THEODORE DALRYMPLE
It is natural (and flattering) for doctors to suppose that even a single encounter with them is of such importance in their patients' lives that, once consulted, they are never forgotten.
This, unhappily, is not so: it is pure illusion. As one grows older in the profession, one comes to realise that a doctor is not so much a person as a function upon legs. One is not merely unmemorable, one is instantly forgettable. Of course, patients suffer from the same illusion: they think that a tension headache is memorable, just because it is theirs. They go further: they do not even think that their appearance is necessary to jog the doctor's memory, but that their voice down the telephone is quite sufficient.
Alas, how fallible is the human memory as an instrument! The other day I called a colleague about a patient of his who had ended up on my ward. My colleague did not remember her by name, so I gave him a potted life history, just (as I thought) to jog it.
She was abandoned at birth by her parents,' I said. 'She was brought up by her grandparents. Her grandfather sexually abused her until he died of lung cancer, when she was taken into care. There, of course, she was sexually abused again, by staff and children. Then she was given a flat by social security and she had a couple of babies by two of her neighbours. One day, she wanted to go out and left the children in the care of a childminder. Unfortunately, the childminder's boyfriend had just come out of prison, and he was a jealous man, as well as an amphetamine addict. In a jealous rage, he killed the childminder by strangling her, and the two children by drowning them in the washingmachine. Then she took up with her present boyfriend, who is jealous and possessive as well, though so far he has only half-strangled her. She is pregnant by him for a second time, and he is threatening to leave her because he says he needs his own space. Ring any bells?' I asked. There was a pause. 'Can't say it does,' said my colleague. 'I have so many patients like that, you see.'
That afternoon. I was due in court to give evidence in an important case. Before going into court, I had to have a little conference with the barrister. It was in a small room set aside for the purpose. I arrived first. On the window ledge was a plastic cup with the remains of instant coffee and a cigarette end floating in it like a toy boat in a bath. It was not a beautiful human artefact. There was a notice on the wall of the room: 'HEALTH AND SAFETY. All litter must be placed in the bins provided. Health and safety!' What about feelings of the beautiful and sublime? That would be more to the point.
I looked for the bins provided. Of course, there weren't any. How typical of British officialdom that it should hector in this bullying fashion but not do its job properly.
Later, I left the courthouse. On the way, I witnessed an undignified squabble between two parents in litigation about which of them had the right to bring up their child badly. It's not Health and Safety that we need; it's Fire and Brimstone.
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