Authors: Benjamin Daniels

Tags: #General, #Biography & Autobiography, #Humor, #Medical, #Topic, #Family & General Practice, #Business & Professional

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Tariq

I found my first few consultations with Tariq frustrating. I struggled to understand his English and he never seemed to have much physically wrong with him. The consultations were always a bit disjointed and he always seemed reluctant to leave. Another wasted consultation, I would think to myself as he finally left my room.

Gradually, after his first few visits, Tariq began to open up to me. He was in his mid-twenties and had been tortured in a Sudanese jail after being arrested for political activity at his university. He had arrived here hidden in a lorry and was currently seeking asylum. He lived in a homeless hostel with mostly alcoholics and heroin addicts and spent his days aimlessly wandering the streets of the town centre. He was the sort of person I might walk past every day without noticing, but behind the sad tired face was a brilliant mind and a man desperate to work, study and make the most out of his life. Unfortunately, because of his asylum-seeking status, he was not entitled to do any of this. Instead, he looked enviously at the alcoholics and junkies that he lived with, knowing that as British citizens, if they so wished they could work, study and do many things that he was not entitled to do. Despite being understandably miserable here, Tariq was terrified that he would be tortured and killed if he returned to the Sudan, so he was stuck between an unpleasant rock and a horrifying hard place.

After his third or fourth visit, Tariq confessed to me that in the space of a whole week I was the only person he spoke to. If I wasn’t a GP, I would not believe that in a busy cosmopolitan city a man could spend weeks passing the time without conversing with a single soul. Most people avoid seeing their doctor if they possibly can, but for Tariq, I was his only outlet to the rest of the world. I was the only person to whom he could talk about his feelings or even make small talk about the weather. In between my consultations with Tariq I spoke to many hundreds of people. I talked to work colleagues, friends and family, even the monosyllabic blokes I play football with. Tariq talked to no one. This must be torture for an intelligent, articulate and sociable young man.

In the soap opera that was Tariq’s life, I was not just a walk-on part or an insignificant extra. For Tariq, I was the only other character in this episode of his life and was really quite important to him. Tariq had absolutely nothing physically wrong with him, yet my role as his doctor was vital and unique. He trusted me and I listened to his problems. He confided in me awful things that happened to him in his past and, more mundanely, I helped him fill out forms to aid his housing and finances. Helping Tariq wasn’t putting my medical degree and years of training to great use, but my title as doctor and the ability of the NHS to make me available free of charge enabled me to reach out to another human and make a huge difference to his life. I have stopped grumbling that I’m overqualified to help someone fill in a form and instead appreciate the honour and privilege it is to be able to call myself a doctor working in the front line for the NHS.

Babies

It was my first night as a medical student on the delivery suite and I was excited at the prospect of helping to bring a new life into the world. To my horror, the first baby I saw was the lifeless body of a stillborn. I had stayed away from the traumatic birth but the whole unit could hear the dead infant’s mother wailing in grief as she pushed out her stillborn child. The midwife asked me to keep her company as she cleaned and dressed the body before it was taken down to the morgue. I can still clearly remember looking down at him. His features were perfect but his lips were almost completely black and the rest of his body a shade of dark purple. He had never had the chance to breathe in oxygen and turn pink. The pregnancy had apparently been normal and the baby was a healthy size. Mum was two weeks past her due date and as she and Dad eagerly anticipated the onset of labour, their baby just stopped moving. A scan confirmed that the heart was no longer beating. The devastated mum went into labour knowing that her son had already died.

Ten years later I was holding the hand of my wife, nervously waiting for the birth of our first child. It was one of those times that I wished I wasn’t a doctor. I could not get the awful memory of that dead baby out of my mind. The other dads-to-be in my antenatal class had different concerns. Mick, a plumber, was worried about his mother-in-law coming to stay. Matthew worked in advertising and was fretting about the financial implications of dropping to just one income. My only anxiety was that my baby was going to be born dead. I didn’t share this with the group, or even with my wife, but it dominated my thoughts for the last three months of my wife’s pregnancy.

It would appear that I’m not the only doctor who has been affected by what they have witnessed in obstetrics. The number of female GPs and obstetricians who choose to have Caesarean sections rather than natural births is much higher than in the general population. Doctors also tend not to allow themselves to go too far overdue before having labour induced. It isn’t so much that medics know more than everyone else, it is just that we have seen more than anyone else. Doctors deal with the births that go wrong. Thankfully, these are a tiny minority but anyone who has witnessed a really traumatic birth can’t help but be affected by the memory when embarking on that journey themselves. When my newly born son gasped his first breath, I was awash with joy, but far more powerful was an overwhelming sense of relief.

During the first few weeks of his life, the enormous responsibility of being a parent dawned on me. What sort of person was this baby going to become? What could I do to give him the best chance in life? If I was a rubbish parent, would he grow up to be like some of my chaotic and troubled patients? During my working day, I see an unfeasible amount of human suffering in one form or another. As I looked down on my innocent son, I wondered if I could really protect him from all that. What if one day he told me that he wanted to be a doctor? Would I try to put him off? In spite of everything, I love my job and have no regrets. I’d turn to him and say: ‘Go for it, Son! Being a doctor is an honour and the greatest vocation there is.’ However, if I had the slightest inkling that he could be a professional footballer and one day play for West Ham…

Acknowledgements

A big thank you to my parents, Sarah and my brother for all their advice and help. Thanks to Dr Nick Edwards, who helped persuade me to write this book. Feel free to read his book
In Stitches
. It is like mine but not as good. Finally, a massive thank you to my wonderful wife, who has supported me through the writing of this book and, more importantly, through the highs and lows of life. I love you deeply.

About the author

DR BENJAMIN DANIELS
is the pseudonym of a doctor currently working for the NHS.

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This edition published by The Friday Project 2010

FIRST EDITION

Benjamin Daniels asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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