Malpractice Monday

I've seen more Spanish doctors than I have British. This is probably a combination of calamitous holidays, working with children, and not having my parents in Madrid to tell me to stop being neurotic. Either way, where diagnoses are concerned I consider myself more or less on par with a second year medical student, having watched all 15 seasons of ER more than three times and following NHS Choices on Twitter, and up until now have felt quite confident in my Spanish medical knowledge and vocabulary. Not so. I have been rather invasively put in my place on that front.

If you work in the public sector here you need a justificante from your doctor if you have any time off. This really can be a ballache: if I am bed ridden with food poisoning or can't hold my own head up my flu is so bad, the last thing I want to do is trek to the medical centre, explain my situation, have my EU health card photocopied about eight times and then sit with the [fellow] unwashed masses for an hour and a half before being told 'it's the weather' and given a letter to confirm I'm not fit for purpose. Anyway, needs must, and I was feeling ropey beyond Lemsip's salvation last week and would rather have commuted to hell than travel 45 minutes to the screaming teenagers I so love to educate.

Went to the doctor. She was talking really fast and I was half out of it anyway I was feeling so crap. I thought I had a good grip with describing my symptoms, her eyes narrowed a few times which I was unimpressed with, I am not a skiver! But I was following her alright, I thought. I was nodding away like a Churchill dog, just give me the letter and let me go back to bed, This Morning is on and I don't want to miss the cooking bit with Gino D'Acampo. Also want to find out if I've won this month's competition, I could really use a holiday to Bali and £35,000 in tax-free cash. She decides to examine me. Fine. I've got a bad cold but alright have a look if you must. Heart rate normal, temperature a bit high, then she tells me to lie down on the bed. Why? She cracks out some blue latex gloves. I don't know what's going on. I'm feeling vulnerable. I do it. She's like, 'roll over'. Erm alright. 'Pull down your pants'. Come again? I protest, she insists it is necessary. What on earth did I say to warrant this kind of investigation? I've got a runny nose! I'm lying on my side, gritting my teeth, thinking of England, and before you can say 'sodomy' I've crossed into a new level of 'Never Have I Ever' with a woman in a white coat.

The phone rings. SHE ANSWERS. I am lying there like a baboon, and the doctor has a two minute conversation with God knows who, she has time to ask about the other person's children so we can assume she's very much on a chilled one, I on the other hand face the wall, still exposed to the elements, wondering which hand she used to pick up the receiver.

There's a knock on the door. She has got to be joking. Two men come into the room. Whether they are doctors or not I have no idea, I'm still facing the wall thinking about the wrongs I have committed in life to deserve this. About a century later they leave and I unclench, slightly. 

She comes back over, apologises (not profusely, I add). I squeak out a 'no pasa nada' to let her know we are cool. I just want to get out now. She seems to casually notice the position that I am STILL in and tells me it all looks fine down (up?) there. WELL I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT SO. She signs me off work for 48 hours - enough time to recover from post traumatic stress disorder? - And I waddle home replaying the event in my head to try and see where it all went wrong. There's a first time for everything.