I went to see my doctor.
I’d been having chest pains. I wasn’t too worried about them – the pain felt like a bruise rather than anything heart-related – but you can’t be too careful, so I made an appointment and went to see a GP.
I’d phoned up at 8.30am to get an emergency-same-day-appoinment and was told to turn up at 10am.
I sat in the waiting room for over 75 minutes, reading articles on my phone and enjoying the winter sunshine that was streaming into the surgery. An toddler chuntered on to her mother in entertaining child-speak. It was a nice morning.
When I got to see the doctor I explained my pains, she listened to my chest and back with a stethoscope whilst I breathed deeply. Then she confirmed that the discomfort was muscular rather than cardiac.
I started to explain that I’d been fairly sure it was a bruise or something but that I was wary of ignoring chest pains as I’d lost two colleagues in the last 10 years to heart disease… and I then I started crying.
It caught me completely by surprise, off-balance. I sat there for 5 minutes or so, trying to stifle the sobs, apologising and mopping the tears from my cheeks.
When I’d regained enough composure to converse, the doctor looked me in the eye and asked “how long have you been suppressing that?”. Uh, seven or eight years I supposed.
“This is the reason you came to see me today,” said the doctor, “I felt it when you walked in the room. I’m psychic, I mean… I don’t see colours or anything, I’m just a little bit psychic.” She recommended therapy, two homeopathic remedies and a rose quartz crystal.
I left the surgery feeling a lot better – a little suspicious that maybe she wasn’t a real doctor, but feeling much better.
There’s no moral to this story.