It all started three weeks ago when I was walking down the street, heading for my regular swim. I don’t love swimming laps, but I think it is good for me, and I try to keep it up at least once a week. This time would be nicer because I had arranged to have lunch with a friend afterwards.
But suddenly, there was a pain in the right side of my abdomen. Oh dear, perhaps I have a stitch. But it continued, always in the same place, getting worse. I tried prodding it but couldn’t feel anything.
What was under that particular part of my abdomen? Yes, the appendix, but that should be lower down, and I believe you tend to get a fever and possibly even nausea or vomiting. Nope, none of that – just a very strong pain.
Oh dear, perhaps I need to be in hospital. There go my plans for the week. Still, I am generally healthy, so it’s unlikely to be anything too serious.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned my good health to a friend only the day before. One shouldn’t tempt the gods.
I continued on my way, but increasingly felt that I wouldn’t be able to swim. Indeed, something was really, really wrong.
Getting to a Doctor
I got to the pool, found my friend and told her I couldn’t have lunch. She mentioned that her husband suffered regularly from intestinal pains, something called diverticulitis, and I should eat only soothing things. Oh dear, another chronic disease.
I then phoned my GP to see if, by any chance, I could see a doctor that afternoon. The school holidays were still on, and appointments tended to be easier to get over the summer. Anything to avoid Accident and Emergency, which always takes hours these days.
Good luck, there had just been a cancellation.
I took a bus home to relax, drew a circle where the pain was and noticed it was receding somewhat. Still, best to see the doctor just in case.
The doctor’s surgery (yes, that is the English word for the place where doctors work) was close by. I wasn’t kept waiting long. They keep saying that the NHS is in trouble, but we find appointments are processed quickly.
She asked what the problem was and lay me down, pushed and prodded where I had drawn the circle and asked loads of questions. Couldn’t see anything wrong.
I asked about diverticulitis. She said that was usually on the left-hand side and it wouldn’t have gone away so quickly. “Unlikely,” she said.
Diagnosis
She was a good doctor. Don’t get me wrong. She did everything she could do in the circumstances, given that I didn’t have the pain while I was there. She even checked my blood pressure. But she clearly didn’t know what was going on.
“These things happen”, she said. “If it happens again, do come back to see me.”
I didn’t feel any wiser.
Is “these things happen” a diagnosis at all? Sounds a bit like the French expression, used constantly in all sorts of situations, “c’est comme ça.” (That’s how it is.)
I was, of course, relieved that the pain was gone and I wouldn’t be going to hospital that day.
And it has not come back.
These things happen.
Share Your Experience:
Have you had non-diagnoses like this one? How did you feel about it? Do you expect doctors to always have an answer?