Waiting for what?

THIS year sees the 60th anniversary of the NHS; a point which the media has chosen to celebrate by highlighting just how far services have come.  Taking a rest from countless reports of cash shortages, ward closures, failed targets, filthy conditions, and superbugs, journalists are instead covering tales such as the first baby born on the NHS. 

 Regardless all of the media coverage, good or bad, you never really get an idea of the state of the NHS until you experience it, which is what has happened to me this year.

 I'm not sure how, but my hearing in one ear has gone. Not completely - don't feel you have to shout at me - but generally some days all I seem to hear is a noise a bit like listening to a conch shell, an airy distant hum which will get louder or quieter depending on how much my ear wants to try my patience. 

 So as a smaller, more private celebration of the NHS I decided to brave my fear of doctors and see if I could get my hearing sorted. 

 After waiting for nearly six months I saw a lovely man who tested my ears, listened to me and lectured me on inappropriate shoes before sending me onto the next specialist. 

 The second couldn't be any more different. He may have been the Ear, Nose and Throat doc, which I can only assume in his book meant there was no need for eye contact. Or conversation. 

 Glancing over my hearing results he took a relatively small breath and in one sentence said that yes I was partially deaf in one ear but that shouldn't disrupt my life and that actually what was wrong with me was my concentration levels. He slowed down at that point, probably to make sure I was paying attention. 

 He stood to usher me out of the door; my 30 seconds was up.  Six months of waiting for a 30 second diagnosis, that's about six days per second. 

 Desperate for answers; I sat still - a move which triggered copious amounts of eyebrow raising between the ENT doc and his secretary/nurse/token female bystander. 

 Before they could reach for the alarm I pointed out that his diagnosis was as lacking as my hearing (and supposed concentration levels) and demanded further tests. 

 Sighing, he referred me for an MRI - effectively an X-ray of my head. 

 And so, according to test conditions, in a splendid outfit of elasticated waistbands and blandness and sporting not a scrap of make-up, I attended the hospital again this week. 

 Past the polished lino floors and immaculately painted corridors, I followed the signs to what can only be described as the shantytown equivalent of hospital wards.  The waiting room of eight chairs was crammed into a space suitable for three chairs where we all sat knocking knees, praying that the person opposite didn't suffer from a contagious scabby knee condition, and wondering who would crack first and begin reading the extensive selection of caravanning magazines circa 1995 placed in the waiting room. 

 An hour later I'm still sitting there when my name is called by an Indian man sporting a clipboard.

 Tripping over the other patients who by now look like they are playing an involuntary game of Twister as they try to find space for various limbs I follow the man out of the ward, down a corridor... and out across a car park before entering a tiny trailer. 

 Some other poor sap is still lying on what looks like a bed placed in a large white doughnut - and I'm sat there staring at the x-rays of her skull. 

 Soon it's my turn and I'm led over to the bed, given headphones and a large panic button and my head is then restrained in a cage before I'm moved into the centre of the doughnut; a tiny space which prevents me moving even my arms.

 Closing my eyes, classical music is being piped through the headphones. Between the heavenly choirs and the enclosed space I desperately try to ignore that this is probably what it's like to be dead and at one point sneak a peak to check I'm not, in fact, in church.

 The image fades quickly as all sound is replaced by that similar to a pneumatic drill.

  Something tells me not even whale singing would transform that experience into one of calm and serenity. I open my eyes to see the next patient waiting for his test - we've become a part of some giant production line which is so rapid it makes you question why the long waiting lists - what is the hold-up? Because it certainly can't be down to the staff dragging their feet. 

 I now face another wait for the results - I wonder if the NHS will celebrate another 60 years before I get my diagnosis?