I’ve finally got around to registering for a new doctor, having lived in the area for a mere two years. Which, for me, isn’t too bad. I lived in Muswell Hill for three years without bothering to sign up. And I only had to fill in two forms, one of which was mostly concerned with determining whether I was an asylum seeker.
What can I say? I’m a man, and visiting the doctor is not a popular way of dealing with health issues. It’s rather ironic, of course. As all men know, they have very sensitive pain receptors: for example, waxing hurts a man far more than a woman. (Notably, there is a limit to this sensitivity; a punch directly to the face does not hurt, nor does an injury caused by negligence/incompetency at DIY or the like. Despite the swearing.) But the moment a serious health issue is encountered, men are particularly stoic.
“No, this lump on my testicle is not serious. No need to bother the doctor with it.”
“I’m sure this pox will clear up by itself very soon.”
Whether it is fear of being told something bad or because it’s seen as a weakness I don’t know. Unless it’s a sporting injury or something involving a scar – which has bragging rights in the pub – then there is a tendency to ignore it.
Personally, I’d go to the doctor if I needed to, but never as a prospective thing. I haven’t had a GP for years because if it’s serious I’ll go to A&E; if it’s not, I’ll self medicate; and if I get a chronic problem, then I can sign up and see the quack.
Now, however, I’m getting old and my body is slowly falling apart. And I’ll not want to be waiting too long when my health collapses under the massive weight of this hypochondria.
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