Written late on Friday 29th July 2022
Just start writing, Pauline.
That’s what my Mum told me – just start writing Pauline. Has told me for so long. I have talked about this blog for years. I’m sure my friends and family are sick of hearing about it. But I’ve always put it off – too busy (so damn fecking busy – studying or the flat or whatever work extra-curricular I’d taken on), too hungover or maybe afraid of this just being shit or afraid of exposing my true self, and being vulnerable to actual attack (and not just the crazy I make up in my head).
Last night, my last night shift of 4, was one of the worst I’ve had. I’m a doctor in the NHS; and it is in crisis. We are being worked to the bone. And still made to feel like shit, whilst working our asses off. And I have suffered. I am mentally and physically unwell as a result of the chronic stress of working and “training” under the NHS.
My shift last night was 9pm-9am. I started the shift being understaffed and then receiving insufficient handover to be able to start the shift efficiently. (I am not blaming the day team staff, I know they had an extremely busy shift and had worked their asses off and would’ve done all they could. I know at some stage you have to go home and you cannot tie everything up. I know, I have been there). I spent the first two hours trying to work out a bed crisis – which really sick elderly gentleman gets the last of the “high dependency” beds? And this is not a skill you are taught; you somehow pick it up, usually when suddenly it is your decision to make as the senior medical doctor on overnight. Over the course of the night, I had extremely unwell patients, family members yelling at me and threatening me with complaints over the previous teams communication, patients in the Emergency Department with 17 hour waits for beds, a long list of patients waiting to be seen, and having a sick young woman with a new malignancy and multiple complications, who now needed to be supported by the Intensive Care Unit. I had my first break at 7:15 am. That’s 10 hours non-stop and high acuity patients. And yet, my morning ended being grilled by a consultant about patients that another doctor (whom we had to borrow overnight because we were short) had clerked in. I felt wholly inadequate, done, and ashamed at the crap handover we gave. But I.had.not.stopped.for.10.hours. They don’t care. And it has left me done and feeling defeated.
There is an element that I should have better “resilience” and self-worth to not be so affected by the interaction with the consultant. But when you are exhausted, trying to please, trying to prove yourself and wanting to have done everything to the levels of excellence somehow expected of you, I was very much beating myself up. I did not, I do not, like being inadequate.
And so I have had enough. Enough of sacrificing myself to the ever turning cogs of a failing NHS. Because nobody else really cares about you. You can still give everything, beyond everything, and still not be enough. And only I am left with an unhappy me on the sofa at the end of the day (or night shift morning…).
I am obese. I am unfit. I have back pains. My muscles are sore and tight. Yet, ironically, I do love exercise. I am an endocrinology and diabetes registrar. I have an interest in metabolic physiology and weight loss. I know what I should be doing. But I am stressed. I am unhappy. I am exhausted and I am lost. I could not do what I knew was good for me, for so many years. So many others things took priority.
I want to be better. I also did not expect my blog to start as a rant about the shiteness of the NHS. I was hoping to tread lightly away from the political, professional and moral pitfall this could be. But, unfortunately, this had been a major contributor to my own illnesses and therefore a driving force behind needing to understand further a lot of the topics I will write about. I want to be healthier and happier. Like, I think, the rest of the population does as well. I hope you’ll join me on my journey.
The PMA Way 