In Which I Call Upon the Doctor’s Surgery: Part the First

I’ve had a headache going on two weeks now. It arrived with facial pain and an often crushing fatigue that has made me less than a joy to be around.

On Thursday I decided that enough was enough and that I would call upon the doctors surgery. The way the Brits use that term is still startling to me. I think of surgery as a very specific type of medical practice– usually involving cutting into the body–whereas in the UK, a “surgery” refers to a doctor’s office or office hours.

Then again, the idea of someone cutting away the throbbing pain in my brain started to sound quite appealing. ANYthing that would remove the throbbing pain was appealing and so I decided to brave the National Health Service. I had a recommendation for a doctors surgery in Brighton through one of AC’s colleagues. I was told to call in the morning at 8:30 and see what urgent appointments were available for that day.

I rang. The line was busy. I rang again. I got through to someone. After the initial hesitation about my accent (I suppose) the receptionist told me that there was an appointment available that day at 2PM. I should bring i.d. just in case, since I’m a foreigner.

Great! That was easy! And AC could watch Sam during that time at work.

I arrive at the surgery at 20 minutes to 2. The receptionist had said that there would be paperwork to fill out, so I thought it would be good to arrive early. There’s always paperwork, isn’t there. The building is very modern and there’s a sign outside the door announcing the Christmas hours. That’s it. I pull on the door and… it is shut. Locked.

Hmm. I look around. There is a less modern door on the side and I see a woman go through it. So I try it. I come into a hallway and there is an office open. Could this be the reception? Several women seem to be conferring near a desk. The one standing turns and sees me and says, not kindly, “WHO are YOU?”

I stammer something about a doctor’s appointment at 2PM and she says, “This is the STAFF entrance. We open at 2!” And she ushers me out.

So now I stand outside in the cold by the locked door, visions of a warm waiting room with magazines dashed. Why no waiting room? Over the next 15 minutes people trickle in to wait next to me by the door. There must have been 10 of us by the time a woman comes and ceremoniously unlocks the door. It was like we were waiting for tickets to go on sale for the next big flick. I don’t know where I’m going, so I start to hang back, let someone else go inside first, but I am unanimously recognized as “first in the queue” so everyone nods at me to go in first.

I decide to try ground floor reception. I present my name and my passport.

They have no idea who I am. There’s no 2PM appointment for me. No one remembers talking to an American woman. “Try the first floor reception.”

An even blanker stare greets my query at the first floor reception. I go back downstairs. “Perhaps you have the wrong surgery. Dr. A.’s is just next door. Why don’t you try there.”

So back outside I go to find Dr. A.’s surgery. I stand in front of his office, locked of course, and look at the phone number listed on the door. This is not the one. I stamp back over to my original surgery and present my case again. Now I’m frustrated and wondering if I completely misunderstood something about this morning’s call. Was I supposed to show up at 2Pm and ASK for an appointment? But I had heard the phrase “appointment at 2.” Right?

Anyway, I suspect that because I look so upset (and pained– remember the cleaver in my brain) that the receptionists feel sorry for me. One of them says that she can schedule an appointment for the following morning at 8:30AM. This time I watch as she takes down my name, and I request confirmation of the appointment. The receptionist handed me a piece of paper with my name and the date and time on it.

Clutching my scrap of paper, I exit the building, resolving not to arrive a moment before 8:30AM the next day.