There’s a lot to be said for the old Indian habit of putting ‘FRCS (Failed)’ after your name. And now I suppose you’re waiting for me to give you weighty advice on the ways and means of general practice?”
I looked at him expectantly. I was now reconciled to making my career as a GP rather than a consultant surgeon, and I was determined to be a good one. The modern doctor unfortunately comes from his medical school with haughty views on general practice. For six years he is taught by specialists, who maintain at hospital lectures and hospital dinners that the GP is the backbone of British medicine, but never hesitate to dissect the backbone whenever given the chance. The residents of both Harley Street and the house surgeons’ quarters are understandably tempted to show their superiority over cases sent single-handed into hospital with the wrong diagnosis, and we thus came to look upon our teachers as infallible and general practice, like the Church, as fit only for the fools of the medical family.
“Looking back over my long years of experience,” Dr Farquarson went on, “I would say… What would I say? That I can’t think of anything in the slightest way useful to a young man with reasonably active intelligence. You’ll know most of the ropes from your father. Patients are much the same all the world over, whether you see ‘em being ill at the Government’s expense in hospital or being ill in their bedrooms at their own.”
“I hope you’ll be forbearing for my first few weeks,” I said.
“That’s when you’ll get most of your work, of course. They’ll all want to have a look at you. Even now they’re gossiping over their teacups wondering what you’re like.” He stretched his long thin legs under the desk. “I’m converting the little room next door as a surgery for you. I’m sorry I can’t put you up in the house,” he apologized. “My flat upstairs is hardly big enough for all the junk I’ve accumulated over the years. And anyway you wouldn’t want to room with such a senile specimen as me, would you? The other flat is of course occupied by our estimable Miss Wildewinde.” This was the receptionist who had admitted me, a middle-aged woman of the type seen so often in England in charge of dogs, horses, or other people’s children. “Miss Wildewinde is a lady of intimidating efficiency, as you will shortly find out. She also dwells lengthily on McBurney’s professional and personal attributes, which occasionally makes life like marriage to an over-fresh widow. Anyway, living away from the shop means you’ll escape a lot of night calls. And this Crypt Hotel place will probably look after you all right.”
My illusions about general practice were lost within a week. My first discovery was that diseases affecting the population of Hampden Cross seemed to have no connexion with the ones we were taught in St Swithin’s. Many of my patients suffered from easily identifiable troubles of those overstrained systems The Tubes, The Nerves and The Wind, but many others seemed only to exemplify mankind’s fruitless struggle against Nature. There were old women who complained of being too fat and young women who complained of being too thin, people who found they couldn’t sleep and people who found they couldn’t stay awake, girls who wanted less hair on their legs and men who wanted more on their heads, couples anxious for children who couldn’t have any and couples who had too many and didn’t know how to stop. The rest simply wanted a certificate. I signed several dozen every day, entitling the holders to anything from more milk to less work, and from getting the youngest off an afternoon’s school to getting the eldest off his National Service.
“The poor doctor’s signature,” observed Dr Farquarson when I mentioned this to him, “is the Open Sesame to the Welfare State. Folk can’t exist these days in a civilized community without it. Did you know there’s a dozen
I looked at him expectantly. I was now reconciled to making my career as a GP rather than a consultant surgeon, and I was determined to be a good one. The modern doctor unfortunately comes from his medical school with haughty views on general practice. For six years he is taught by specialists, who maintain at hospital lectures and hospital dinners that the GP is the backbone of British medicine, but never hesitate to dissect the backbone whenever given the chance. The residents of both Harley Street and the house surgeons’ quarters are understandably tempted to show their superiority over cases sent single-handed into hospital with the wrong diagnosis, and we thus came to look upon our teachers as infallible and general practice, like the Church, as fit only for the fools of the medical family.
“Looking back over my long years of experience,” Dr Farquarson went on, “I would say… What would I say? That I can’t think of anything in the slightest way useful to a young man with reasonably active intelligence. You’ll know most of the ropes from your father. Patients are much the same all the world over, whether you see ‘em being ill at the Government’s expense in hospital or being ill in their bedrooms at their own.”
“I hope you’ll be forbearing for my first few weeks,” I said.
“That’s when you’ll get most of your work, of course. They’ll all want to have a look at you. Even now they’re gossiping over their teacups wondering what you’re like.” He stretched his long thin legs under the desk. “I’m converting the little room next door as a surgery for you. I’m sorry I can’t put you up in the house,” he apologized. “My flat upstairs is hardly big enough for all the junk I’ve accumulated over the years. And anyway you wouldn’t want to room with such a senile specimen as me, would you? The other flat is of course occupied by our estimable Miss Wildewinde.” This was the receptionist who had admitted me, a middle-aged woman of the type seen so often in England in charge of dogs, horses, or other people’s children. “Miss Wildewinde is a lady of intimidating efficiency, as you will shortly find out. She also dwells lengthily on McBurney’s professional and personal attributes, which occasionally makes life like marriage to an over-fresh widow. Anyway, living away from the shop means you’ll escape a lot of night calls. And this Crypt Hotel place will probably look after you all right.”
My illusions about general practice were lost within a week. My first discovery was that diseases affecting the population of Hampden Cross seemed to have no connexion with the ones we were taught in St Swithin’s. Many of my patients suffered from easily identifiable troubles of those overstrained systems The Tubes, The Nerves and The Wind, but many others seemed only to exemplify mankind’s fruitless struggle against Nature. There were old women who complained of being too fat and young women who complained of being too thin, people who found they couldn’t sleep and people who found they couldn’t stay awake, girls who wanted less hair on their legs and men who wanted more on their heads, couples anxious for children who couldn’t have any and couples who had too many and didn’t know how to stop. The rest simply wanted a certificate. I signed several dozen every day, entitling the holders to anything from more milk to less work, and from getting the youngest off an afternoon’s school to getting the eldest off his National Service.
“The poor doctor’s signature,” observed Dr Farquarson when I mentioned this to him, “is the Open Sesame to the Welfare State. Folk can’t exist these days in a civilized community without it. Did you know there’s a dozen
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