Human

You have a vocation.

You get paid a fortune.

You get upgraded on flights. 

You play golf all the time, that's why I have to wait two days for an appointment (yes I said days not weeks - this isn't the NHS, you know).

You never get sick because you can fix yourself, or get yourself all those fancy disease-finding tests that you are too mean to book for me.

You are in the pocket of Big Pharma - more money, on top of the bazillions you already get paid. Greedy wench. 

You believe research that has been funded by the Bad Guys and give me drugs and vaccines that are going to harm me. Because you're stupid and gullible. 

You deliberately failed to realise that I had the illness that was the least likely statistically, based on my symptoms, and treated me for the one most likely. Pfff. 

You worked for twenty hours straight and then fell asleep on my pillow behind me while you examined my chest. And then continued to work for another ten hours. Disgrace.

On your first day back after 13 months off work you were unable to manage the workload of two doctors, you couldn't fix the IT system, you didn't drag your consultant back from somewhere else, and you chose to stop a drug because it was potentially harmful but you didn't tell my family not to give it. Murderer. 

You publicly advise people to avail of a potentially life-saving vaccine. I believe the vaccine harms people. I'm going to tell everyone you're a bad doctor. I'm going to persuade two of my friends to do the same. You've never been my doctor, or theirs. 

I think you might have done something wrong, so I'm going to get them to investigate you. If they find out you were right and I was wrong, you will be the one to suffer the consequences. Will I even realise that you died because of me? 

You keep complaining. Complaining about something called FEMPI, which sounds a bit like one of those handbags I have. Complaining that you don't get treated fairly. Fair? I've seen how much you get paid. It was in the paper. It must be true. 

You rush me sometimes. I don't like to be rushed. Your brow is furrowed and it's making me think I've done something wrong. I'm just scared, because the internet told me I have a fatal illness. 

You should be what I need. You should fix me. You should understand me. It is my right.

You told my mother everything was going to be okay. It wasn't. You told me my son was perfect. He isn't.

You lie. You're lying now, "to protect my identity". My ass. To cover yours. 

You look a bit uncomfortable when I tell you that I think you're great, that I couldn't bear to have anyone else as my doctor, that I trust you. You can trust me. I won't stab you in the back when things go belly-up. 

You seem genuinely pleased for me. 

You seem genuinely upset for me. 

I have protection from you. You have none from me. 

I never think about you when I don't need you. 

If I meet you socially, I think, "what can you do for me?"

I pass judgment on you. I've seen you doing it to me. 

You say you're going to leave. But sure you've only started!

You say you would advise your children not to follow in your footsteps. That's not very encouraging. 

What about me? What will I do without you? The diluted-a-million-times stuff doesn't seem to be doing the trick.


You're my doctor. 


I'm only human.