libido? You need to tell the doctor about that.”
He fires back:
“What about your libido?”
“Mine is due to menopause!”
At this point the consultation begins to spiral. We cover sleep, menopause, blood pressure, their social circle, a friend who is allegedly a bad influence, and a debate about which one of them is more forgetful and therefore requires a memory test.
I couldn't helping thinking how they both really just needed a night of passion...badly. 🙄
Somehow—against all odds—we end up discussing menopause and hypertension.
My next patient is a young man in his twenties.
Now, in my experience, males between the ages of about 10 and 35 are the least likely to see a doctor. If nothing is bleeding, broken, or falling off, they simply carry on with life.😎
And true to form, his condition is simple and straightforward.
And then…
He farted.😳😳🙄🤠🤓😲
