The battle with Nursey may be finally over! In September I
had yet another blood test to try and prove that I was no longer a diabetic. As
is regular practice, I was required to have a follow up interrogation. I
requested a GP in the hope of getting some common sense from Dr R. Instead, I
got an ageing Asian lady who appeared to be returning to medicine in an effort
to stave off early dementia or supplement a pension that would not fund her
grandchildren through a gap year.
Her response to everything was, ‘I don’t know, you will have
to ask the nurse.’
Seven years of medical training in order to refer all
questions to the nurse. She knew nothing of glucose levels, types of monitors
or accepted norms. She did insist on weighing me on a set of scales that looked
like they belonged in a medical museum or on the set of a 1960s drama. As she
was unable to bend down to read the dial, my weight somehow managed to increase
from 93.2Kg to 94KG – as this was the next large number she could see. Or I had
gained 800g over breakfast. Before anyone jumps to conclusions, yes there had
been significant movement that morning in a downwards direction.
Then came the blood pressure check. I did mention that I had
struggled through the school traffic, battled the Coop car park, and walked
briskly up hill to get to the surgery for an 8.45am appointment - an
appointment that she was late starting. Her qualified medical opinion was that such
events would not affect it and my blood pressure was high. She suggested that I
should do something about it.
‘Must be stress at work, can I have a month off?’
‘It’s not that high!’ She snapped.
‘What do you suggest?
‘More exercise and less food.’
I took to the opportunity to inform her that I am able to
ride in excess of 200 miles in 24 hours. She was not best pleased and almost
pushed me out of the room. I made an appointment to see Nursey.
The appointment with Nursey went better than expected. She
was pleased with the blood test. The NHS limit for blood glucose is 48 - using
whatever ridiculous unit they choose to follow; I was at 52. She could not say
I was in remission but could record that I am a diabetic with the condition
under control. When I enquired about the next test in three months, she told me
she didn’t need to see me for another year. RESULT!
Now I just needed to get clearance for scuba diving. In the
UK this is more problematic than elsewhere in the world. The NHS doctors I have
seen, all refuse to sign anything to do with diving and the private hyperbaric
specialists require verified results from the HbA1c test. Even to share the
results the practice wanted £50 to write the letter, then with the private
medicals costing over £100 I was beginning to feel exploited by the very people
who had told me to do more exercise.
So that is why I found myself sat in the waiting room of
Spanish medical centre on a wet Monday evening in February. I was about to pay
40 Euros to see a very qualified hyperbaric specialist who I hoped would
declare me fit to dive.
