After being runners up four times since they last lifted the trophy in 2005, will Somerset emerge victorious from this years T20 Final’s Day at Edgbaston. I do hope so!
It’s coming home It’s coming home It’s coming Cricket’s coming home
Everyone seems to know the score They’ve seen it all before They just know They’re so sure Somerset’s gonna throw it away Gonna blow it away But I know they can play Cos I remember
A [Mythical creature of disputed nomenclature]* on a shirt Games on YouTube streaming All those years of hurt Never stopped me dreaming
So many jokes, so many sneers But all those oh-so-nears Wear you down Through the years But I still see: Smeed and Banton unleashed A Rilee Rossouw run feast VDM on the charge And Ben Green’s moustache
A [Mythical creature of disputed nomenclature]* on a shirt Games on YouTube streaming All those years of hurt Never stopped me dreaming
I know that was then but it could be again
It’s coming home It’s coming home It’s coming Cricket’s coming home
*For better scansion please insert ‘Dragon’ or ‘Wyvern’ depending on your position on this most contentious of issues!
Cricket related blogs:
To read ‘How Covid-19 stole the the cricket season’, click here
To read ‘Somerset CCC – Good for the soul’, click here
To read ‘Longing for the pavilion whilst enjoying a good innings’, click here
Addendum :
With it being forecast to be 27C at Egbaston today, it’s just as well that Stumpy is a real wyvern/dragon and not some poor soul who’s contracted to climb inside a hot costume and then run round an obstacle course. Wishing him all the best In the Mascot race!
Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a little girl and her name was Emily. And she had a shop. It was rather an unusual shop because it didn’t sell anything. You see, everything in that shop window was a thing that somebody had once lost and Emily had found and brought home to Bagpuss. Emily’s cat Bagpuss – the most important, the most beautiful, the most magical…saggy old cloth cat in the whole wide world.
Well now, one day Emily found a thing and she brought it back to the shop and put it down in front of Bagpuss who was in the shop window, fast asleep as usual. But then Emily said some magic words:
‘Bagpuss, dear Bagpuss, old fat furry cat-puss Wake up and look at this thing that I bring Wake up, be bright, be golden and light Bagpuss, oh hear what I sing’
And Bagpuss was wide awake. And when Bagpuss wakes up all his friends wake up too. The mice on the mouse-organ woke up and stretched. Madeleine, the rag doll, Gabriel, the toad, and last of all, Professor Yaffle, who was a very distinguished old woodpecker. He climbed down off his bookend and went to see what it was that Emily had brought.
He inspected the object and then made that characteristic cackle of his, the one he always made prior to passing judgement on things about which he new little about. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is nothing more than a very heavy, very old, blanket. I’m not sure why Miss Emily brought it here. Don’t you agree Bagpuss?’
Bagpuss yawned as he gazed down on the item that lay before him. ‘It looks to me like something which has been pressed down by the weight of heavy expectation. Take the blanket off and let’s see what’s under it.’
‘Ridiculous, ridiculous, fiddlesticks and flapdoodle’ said Professor Yaffle. ‘There’s nothing under there which is of any value to anyone.’
But even as he said these words the mice set to work. Slowly they dragged the blanket to one side and revealed what lay beneath. What they saw was a tired and rather worn out organisation, one that had clearly been neglected for years, misused by many and taken for granted by a great number more.
‘What is it?’ the mice squealed excitedly.
‘I rather fancy it’s the National Health Service – or a least it was once,’ replied Bagpuss. ‘It looks as though it’s been overwhelmed by excessive demand and has long since seen better days. It really does appear to be terribly broken’.
The mice looked sad. ‘What should we do?’ they asked in unison.
‘Well, for a start, we all need to look after it better,’ Bagpuss replied.
The mice looked at each other and then one pulled out a role of music and loaded it into the marvellous mechanical mouse organ. Soon they were all singing.
‘We will mend it, we will tend it. We will treat it with care, care care. We adore it, we’ll restore it, We it’s burdens will bear, bear, bear’
Eventually the song came to an end. ‘I know’, squeaked one of the mice. ‘Let’s train Charlie Mouse up as a GP and then make him work extra sessions over the bank holiday weekend’. The other mice cheered in excited agreement and started to haul the smallest of their number toward the door of the shop, forcing into his hand as they did so, a discarded medical bag that Emily had brought back to the shop some months previously.
‘Stop that at once!’ shouted Madeline. ‘You can’t inflict being a GP on Charlie Mouse. He’s only little and without proper training he wouldn’t last five minutes working in primary care, not with current levels of demand. And besides, it’ll take more than a few extra GPs to put things right.’
‘How about employing health care professionals from overseas?’, suggested Professor Yaffle. ‘Better still, let’s parachute in an oversized mouse like creature, one of a race of knitted individuals from a far off planet not dissimilar to the moon?’
‘That’, began Gabriel picking up his banjo, ‘would be to drop one enormous clanger! Sad to say, some people would ignorantly question the creature’s ability to do the job simply because they sometimes found it difficult to understand what it was that it was saying. Furthermore, we can’t go round depriving others of the medical care that they need. Who would remain to look after the soup dragon! I’ll tell you what though. I know a song about the NHS. Several songs in fact. Would you like me to sing one for you?’
‘No, thank you’ growled Professor Yaffle a little more harshly than was strictly necessary. ‘We’ve heard far too many of your folksy tunes that bare such little resemblance to real life. What I want to know is what the NHS was really like.’
‘Madeline, do you know?’ asked Bagpuss turning to the rag doll who was gently rocking back and forth in her rocking chair.
‘When I was young my parents used to tell me stories of the NHS’, she said. ‘Of how when you called an emergency ambulance, one would come, when waiting times for hospital appointments were a matter of weeks rather than years, and of how pharmacies could always supply the drugs that patients needed. Back then, the patients who were served by those working in hospitals and GP surgeries, were invariably appreciative of the help they had received and recognised how fortunate they were that their care was free at the point of access. Back then it was even said that people used to enjoy working in the NHS.’
‘I find all that very hard to believe’, began Gabriel. ‘Some might complain that my songs portray a somewhat romanticised view of the world’, he continued, glaring at Professor Yaffle as he did so, ‘but surely Madeline, weren’t your parents looking at the NHS through rose tinted spectacles? Weren’t their stories actually just fairy tales?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Madeline. ‘I believe things were once as my parents described them. Or at least more so than they are now. But things have changed. The NHS isn’t like that anymore.’
Everyone fell silent, staring at the crumpled mess that lay on the floor before them. Nobody felt like singing now, not even Gabriel who laid his banjo down at his side. Some of the mice started to cry.
After a few minutes Madeline looked up. ‘Bagpuss,’ she asked, ‘Do you think the NHS could ever recover?’
‘Oh, I do hope so’, Bagpuss replied. ‘But it’ll take some careful thought’
And with that Bagpuss closed his eyes and began to think of all that would be required for the NHS to be restored. He imagined a government that funded the NHS adequately and enabled it to deliver the care that so many relied on, a government with policies that promoted both the physical and mental wellbeing of its population.
He imagined a people who were realistic about what the NHS could do for them, a people who no longer expected it to solve their every problem and instead took more responsibility for their own health, a people who treated those working in the NHS with a degree of respect, recognising that everyone was trying to do their best in what was often an impossible job.
He imagined a press which didn’t undermine staff morale with their constant criticism of what they didn’t understand. He imagined a world in which every aspect of everyone’s lives was no longer medicalised, a world no longer full of the worried well as a result of the well no longer being told to worry about their perfectly healthy medical parameters.
And he imagined those working in primary and secondary care, rather than blaming each other for the problems in the health service, coming together and appreciating the difficulties each other faced.
Eventually Bagpuss opened his eyes again and looked once more on the NHS. And he saw how the mice had been working hard, each busily trying to implement all that he had been thinking about. As a result, the NHS was looking as it had done in its prime.
‘Isn’t it beautiful’, whispered Charlie Mouse, seeing how brightly it now shone.
Their work complete, the mice pushed the NHS into the front window of Emily’s shop. And everyone hoped that those passing by would recognise it for what it was – the National Health Service, not the National Health Slave.
Bagpuss gave a big yawn, and settled down to sleep. And of course when Bagpuss goes to sleep, all his friends go to sleep too. The mice were ornaments on the mouse-organ, Gabriel and Madeleine were just dolls and Professor Yaffle was a carved wooden bookend in the shape of a woodpecker. Even Bagpuss himself, once he was asleep was just an old, saggy cloth cat – baggy, and a bit loose at the seams.
But Emily loved him.
[With apologies to Oliver Postgate, Peter Firmin and everyone at Smallfilms]
To read ‘The General Practitioner – Endangered’, click here
To sample Gabriel’s back catalogue of medically themed songs, follow the links below. Performances of cover versions are available for those marked with an asterisk.
In my Bible notes this morning I was asked the question as to who can know God. This was in the context of my reading Psalm 33 and I was directed towards, what to me at least, is the somewhat curious verse 18. Here it is:
‘Behold, the eye of the LORD is on those who fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love.’
A similar verse is found in Psalm 147:11 which reads
‘but the LORD takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his steadfast love.’
So the eye of the LORD is on those he takes pleasure in. So far so good. But they are those who, whilst fearing him, hope in his steadfast love. And therein is what for me is curious about these verses – we are to put our hope in the one we fear.
Generally speaking we run from things that we are afraid of. Well I do! If a lion came into the room that I’m now sat, I’d be afraid – I’d run from a lion. Likewise, as a result of my dislike of all things eight legged*, if a dirty great big spider dropped from the ceiling above me, I would be mightily unsettled. I’d run from a dirty great big spider. And if the building that I’m in began to collapse I again would be terrified and I would be out of my seat like a shot and making for the door. I’d run from a collapsing building.
But if we fear God – if we fear the consequence of all the wrong things that we have done – then our only hope is to not to run away from God, but to run towards Him.
And most particularly we need to run to the cross – where a loving yet righteous God poured out his anger, not on us, but on his son Jesus who took there the punishment we deserve.
I live in Somerset, on the edge of the Blackdown Hills. If we were ever to have a long dry summer and some dreadful fire took hold and began to destroy the countryside near where I live, the safest place for me to be would be where the fire had already been, where it had already scorched the ground before moving on. That ground can’t be burnt again. So it is with God – the safest place from God’s wrath – is where it has already fallen and cannot fall again – that is – in Christ.
So I think there is no contradiction in hoping in the one we fear. At first glance it might seem crazy for sinners like me to run towards a holy, righteous God. But in truth the only sensible thing that those who have a reverent fear of God can do, rather than hiding from Him in terror, is to run to Him for mercy – putting their trust in his steadfast love, hoping in the one who is both their hope and shield, the one who will surely deliver them from death.
So may that be the response of us all. As the psalmist in the closing verses of Psalm 33 yearns, may the LORD’s unfailing love rest on us as we put our hope in him and may our hearts rejoice as we trust in his holy name.
* Please note that my aversion to all things eight legged does not extend to the rest of my family made up as it is by my wife and three children all of whom have their full compliment of lower limbs!
The following is a transcript of the long lost and little known masterpiece written by Beatrix Potter, one that may prove of interest to some in the medical profession. Entitled ‘Mr McGregor’s Revenge’ it was written whilst Miss Potter was under the influence of a little too much Earl Grey tea, a brew which rendered her able to see into the future with a clarity unmatched by any other novelist of her day.
I was fortunate to come across a copy of the fabled apologue whilst holidaying this last week in the Lake District where it’s author spent much of her life. Unseen and unread since her death in 1943, I gladly share it with you now.
So, if you’re sitting comfortably, I’ll begin.
********
Peter Rabbit was in trouble – big trouble. He had ventured into Mr McGregor’s garden once too often, his predilection for root vegetables getting the better of him such that he was no longer able to heed the dire warnings issued so lovingly by his mother. It had started with a single carrot, tasted initially simply out of the perhaps understandable desire to know just how it would make him feel. But despite telling himself he could cope with, what was known to those with whom he hung out as, a little ‘Orange’, Peter soon found himself nibbling on parsnips, radishes and beetroot and lately he’d even succumbed to indulging in celeriac, that substance so loved by only the highest echelons of leporine society. But now, shivering in the damp watering can where he had hid, and listening to Mr McGregor’s footsteps as they came ever closer, the foolish rabbit knew it was far too late to follow Mrs Rabbit’s advice of just saying ‘No’.
Remembering where Peter had concealed himself before, Mr McGregor looked inside the watering can the moment he entered the greenhouse and finding the sodden rabbit he promptly shook him out on to the cold, hard, red brick floor. Whereas once he wouldn’t have hesitated to turn Peter into a rabbit pie, Mr McGregor had recently adopted a plant based diet. Even so, for a moment he tried to persuade himself that it wouldn’t be against his principles to devour the blue coated individual that cowered before him since the bedraggled creature in question was no more than the product of the bergamot influenced imagination of a young lady from a bygone age. But realising then that the same could also be said of him, he decided that, rather than spending too long wrestling with his conscience, it was probably best if, on this occasion at least, he tried to think of an alternative and less morally conflicting punishment to inflict on the one who once again threatened his chances of taking home first prize in the village turnip growing competition.
Sadly Peter Rabbit was not a particularly bright rabbit, and neither was he one known for his quick thinking. And so, when he sensed his need to plead for mercy from Mr McGregor, rather than a plan of his own, the one that he came up with was one that he recalled from a bedtime story that his mother had once told him.
‘Please Mr McGregor’, whimpered Peter, his teeth chattering as he did so on account of how cold he now was, ‘do whatever you like with me but please, please, please don’t throw me into the briar patch.’
‘Briar patch?’, growled Mr McGregor, laughing menacingly at his captive as he did so. ‘I’m not Brer Fox you know! There’ll be no briar patch for you. I’ve got a far better idea for what I can do to you than that, something so despicably horrible that after you’ve experienced it you’ll never venture back into my garden in an attempt to get your thieving paws on my artichokes!’
Peter Rabbit stood motionless, his eyes staring like the frightened rabbit he was.
‘W-what are you g-going to do with m-me?, he stammered.
Mr McGregor lowered his voice and whispered the following dreadful words into the terrified rabbits ear – ‘You, Master Peter, are going to be banished to the local medical centre where, in a forlorn attempt to deal with the ever increasing shortage of GPs you will do a day’s work as a primary care physician! And,’ Mr McGregor added, his evil face displaying the evident delight in the sheer vileness of his plan, ‘you’re going to be on call!’
********
And so, unlikely as it seems, Peter Rabbit arrived the following day at the medical centre and was duly shown to the room from which he would spend the day consulting. The following are just a few of the many, many individuals who sought his advice:.
Jemima Puddle-Duck came along with a particularly severe form of syndactyly characterised by extreme webbing of her feet.
Miss Moppet was sent from the nearby minor injury unit with a high temperature and the skin lesions that had resulted from the altercation she’d been involved in with Tabitha Twitchit. Peter Rabbit subsequently diagnosed her as having cat scratch fever.
Mrs Tiggy-Winkle consulted worried about what she’d tell her husband if she developed warts having kissed Jeremy Fisher in a moment of madness at her work’s office party. She was also suffering with prickly heat.
Pigling Bland’s father rang concerned about his son’s mental health. He reported that the young man in question wasn’t taking care of himself, that his personal hygiene now left much to be desired and that the place where he was now living was a pigsty.
Mrs Tittlemouse required dietary advice when blood test results revealed that, as a result of her propensity to eat large quantities of cheese, her serum cholesterol level had reached a level that was now the cause of some concern.
During a video consultation in which he divulged that he had recently frequented the hen house at Hilltop Farm, Peter Rabbit was able to confirm that Mr Tod’s widespread blistering rash was indeed chicken pox.
Squirrel Nutkin attended having come out in wheals following the ingestion of an undisclosed quantity of acorns. She went on to insist that she be supplied with an Epipen and that she should be referred to a dermatologist in order that she might undergo allergy testing.
Samuel Whiskers presented with depressed mood and low self esteem. He considered himself unlovable as a result of his belief that he’d been responsible for the death of thousands of people by his involvement in the transmission of bubonic plague.
And Mrs Rabbit presented questioning why she had been commenced on thyroxine tablets having misunderstood how it was myxoedema, and not myxomatosis, for which she was being treated. Not only was this awkward for Peter on account of her being his mother but she then proceeded to ask Peter to deal with a number of minor symptoms being experienced by Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-tail who had attended along with their mother in the belief that he’d have time to deal with their problems too.
At the end of the day, when the last patient had finally left, an exhausted Peter Rabbit hopped miserably home and, like so many others before him, vowed never to return again.
Jack Leach smiling as he inspects his Man of the Match Award
Back in 2019 I wrote about Jack Leach’s now legendary contribution of one not out in the last wicket partnership he shared with Ben Stokes in the Ashes test match held that year at Headingly. Together the pair put on an exhilarating 73 runs and brought about an victory for England that had seemed unlikely when Leach had first walked out to bat.
The perhaps all too obvious point of my blog was to simply highlight how seemingly small contributions are every bit as important as the more obviously headline grabbing performances of others and how, whilst general practice might not seem as glamorous or spectacular as some other aspects of medicine, the countless small interactions that take place in primary care each and every day are, nonetheless, highly significant in the provision of good healthcare in the U.K.
In short my point was that, just as without Jack Leach’s one run there would have been no win for England over Australia, so without general practice, there would be no NHS. As such, despite their seemingly more humble efforts, those working in primary care should not underestimate their value in the exceptional efforts of the NHS as a whole.
That blog entitled ‘For when we can’t see why’, can be read here.
Now, whilst I continue to stand by all that I wrote back then, three years on there is something more that has to be said. Because last weekend, in another test match at Headingly, this time against New Zealand, Jack Leach shone once again. But this time, rather than his being a small but crucial contribution to the teams collective effort, his was a match winning performance in its own right, one that, by his achieving his first ever ten wicket haul in a test match, he earned himself the Man of the Match award.
I guess you could say that the bespectacled slow left armer played a blinder!
And it seems to me that general practice is putting in a career best performance too.
Obviously I exclude myself in that assessment and not solely because I’m contributing nothing to the cause at present, holidaying as I am in the Lake District. But whilst I’m wasting my time dodging the somewhat inclement weather and trying, unsuccessfully, to pen humorous verse, my friends and colleagues up and down the country are continuing to pull out all the stops as they endeavour to care for patients despite the toll that has been taken as a result of what has undoubtedly been an exceedingly difficult couple of years for primary care.
Like Jack Leach who was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease at the age of 14 and consequently takes immunosuppressive medication, general practice is currently clinically extremely vulnerable. Despite governmental promises of additional doctors in general practice, the number of fully qualified full time equivalent GPs currently stands at 1,662 lower than it did in 2015 and, with an increasingly demoralised workforce partly made up by doctors, 80% of whom report having suffered from anxiety, stress or depression in the last year, it isn’t surprising that a third of GPs are looking to leave the profession in the next five years. If that predicted exodus does indeed take place without the necessary recruitment of sufficient new doctors to take their place, one can not help but fear for the future of general practice and with it the future of the NHS as a whole.
And also like Leach who, whilst out on tour in New Zealand just months after his heroics with Ben Stokes, feared for his life when he was hospitalised with sepsis, General Practice too is critically unwell and faces, as has already been said, an uncertain future. With patient demand increasing and the number of both GPs and community nurses in decline, medical centres up and down the country have been forced to close since staff shortages make it impossible for them to remain open safely. 89% of GPs now believe they have inadequate time with patients to provide a thorough diagnosis, 77% of GPs feel that staff shortages are putting patients at risk and, in some parts of the country 82% of GPs say that their practices are not always safe for patients. And all of this is simply because of the immense pressure under which general practice is currently ailing.
Furthermore with the country’s population having been steadily increasing such that it now stands, as was announced this week, at a record breaking 59,597,300 in England and Wales, a 6.3% increase since the census of 2011, it’s little wonder that, like Jack Leach who recently suffered concussion after sustaining a blow to the head whilst fielding, GPs are feeling punch drunk too.
But despite all this General Practice is currently delivering care at levels never seen before with figures proving that it is GP capacity that is the problem and not GP access. According to NHS Digital workforce data, general practice is at present managing an eye watering 1 million appointments a day. This is more than a million more consultations per month than was the case in 2019 and includes an additional 980,000 same day appointments over the last three years. Furthermore, General Practice sees more people every day than the rest of the NHS put together despite the fact that it receives just 5% of total NHS funding.
So whilst they may not be part of the most glamorous aspect of modern medicine, and though they may not be integral to the most eye catching parts of the NHS, those who work in primary care are, irrespective of whether they be doctors, nurses, or HCAs, practice managers, administrative staff or one of the countless other supporting members of the general practice workforce, nonetheless, together putting in an exceptional team performance.
So it’s not only Jack Leach who can feel justly pleased with his efforts. And neither is it only he who deserves a medal!
Because, contrary to what you may have heard, general practice is playing a blinder too!
Holidaying in the Lake District we walked past the one time home of William Wordsworth. Some experiences are truly inspirational…
We wandered lonely ‘neath the clouds, Alas they numbered plenty, And as we strode along the path, Those clouds, they chose to empty. But still we ventured bravely on, We so enjoy our rambles, And soon we were rewarded by, A host of thorny brambles.
With apologies to William Wordsworth
And on a separate occasion, whilst strolling on the Quantocks…
Upon smooth Quantock’s airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered ‘mid her sylvan combes Our faces creased, their smiles, our pleasure showed ‘Till Hinckley C, the idyll fades, on landscapes fair it looms.
There was a dog that I once knew A Labrador of golden hue Who though ‘tis true he’d little brain With him I’d do it all again
Sometimes he lay by sock-less feet And though his breath did not smell sweet All toes of age and toes yet young He’d lick them clean with slimy tongue
He loved to walk he loved to eat He loved to sleep he loved a treat He loved the ones they make for cats He loved those oh so smelly sprats
But now that very special boy The one that brought us all such joy Will no more finish off my sarnie Farewell dear friend, farewell dear Barney.
*******
December 2023
Exciting news for fans of Barney, the internet sensation, social media influencer and much loved family pet who died last year.
Ever since his death in the Summer of 2022, rumours have circulated of a lost recording of the legendary canine superstar singing a tongue in cheek version of ‘Santa Baby’ and then wishing his millions of followers a ‘Happy New Year’.
This week those rumours were proved true when a short reel of film was recovered, hidden amongst several packets of dried sprats and a selection of chewed up tennis balls at the back of the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
Though found in a very poor condition, it has been possible to not only restore the picture quality but also, thanks to the tireless efforts of sound engineers from Abbey Road Studios, remaster the song itself thus making it suitable for a posthumous release.
As such, I am delighted to make this highly anticipated performance exclusively available for Facebook users this evening.
‘Blessed is he whose transgressions are forgiven, whose sins are covered. Blessed is the man whose sin the LORD does not count against him and in whose spirit is no deceit.’ [Psalm 32:-2]
Some years ago I went on a study day. Suitably interactive, involving a variety of teaching styles and fully addressing a personally relevant learning need, it was the best educational event that I’ve ever attended. The only downside was the fact that it was a Speed Awareness Course.
The day began with the leader asking for a show of hands from all those present who’d told friends and family that they were attending the course that day. Most hands went up, as did the corners of many people’s mouths, their smiles suggesting that few, if any, were ashamed at their having been required to be there. The leader then pointed out that breaking the speed limit was no less likely to cause a road traffic accident than driving whilst over the legal blood alcohol limit. He then asked how many people would have told friends and family they were on the course had it been run for those who had committed a drink driving offence. You’ll not be surprised to learn that no hands went up. Latter in the day, those gathered were asked to list the reasons why, on occasions, they might drive faster than the law permitted. A substantial list was generated. A short recording was then played of a man describing how his child had been killed by a speeding motorist. The leader then commented how our list, made up of what we had felt were potentially justifiable reasons for speeding, now seemed like nothing but a collection of weak excuses. It was a highly effective learning experience. And one that offered me spiritual insight too.
Because those contained within the Highway Code aren’t the the only laws I have broken. Though too often I don’t like to admit it, I have broken God’s law too. And so uncomfortable am I in accepting that I sometimes sin that, when I do err, I am, on occasions, want to try to preserve my spotless image, either by relativising my failures such that I am not really seen as a failure at all or, alternatively, justifying them by insisting they were understandable given the circumstances at the time. What the speed awareness course taught me was just how inappropriate and foolish both these approaches really are.
Furthermore to deny my sin is also ultimately burdensome.
‘When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer’. [Psalm 32:3-4]
Rather than carrying that burden, it’s better by far to be honest, not only with ourselves but also with God. Regardless of how uncomfortable it may make us feel, we have to take responsibility for our sin, owning our mistakes and feeling the genuine regret of our not being as good as we ought to be. This isn’t, I trust, an exercise in self pity but simply an honest acknowledgment of the reality of my sinfulness and the sadness that it causes. Though it would be kind of you to do so, please don’t try to reassure me by telling me I’m ‘good enough’. Because it simply isn’t the case – the truth is that I am a sinner, one who sins in ways for which there are no mitigating circumstances sufficient to absolve me of the responsibility for what I have done.
I don’t believe I am alone.
So then, ‘If we say we have not sinned, we make [God] a liar and his word is not in us’. But the good news, the gospel even, is that ‘if we confess our sins, [God] is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’ [1 John 1:9]
Or as David puts it in Psalm 32,
‘Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the LORD” – and you forgave the guilt of my sin.’ [Psalm 32:4-5]
Admitting our sin will be humbling – but God ‘gives grace to the humble’ [James 4:6]. Grieving over our unrighteousness will be painful but ‘blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted’ [Matthew 5:5]. And though having no confidence in ourselves may put us at odds with a world that likes to think that we are the masters of our fate and the captains of our souls, we will nonetheless find that ‘the LORD’s unfailing love surrounds the man who trusts in him’ [Psalm 32:10]
Then we who are counted righteous in Christ and who, in him, are upright in heart will sing. And rejoicing in the LORD we will be glad. [Psalm 32:11]
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, in a town close to where you now make your home, there lived a family doctor called Jeepy Leepy. Every day he went to the local medical centre where he worked hard, for long hours, doing his best to care for the sick who came to him for help.
Over time Jeepy Leepy’s workload steadily increased and eventually it reached the point where it was unsafe to try to do all that was being asked of him. But still his workload grew busier and busier until the day inevitably came when he had over a hundred contacts with patients, all of whom were seeking urgent medical advice or treatment. Some needed drugs that the pharmacy could not supply. Some needed a specialist opinion but were told it would be a year before an outpatient appointment could be offered. And some needed an ambulance but found that, even in an emergency, there wasn’t one that was available.
Concerned, too, that, with GP numbers in decline and patient demand outstripping GP capacity, his patients were having to face increasingly long waits before they could see him, Jeepy Leepy knew what was all too obvious to anyone who cared enough to notice – the NHS was falling down. And so, on his next day off, Jeepy Leepy decided to go and tell the Queen. He picked up his medical bag, hung his stethoscope around his neck and set off for London. Most of his patients agreed with Jeepy Leepy’s grave assessment on the state of the nations healthcare system and, sympathetic to his cause, cheered him on his way.
But Jeepy Leepy had only travelled a few hundred yards when he met Covid Lovid. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Covid Lovid. ‘Oh Covid Lovid’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Covid Lovid laughed at Jeepy Leepy and told him that, because two of his partners had gone down with a new continuous cough, Jeepy Leepy would have to forgo his time off, return to the practice and spend the day working there instead.
Two weeks later, his colleagues having now returned to work, Jeepy Leepy set off again. But before very long he met Entitled Lentitled. ‘Where are you going?’, asked Entitled Lentitled. ‘Oh Entitled Lentitled’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Entitled Lentitled laughed at Jeepy Leepy and, claiming he knew his rights, demanded that Jeepy Leepy see him immediately about his urgent need for a letter requesting the provision of softer cushions at his place of work.
The patient dealt with, Jeepy Leepy set off again. On the way he met Expert Lexpert coming out of an ivory tower. ‘Where are you going?’, asked Expert Lexpert. ‘Oh Expert Lexpert’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Expert Lexpert laughed at Jeepy Leepy and insisted that Jeepy Leepy carry out an urgent review of all patients taking both flucloxacillin and paracetamol due to their increased risk of developing high anion gap metabolic acidosis.
The review undertaken, Jeepy Leepy carried on his way. Next he met Journo Lerno. ‘Where are you going?’, asked Journo Lerno. ‘Oh Journo Lerno’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Journo Lerno laughed at Jeepy Leepy and wrote a story in his newspaper that was full of lies and which implied that Jeepy Leepy was overpaid and lazy.
Hurt though he was by the report, Jeepy Leepy carried on his way. Next he met Seekewsy Leekewsy. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Seekewsy Leekewsy. ‘Oh Seekewsy Leekewsy’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Seekewsy Leekewsy laughed at Jeepy Leepy and told Jeepy Leepy that he was required to put in place a protocol for the safe storage of paper clips and develop an emergency plan detailing how he would respond if ever an acorn were to land on the medical centre’s roof.
The documents written, Jeepy Leepy carried on his way. Next he met Empee Lempee. ‘Where are you going?’, asked Empee Lempee. ‘Oh Empee Lempee’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Empee Lempee laughed at Jeepy Leepy and by regurgitating a load of meaningless sound bites tried to convince Jeepy Leepy that the NHS really was safe in his party’s hands.
Far from reassured, Jeepy Leepy continued on his way. Next he met Healthsec Lealthsec. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Healthsec Lealthsec. ‘Oh Healthsec Lealthsec’, said Jeepy Leepy, ‘The NHS is falling down and I’m off to tell the Queen’. But Healthsec Lealthsec laughed at Jeepy Leepy and introduced a law that said that Jeepy Leepy had to work for even longer hours and for additional days in the week.
At which point Jeepy Leepy put down his medical bag, removed the stethoscope from around his neck and sat down on the side of the road. He could no longer go on.
And so the NHS fell a little further. And it kept on falling until, one day, inevitably, it collapsed completely.
And no one lived happily ever after.
THE END.
Other GP based stories:
To read ‘The Three Little GPs and the Big Bad Secretary of State for Health’, click here
Having learnt last weekend that, like Paddington, the Queen always keeps a marmalade sandwich close at hand in case of emergencies, here’s how I’m preparing for my next on call day in General Practice.
This weekend we are celebrating the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee – and it is well worth celebrating because, for the 70 years that she has been Queen she has been one who has served her people dutifully, one who has always shown integrity and one who, though of course not perfect, has been one that many have been happy to have rule over them.
But of course she won’t be Queen forever. She is getting frailer and increasingly we hear how she has not been up to attending certain functions and needing other royals to step in and take her place. And although we may not wish to think about, we know, just as all the Kings and Queens before her have, she too will sadly one day die.
A little over a week ago there was another special day that some of you you may have celebrated. Or maybe you didn’t because, perhaps as it did me, that very special day might well have passed you by. I didn’t notice anything about it in the papers, nor did I hear it mentioned on the news.
I’m referring to Ascension Day.
It’s a shame that Ascension Day doesn’t tend to garner much attention these days. It doesn’t help of course that it’s always falls on a Thursday but even so it really is a pity that we don’t make more of it than we do. Because it really is a very important day, one that we should most certainly celebrate. For it is the day that Jesus ascended, not only to heaven, but also, far more significantly, to a throne.
A throne on which he still sits.
Jesus is King – and not just any old king. He is the perfect king, one who rules over us with ‘understanding and knowledge’ [Proverbs 28:2], one to whom we all can gladly submit confident that his perfect rule is one that is without injustice and characterised by his perfect righteousness.
Furthermore, his is a rule which will never end.
Do you remember the words of Isaiah’s prophecy that we often hear at Christmas? It’s found in Isaiah 9:6-7
‘For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and peace there shall be no end, upon the throne of David, and upon his kingdom, to order it, and to establish it with judgment and with justice from henceforth even for ever. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will perform this.’
At the service of thanksgiving for her 70 year reign, the Archbishop of York, Stephen Cottrell, suggested in his sermon that there would be no better way to celebrate the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee than by following her example and putting our trust in Jesus Christ.
And he wasn’t wrong!
And so, at the name of Jesus may we all joyfully bow the knee, gladly submitting to him who, as well as being God, truly is the King of kings and Lord of lords.
Not forgetting of course, as Queen Elizabeth herself recognises, that he is King of queens too!
To read “Why do bad things happen to good people – a tentative suggestion”, click here
To read “Luther and the global pandemic – on becoming a theologian of the cross”, click here
To read ‘Covid -19. Does it suggest we really did have the experience but miss the meaning?’, click here. This is a slightly adapted version of “T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’.
Over the last year, General Practice workload has increased to levels which are unmanageable, unsustainable and, on occasions, undoubtedly unsafe. Why is this? The reasons are undoubtedly many and varied but they do at least include the following.
1. The effects of Covid 19. Whilst a few patients continue to attend with delayed presentations of conditions that should have been dealt with a couple of years ago, far more significant is the fact that the pandemic has left many on long hospital waiting lists and who, as a result, find it necessary to visit their General Practice for interim help for conditions for which they require specialist care.
2. The underfunding over successive governments of an NHS which is now, as a consequence, on its knees but which, nonetheless, continues to be expected by everyone to be there whenever it is needed and able to provide all the care that is asked of it.
3. Increased patient numbers per GP because, despite government promises to the contrary, there has been a reduction in the total number of GPs nationally. Furthermore, in some areas, the closure of GP practices has seen the subsequent reallocation, often at short notice, of patients to neighbouring practices without the necessary additional staff being made available.
4. A surge in the number of those struggling with mental health problems often as a result of the measures taken to combat Covid 19. Social isolation has taken its toll on many, not least children and young people, as too has the economic hardship which now seems only likely to increase over the next year or two.
5. A negative media which has encouraged some to think that GPs are not doing their job properly and led many to demand more of us mistakenly imagining that we have the capacity to do so when in truth we do not.
6. Having been sold the lie that life should be without suffering, there are many who are now intolerant of even the most minor of problems and insist on treatment for things that in the past people would, perhaps, have accepted and put up with for longer. Add to this the fact that, as a consequence of our living in an ‘Amazon Prime’ culture where all our desires are guaranteed to be delivered free tomorrow, many find themselves unable to wait and so insist that their treatment must be ‘now’.
7. An inability of many to tolerate any degree of anxiety with a good number of those who now present to GP practices falling into that group of patients sometimes known as ‘the worried well’.
This last group I think is huge but it is the medical profession who must take much of the responsibility for their growing number. For it is not surprising that we have the worried well when, for years, we have told the well that they should worry. Neither is it surprising, then, that we find ourselves spending inordinate amounts of time dealing with those who are not ill at all.
So what we can do about it? Many of the problems mentioned are beyond our control and though we should still petition for a better NHS, continue to hold the government to account and endeavour to engage with the media to accurately describe the current crisis that we all now find ourselves facing, we need also to a accept that we can’t single handedly change the society in which we live.
What we can do though is rediscover what it is to be good doctors. So what is it that good doctors do?
Well, for a start, they care for patients. And irrespective of how strong the temptation may sometimes be to think otherwise, they remember that the patients are NOT the enemy!
We need to take up our posts once more and act as the gatekeepers of the NHS protecting hospitals from patients but, far more importantly, protecting our patients from hospitals. We need to stop being people pleasers, something I will find particularly hard, and seek to do what is right by our patients rather than that which is popular, telling them the truth rather than what they want to hear. We need to apply a little wisdom in our consultations and avoid falling into the trap of mindlessly following protocols and merely acting according to algorithms. And, instead of adding to the anxiety of our patients, we need to be prepared to carry some of their anxiety ourselves. Because taking on that responsibility is what being professional is all about.
And finally we need to remember what good doctors DON’T do. Good doctors don’t turn away those who are sick and no doctor should feel compelled to do so. To take such an action would be to play into the media’s narrative that we are reneging on our responsibilities as GPs, it would turn our patients against us and so lose their support which is so vital to us if we are to come out of this in one piece, and it would make the already difficult working lives of our receptionist even harder. And of course, rather than being gatekeepers to the hospital, it would make us those who had abandoned our post and left the gate wide open. To do so would be to dump on our friends and colleagues in secondary care who are themselves struggling every bit as much as we are.
So in short it would sadden me hugely if we were to ever cap the number of patients who could see us on any individual day, if we were ever to become a profession which refused to see those who came to us in genuine need and thus deny them the help which was most appropriately provided for them in primary care.
And whilst appreciating the reasons for taking such drastic measures, I hope that I’m not the only one who would be at least a little embarrassed to be associated with such a move if, as some are advocating, it were to be deemed necessary. I fully understand how difficult things are at present, but alternative solutions must be found. Because to be a part of such a profession would, for me at least, only worsen the situation by making my working life even less satisfying. For there is still a joy to be had in helping others in need, a pleasure that comes, not merely from miserably doing our duty and soullessly performing what is required of us, but that comes as a consequence of our being in the privileged position of being able to make a positive difference in the lives of so many.
“What if we had a chance to do it again and again, until we finally did get it right? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Kate Atkinson, ‘Life After Life’
‘Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden’
From T.S. Eliot’s ‘Burnt Norton’
This week I have been watching ‘Life after Life’. Though, for me, it is was a flawed drama with a less than entirely satisfactory ending, the BBC series based on Kate Atkinson’s original novel does, nonetheless, present an interesting idea, one perhaps we have all at some time or another wished was true. What if, when we die, we had the chance to live our lives all over again, what if we were able to behave differently at key moments of our existence such that, as a result of acting better, the days that followed would run more smoothly for us and enable us to therefore avoid the pitfalls that in previous lifetimes we were made to endure?
Would we, I wonder, fare any better? Second time round, would we live a happier, more fulfilled, life? Or would we just find yet another of the infinite number of ways that are available to us to mess things up and so be forced to live an alternative but equally flawed existence complete with another, equally unsatisfactory, ending? And would we then be compelled to spend all eternity constantly working out our lives in an endlessly futile cycle, one in which we were always striving to do better, always hoping to somehow make everything all right?
Also this week I listened to the distress of a young woman. Not having benefited from the best efforts of those who have sought to help her with treatments of both the talking and pharmaceutical kind, she told me of her loneliness, her anxiety and her despair. She told me how she was tired and how she wanted it all to stop. And, without any sense of the melodramatic, she told me how she longed to die – more than that she told me how she needed to die if things were ever to get better. Because, for her, without any hope for the future, death seemed the only way to end the pain, the anguish that was hers as a result of existing in a world in which she felt she did not fit.
But, of course, were she to die, there would be no second chance for her. As for countless others before her, there would be no opportunity to live life differently. And though perhaps her distress would be over, that of those left behind, that of those who love her and already know what it is to sorrow over her sadness, would surely only increase.
So what is the answer? Is there an answer at all? Is my young woman right when she says it’s all just pointless?
I for one am not that nihilistic. And whilst I don’t have all the answers that I would like to have for those who struggle as this young woman does, I nonetheless refuse to believe that her struggle is without meaning, I refuse to believe that it has no purpose. And so, believing that suffering can be redemptive, believing it can even be the means by which suffering itself is ultimately brought to an end, I will, at least, continue to care and, in so doing, endeavour, as best I can, to know something of her distress, share a little of her sadness and bear with her the burden of her sorrow.
And though she may have given up hope, I will not. I will hope for her, continuing to believe what she cannot – that a better tomorrow is on its way. And this, not merely in some imagined parallel universe conjured up by the imaginations of those who cannot face the genuine awfulness that is all too often apparent in the one we already know. On the contrary, I will continue to hope for a better tomorrow for this beautiful yet broken world, a better tomorrow when, not only hers but all our tears will have been wiped away, suffering will be no more and each and every one of us will have found a place that we can call our home.
Because when that ‘life after life’ finally comes, all this ‘death before death’ can be forgotten.
And won’t that be wonderful?
Related blogs:
To read ‘General Practice – A Sweet Sorrow’, click here
To read ‘Eleanor Rigby is not at all fine’, click here
To read ‘Do you hear the people sing?’, click here
It was eight days after his resurrection that Jesus appeared to the disciple who is generally remembered, perhaps unfairly, as the one who was slow to believe that Jesus was indeed alive once more. But, despite the fact that ‘doubting’ Thomas is frequently given a bad press, I would like to say that I am genuinely grateful to him.
For the account that we read in John 20:26-29 reassures me that, despite those living in first century Jerusalem being just as unlikely to believe a story about a dead man coming back to life as those who are living today, so convincing was the evidence for the resurrection that, when presented with it, even a dyed in the wool sceptic like Thomas could not help but believe that the seemingly unbelievable had in fact taken place. And so, face to face with the risen Christ, an intellectually honest Thomas followed that evidence and rightly declared Jesus to be both his Lord and his God.
After Thomas believed the evidence that his eyes would not allow him to deny, Jesus said to him, ‘Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.’ In saying these words Jesus was referring to us. But the reason that we can believe without seeing is, partly, the result of Thomas not being able to believe until he did see.
John tells us that he wrote his gospel so that we might believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that, by believing, we may have life in his name [John 20:31]. Our faith, therefore, is partly down to the fact that Thomas’ story was there to be recorded, a story of one who, initially doubtful, demanded the evidence that we all need if we are to have confidence that a faith placed in Jesus is a faith placed in one who can be wholly depended upon.
Confident then that He really is alive, may we, like Thomas, follow the evidence and, therefore, gladly recognise Jesus to be our Lord and our God too.
For, thanks in part to Thomas, we all have very good reason to do so!
It was January 2021 and Lady Penelope was taking tea in the drawing room of Creighton-Ward Mansion when her chauffeur, Parker, appeared at the door.
‘I’m sorry to bother you milady’ he began, ‘but the Secretary of State for Health is on the phone. He’s at some Downing Street party and wondering if you’d care to join him’.
‘Not him again,’ replied Lady Penelope striding over to where Parker was holding the phone. ‘When will that lecherous little man realise I don’t want to have anything to do with him. And, what’s more, to attend a social gathering in the present circumstances is completely wrong and whilst some in government may consider themselves above the law, this lady of the realm most certainly does not! Give me the phone Parker, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind’.
Lady Penelope took the phone from Parker and, before the caller could say a word, that’s exactly what she proceeded to do.
‘Mr Secretary of State’ she growled down the line, ‘you should be ashamed of yourself, partying whilst daily Covid deaths sore ever higher. You need to do something and do something quick. If you had any sense you’d be calling on those who can always be relied upon in an emergency. If I was you, I’d be calling on the new primary care wing of International Rescue.’
And with that Lady Penelope ended the call and threw herself down onto the chaise lounge that was situated by her side.
‘That’s the way to deal with men like that Parker. Now, if you would be so good as to bring me another pot of Earl Grey I’d be most awfully grateful. And, perhaps, a large measure of Talisker to accompany it. Speaking to people like that leave one somewhat in need of a restorative.’
*****
Meanwhile, far away on a remote island somewhere in the South Pacific, Jeff Tracey was in a meeting with two of his five GP sons, the other three joining them via Zoom from International Rescue’s space station. Also present were other allied members of the organisation. They were all discussing what their response should be to the news they had recently received from Lady Penelope. In her role as special agent in London, she had discovered that their evil nemesis, ‘The Hood’, had managed to infiltrate British politics and subsequently risen to become Prime Minister. By employing his powers of hypnosis he had even managed to convince a large proportion of the electorate that he was both a competent and respectable national leader.
Their deliberations were interrupted when the phone on Jeff Tracey’s desk flashed red indicating that a distress call was being received. Picking up the phone and listening to the voice on the other end of the line, he echoed back the callers opening words.
‘You say you’ve had a wonderful idea?’ He said, his voice suggesting that he doubted that such a thing was possible. Covering the mouthpiece of the phone he indicated to the others that it was the Secretary of State for Health who was calling. He then continued the call, repeating key statements so as to convey to the gist of what was being said to everyone one else who was in the room. ‘No I didn’t see the announcement on the television this evening…a national vaccination programme to commence tomorrow you say…with jabs being made available in local centres right across the country.’
When at last the caller had finished speaking, Jeff paused for a moment, considering his reply.
‘Well you might have thought to speak to us before you made such an announcement to the general public. General Practice may well be ideally positioned and though the efforts of those who work within it are not infrequently superhuman, it remains the case that each and every person who makes up the primary care workforce, as well as those who work elsewhere in the NHS, are ordinary individuals whose willingness to help cannot, and must not, be taken for granted in this way. Even so, since International Rescue exists for the sole purpose of saving human life, we will do all we can to help. You can rely on us.’
Ending the call Jeff looked around the room and formulated his plan. First he gave instructions to his bespectacled lead scientist.
‘Brains, you and Tin Tin, must work alongside those infinitely resourceful and wonderfully capable practice managers and coordinate the implementation of the delivery of the vaccine.’
‘Just as you say, Mr Tracey. We’ll get on to it immediately’. Brains and his trusted assistant stood up and made their way to the door. Then Jeff Tracey turned to the two sons who were present with him in the room.
‘Scott, you take Thunderbird 1. I want you to be first on the ground overseeing the set up of vaccination centres across the country. Tap into the eagerness to help, not only of GPs but also of practice nurses, admin staff and receptionists and thus pull together a team capable of delivering the largest vaccination program in history. And Virgil, with Pod 6 packed full of vials of Pfizer, Modena and AZ vaccines, you are to take Thunderbird 2 and distribute them the length and breath of the UK. Have you got that boys.’
‘F.A.B. Father. Thunderbirds are Go!’
And so began the roll out of the highly effective national vaccination programme, the like of which the country had never seen before. Shy of publicity, and eager to keep their identity a secret, International Rescue members smiled inwardly to themselves as those in Government sought, perhaps, to take a little too much credit for what was actually achieved as a result of the tireless efforts of countless individuals. Still, it was enough for those involved to know that there’s was a job well done.
*****
A year or so later, a lone GP sat at his desk and waited for the lateral flow test that he had just taken to reveal it’s result. It had been another long day and as the last consultation had drawn to a close Dr Mungo had begun to feel slightly unwell. Perhaps he was just worn out given how impossible the job had become. Workload had never been so heavy and patient demand had never been so high. It was no surprise of course, given the ever lengthening list of those waiting for hospital treatment, the surge in patients suffering with poor mental health and a workforce crises that was resulting in the collapse of GP practices right across the country. Furthermore, GP morale, already at an all time low, was only being made worse by criticism in the press, a criticism, tacitly endorsed by some in government, that suggested that it was simply lazy and overpaid GPs who were responsible for the problems that the NHS was experiencing.
‘Oh that you could get an ambulance as quickly as the result of a Covid test’, Dr Mungo said to himself recalling how he’d had to wait three hours for an emergency response vehicle to arrive having called for one earlier in the day for a patient experiencing marked difficulty in breathing. ‘Well that’s me working from home for the next week or so.’ he sighed as the second red line appeared in the window of the plastic test that lay on the desk in front of him. He didn’t relish the prospect. It wasn’t only that his being away would put additional strain on the practice, it was also that he did so hate consulting remotely and not being able to see his patients face to face.
As he sat with his head in hands, he remembered something that an aristocratic friend of his had once said to him. Penny, as he had known her, had told him that, were he ever to find himself in dire need of help, there was a number he could call that would be sure to lead to him receiving the assistance he required. He’d kept a note of number she’d given him ever since and he now scrolled through his contacts desperate to make use of it. At last he found it. ‘Under I’, he said to himself smiling, ‘just as you’d expect.’
He entered the number into his phone and waited for what seemed like an age. Eventually a voice came onto the line.
‘Hello’ it said hesitantly. ‘Can I help?’
‘Is that ‘International Rescue?’ Dr Mungo asked, questioning for a moment if he might have misdialled given how uncertain the one who answered his call seemed.
‘Well it used to be’, came the reply. ‘I’m just the caretaker. Most of the others have gone now, what with all the changes we’ve had round here. It’s the funding you see. We used to get some government support but that all dried up, as a result of all the money that was wasted on the crippling expensive, not to mention disastrously ineffective, test and trace service, the budget for which was greater than that for the whole of primary care. And then there was the stress of it all. Scott left to take up a job stacking shelves in a local supermarket and Virgil eventually burnt out and joined the ranks of the long term sick, his precarious mental state evidenced by the fact that he began writing pastiches whose storylines were as stilted as the movements of the characters in a Gerry Anderson TV series of the 1960s. The Thunderbirds themselves have all been decommissioned and sold for scrap – except for Thunderbird 4 that is. Dr Gordon Tracey continues to offer a service as best he can but, without Thunderbird 2 to transport the yellow submersible, it isn’t always possible to reach people in as timely a fashion as he would like. Even so, I’m sure he’ll do what he can if you know someone who’s drowning.’
‘Oh I know a few of those’, Dr Mungo whispered in response, ‘but not in the way you’re thinking. I’m not sure your submarine will be of much help to them.’
And with a ‘Thanks anyway’ not dissimilar to those he’d heard from patients who had sometimes left his consulting room seemingly dissatisfied with what he’d been able to offer them, Dr Mungo said his goodbyes and ended the call.
‘Thunderbirds are go’ he thought to himself. Not any longer. Now it was more a case of ‘Thunderbirds are gone’.
And he wondered how long it would be before the same would be said of General Practices too.
Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Happy, yet always sad.
It was true last year in times of pandemic. And it’s true this year in times of war. Trouble abounds.
Though Covid 19, for the time being at least, may be less on our minds than the events in Ukraine, what remains abundantly clear is that difficulties continue to surround us and make up part of all our lives. Even so, it is still the case that there are things for which we can be grateful, things that, though they do not nullify our ongoing distress, can nonetheless cause us to smile. Similarly, how ever good our lives may be at present, there remain those things that persist in pulling us down. The truth is that sadness and happiness coexist, neither one ever entirely absent, each simultaneously intensifying and diminishing the other. There is for all of us, pleasure in our sadness, heartbreak in our delight. I see it on the news, I see it in my patients, I see it in myself – genuine causes for sorrow sat alongside sources of real joy.
Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Happy, yet always sad.
Perhaps we cannot know what happiness really is without knowing the pain of sorrow and, for sorrow to be fully realised, perhaps it requires us to have had the experience of knowing what it is to be truly happy. If so, if we are to be happy, it must be alongside our sadness and we must not insist that all sorrow is gone before allowing ourselves to be happy any more than we should deny our sadness simply because there are things for which we can be happy.
Life is not black or white, it is a kaleidoscope of grey. Paradoxically we can be happy and sad at the same time. We can smile even as we cry.
Today is Good Friday – a day like no other, a day on which I find it helpful to ponder such things. For me it helps to make make life more meaningful, more understandable, more bearable. Perhaps it will for you too.
Because even the eternally happy God knows what it is to weep.
What follows is the same as I posted this time last year. I repeat myself for no other reason than what was true in days of pandemic, is still true in times of war.
I remain sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Happy, yet always sad.
One Maundy Thursday I wished a good friend of mine a happy Easter break. He hesitated however to return my good wishes because, he said, that he understood that Good Friday was a day for Christians like me to be miserable. It got me thinking to what extent he was he right.
Paul, writing in his second letter to the Corinthians, describes Christians as, ‘Sorrowful yet always rejoicing’ [2 Corinthians 6:10]. If such a paradoxical existence was the reality for Christians back in Paul’s day, it is surely no less true a reality for Christians living the 21st Century. ‘Good Friday’, the name we give today, is itself a paradox – for how can we apply the adjective ‘good’ to describe the day of Christ’s crucifixion? For sure, it is a day on which Christians should grieve over their sin and what it was that Jesus had to suffer in order to secure their redemption, but, at the same time, it is a day for rejoicing in the triumph of his sacrifice as we anticipate and remember his subsequent resurrection from the dead on Easter Sunday.
‘Sorrowful yet always rejoicing’ – it was the experience of Paul and it was also the experience of Jesus himself. For he was himself ‘a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief’ [Isaiah 53:5]. Matthew recalls the words of Jesus to Peter, James and John, in the Garden of Gethsemane:
“My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch with me.” [Matthew 26:38].
And yet the writer to the Hebrews has it that Jesus, ‘for the joy that was set before him endured the cross’ [Hebrews 12:2].
Suffering, then, is not the end of joy – it can even be the passage to joy. Again this is not a contradiction – but it is a paradox! A paradox that the second thief, even as he was being crucified alongside Jesus, understood. There he was, in just about as bad a position as it is possible for a person to be in, minutes away from an excruciating death, when he, nonetheless, made his remarkable request:
‘Jesus,’, he said, ‘remember me when you come into your kingdom’ [Luke 23:42].
Like everybody else that day, the second thief saw Jesus suffering and dying on a cross. But unlike the religious rulers, the Roman soldiers and the other thief who was also being crucified that day, he didn’t see defeat. He continued to speak of Jesus as one who was coming into his kingdom. For him Jesus’ death didn’t mean an end to all the kingdom and salvation talk. Whilst all those others, those who mocked Jesus as they watched him die, were looking for a salvation FROM death, the second thief saw that the salvation Jesus was bringing about was a salvation THROUGH death.
Jesus’ death wasn’t the end of Christ kingdom, on the contrary, his death was its beginning.
This is a profound truth – one we do well to try and grasp some understanding of.
Far from a simple faith, the second thief’s faith was remarkable. And it is on account of his wonderful faith that we should not be surprised by Jesus when he responds to him with these words:
‘Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise’ [Luke 23:43].
Jesus saw in the second thief somebody who got it! Somebody who trusted the power of God despite seeing that which to unspiritual eyes was nothing but weakness. Somebody who saw victory where most saw only defeat. Somebody, indeed, who understood the paradox of Good Friday.
That suffering is not irredeemable,
That sorrow is not incompatible with joy,
That even the darkest nights can be followed by the brightest days.
‘Sorrowful yet always rejoicing’?
It was the experience of Paul. It was the experience of Jesus. It was the experience of the second thief. And it will be our experience too.
Some of us are sick? Some of us mourn the loss of loved ones? Some of us worry over our future? Some of us have experienced great tragedy in our lives – some recently, some longer ago but who nonetheless still feel the pain just as keenly as if it were yesterday.
There is indeed much today for us to be sorrowful over. Some Christian types can sometimes well meaningly suggest we should always be happy. ‘Smile’, they say, ‘Jesus loves you’. But though they are right to proclaim the truth that God really does love us, they are wrong to suggest that we should never be sad, for even the eternally happy God knows what it is to cry. [1 Timothy 1:11, Luke 22:62]. Even Jesus wept at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, his grief no less intense for knowing that he would soon bring him back to life. [John 11:35].
Perhaps, then, even God knows what it is to be sorrowful yet always rejoicing.
So it’s not wrong to be sad, it’s simply normal. The Bible never tells us to masochistically rejoice about our suffering. But it does tell us to rejoice in our suffering.
Because despite our sorrow – there is much to rejoice over! We truly are loved with an everlasting love, a love that transcends our current struggle, a love that means that we too can be sorrowful yet always rejoicing.
As we suffer we can rejoice because of the Gospel. The good news is that Good Friday was followed by Easter Day, that Jesus died for our sins, bearing the punishment we deserve, and that when he rose from the dead Jesus proved the sufficiency of his sacrifice. By it we are justified, counted righteous, declared to be ‘not guilty’.
Some of us grieve over our unrighteousness and can not even lift our eyes to heaven. We beat our breasts and cry out, ‘Have mercy on me, a sinner’ [Luke 18:13] But because of Jesus’ work on the cross on our behalf we are made right with God – regardless of our current situation.
Not because of our worth – but because of his grace.
Not because of what we do – but because of what he did.
Not because we are lovely – but because he is loving.
So, if you’re sorrowful today, remember you’re not alone, God weeps with you. And know that, because of Jesus, his life, death and resurrection, ‘Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.’ [Psalm 30:5].
It’s Good Friday – but Easter Sunday is coming. Because of what took place over those two days nearly 2000 years ago, we can know real forgiveness for all those sins that we so bitterly regret, no matter how great they are.
But if that were not enough to rejoice over this Eastertide, we can also look to the future with a certain hope. Suffering is all too real today but the day is coming when God ‘will wipe away every tear form [our] eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things [will] have passed away.’ [Revelation 21:4]
‘So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal’. [2 Corinthians 4:16-18]
It’s Good Friday – but Easter Sunday is coming.
So may we all know happiness this Eastertide – even those of us who are sorrowful.
To read “Why do bad things happen to good people – a tentative suggestion”, click here
To read “Luther and the global pandemic – on becoming a theologian of the cross”, click here
To read ‘Covid -19. Does it suggest we really did have the experience but miss the meaning?’, click here. This is a slightly adapted version of “T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’.
To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here
To read “Waiting patiently for the Lord”, click here
Yesterday would have been my mother-in-law’s birthday. Almost two years on from her death we spent much of the day with my father-in-law. Flicking through old photographs I was reminded of how it’s not only the dead that are mourned – there are those who grieve for the good times that once were commonplace, for the laughing child who now no longer smiles, for the wasted years that will never be recovered. Later we had lunch in the restaurant of a garden centre where my mother-in law used to like to go for coffee. Sitting at what was once her favourite table, the memories again came back. But she didn’t. All we had were the memories – and the memories weren’t enough.
This week, for a great many, what there was, wasn’t enough.
For some, what they had in the bank wasn’t enough to pay for them to have sufficient heating. For some, the protection afforded by the law wasn’t enough to stop them from being brutally murdered. For some, the NHS wasn’t enough to cure them of their disease. For some, their own sense of self wasn’t enough to get them out of bed in the morning. For some, the combined force of NATO and the United Nations wasn’t enough to prevent them from becoming victims of the atrocities of war.
And for some, it was me who wasn’t enough. Not strong enough, not wise enough, not kind enough. Not for those who needed me to have been far more of all these things, not for those who discovered that I too wasn’t enough for them.
This week, in a world of grief, a world filled with so much sadness, so much pain and so much suffering, there have been those for whom the whole of the world wasn’t enough. And, for far too many, it won’t be enough next week either.
Because sooner or later, everyone needs more than the world has to give. More than we have to give.
No wonder then that sometimes work is hard. We are overwhelmed by what we can do, let alone by what we can’t. What we are asked to do each day doesn’t just seem impossible, impossible is what it all too often really is.
So let’s not be surprised when we are not enough, let’s not add to how difficult it is by being that unfair on ourselves. For there is no shame in being asked for more than we’ve got and only being able to give all that we have.
Three blogs which, in my head at least, make up a trilogy on the subject of burnout:
For many this week, what there was, wasn’t enough.
For some, what they had in the bank wasn’t enough to pay for them to have sufficient heating. For some, the protection afforded by the law wasn’t enough to stop them from being brutally murdered. For some, the NHS wasn’t enough to cure them of their disease. For some, their own sense of self wasn’t enough to get them out of bed in the morning. For some, the combined force of NATO and the United Nations wasn’t enough to prevent them from becoming victims of the atrocities of war.
And for some, it was me who wasn’t enough. Not strong enough, not wise enough, not kind enough. Not for those who needed me to have been more of all these things, not for those who discovered that I too wasn’t good enough for them.
This week, in a world of grief, a world filled with so much sadness, so much pain, and so much suffering, there have been those for whom the whole world was not enough. And, for far too many, it won’t be enough next week either.
Life is hard – we are overwhelmed by what we can do, let alone by what we can’t. What is asked of us doesn’t just seem impossible – impossible is what it all too often really is. So then, let’s not be surprised when we are not enough because everyone sometimes needs more than the world has to give and there is no shame in being asked for more than we’ve got and only being able to give all that we have.
Even so, wouldn’t it be great if there was someone who was enough, someone who could do what we cannot?
Today is Palm Sunday, the beginning of Holy Week, the day on which we remember how Jesus rode into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. As he travelled, cheered on by the people who welcomed him as their king, thousands of lambs were also being driven into the city in preparation for Passover, the Jewish festival that recalled how, back when they were enslaved in Egypt, the angel of death passed over those households where the blood of a lamb had been daubed on the doorposts of Jewish homes thus sparing the life of the eldest son within.
Like those lambs, Jesus too would soon be slaughtered. For five days later, on that first Good Friday, rejected by the people who had once rejoiced at his coming and now wearing only a crown of thorns, he would allow himself to be crucified. But unlike the blood of animals which was never enough to deal with sin and which was only ever meant to point towards this greater sacrifice, Jesus blood, shed for us on the cross, really is sufficient to take away our sin, secure God’s forgiveness and guarantee that, even though we all will one day die, those who trust him will, nonetheless, go on to live forever. And it is Jesus himself who assures us that this is true, the one who, as he raised Lazarus from the dead, declared himself to be the resurrection and the life [John 11:25], the one who, by his own resurrection, proved this was no idle claim. For as John the Baptist recognised some three years earlier, Jesus really is the true lamb of God, the one who really does take away the sin of the world [John 1:29].
This week, therefore, whatever your need, whatever the thorn in your flesh might be, know that God’s grace is sufficient for you [2 Corinthians 12:9]. Though the pain may yet linger, though the suffering may still continue on, there is a certain hope for a better tomorrow, a day when every tear will be wiped from our eyes and death shall be no more. [Revelation 21:4]
Because, for all those who, like me, know themselves not to be good enough, the good news is that, though we should all still try to make a positive difference in the lives of others, the final outcome does not ultimately depend on us. The genuinely good news, the gospel no less, is that Jesus is the one on whom we can depend. Being perfectly good, he alone is good enough.
And as we travel through Holy Week we can be sure that his cross, his blood, his mercy, grace, and deep deep love are more than good enough for us all.
A hymn for those who know how much they need to be held
Related blogs:
To read ‘The Sacrifice of Isaac – Law or Gospel?’ click here
‘At the end of the day you’re another day older And that’s all you can say for the life of the poor’
This week I went to see Wellington School’s production of Les Misérables. It was a genuinely magnificent show with some truly wonderful performances. All those involved are to be congratulated for their achievements.
But as I watched I couldn’t help thinking how those present were made up only of those who can and those who have. On stage there was no room for those who can not – for those who, never mind walking out to perform in front of a full house, find it difficult to leave their homes each morning and who struggle to make eye contact with their next door neighbour. And in the audience there was no room for those who have not, for those who, never mind the £10 ticket price, worry if they will be able to find another 50p for the electricity meter.
Les Misérables aren’t confined to 19th century France – they are very much part of 21st century Britain. They interact with us daily. Do you hear the people sing? I doubt it. And if you can, more than likely it’s a lament. For their distress isn’t a cue to pour out their souls by way of a plaintive melody. On the contrary, their genuine heartache, their real struggle and intense sadness is, at the end of the day, a prompt only for tears. And not theirs only.
One can’t help feeling that if we think we have it hard, others have it very much harder. And, with yesterday’s sharp rise in fuel prices and the rapidly increasing cost of living, one can only foresee that, for many, things are about to get very much worse.
Where I wonder will they turn?
If we think we are overwhelmed by the needs of others now, one can only imagine how much worse it’s soon going to become.
When tomorrow comes.
Even so, there is hope. Les Misérables is a story rich in Christian imagery and the musical finishes with these hopeful words:
‘Do you hear the people sing lost in the valley of the night? It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light. For the wretched of the earth there is a flame that never dies. Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.’
Because, at the end of the day, there is a day after tomorrow. And whilst, in the meantime, it doesn’t excuse a lack of compassion on our part, it is nonetheless good to know that there is a day coming when we ‘will live again in freedom in the garden of the Lord, we will walk behind the ploughshare, we will put away the sword. The chain will be broken and all men will have their reward.’
Somewhere beyond the barricade, there really is a better world – one that I too long to see.
Perhaps, then, there is cause for singing after all.
Related posts:
To read ‘Eleanor Rigby is not at all fine’, click here
We are now two years into the coronavirus pandemic and, although cases are increasing again currently, there is, perhaps, still a little light just about visible on the horizon. And perhaps there are some things we we can learn by looking back on the last 24 months.
1. It is possible to be content with less
Rather than constantly striving to gain more from this life, we would do well to be content to enjoy the gift of life we already have. We can eat drink and be merry, not merely because, with our death perhaps imminent, that is all there is, but rather because today we are alive, and there is food, drink and merriment to be enjoyed. We should be thankful for all that we have already been given and encourage our patients to be thankful too, especially those who seem unreasonably dissatisfied with their minor concerns. Discontent breeds unhappiness and causes us to waste too much time in pursuing the unattainable.
2. Much of this life is uncertain.
We do not know what tomorrow will bring, still less that which will occur next week, next month, next year. We are not the masters of our fate, nor that of those we love or indeed those for whom we care professionally. It is foolish to imagine or insist that we can control even our small corner of the world and, while not encouraging a careless disregard for the safety of others, it is foolish for us to try. Furthermore we should not be too surprised when the unexpected occurs, regardless of how unwelcome that occurrence might be.
3. There is much that we do not, and cannot, know.
And there is plenty that is not for us to ever know at all. With experts often in disagreement and governmental advice changing daily, it became clear that neither scientists nor politicians can be expected to guide us infallibly in how best to proceed. Since even science is not omniscient, wisdom dictates that we acknowledge how little we truly understand. We should neither arrogantly pretend that we invariably know best nor intolerantly criticise those who clearly don’t know either. Everyone makes mistakes and all of us are allowed to sometimes be wrong.
An unhealthy and excessive fear of death enslaves us. While it is perhaps only human to be anxious at the prospect of our death, only ever acting in ways that reduce our chances of dying serves only to make us less humane. Furthermore, submitting to another set of rules does not necessarily guarantee our safety, and there comes a point when our attempting to do so leaves us with no reason to remain alive, as we fail to live the life we have been given. Such a life would be nothing more than a living death.
4. Some people may be old but they’re no less human as a consequence.
In the early days of the vaccination programme, the joy of meeting and vaccinating those frail but affable and life-affirming individuals who found themselves most vulnerable to COVID-19, was a vivid reminder that older people count. They must not be disregarded, lost in the statistics which can too easily suggest that their death, on account of their multiple pathologies and advanced years, doesn’t matter. We mustn’t become immune to the sadness that surrounds death, no matter how inevitable it may be.
5. It’s not only the exceptional that are worthy of our care.
Remarkable though the achievements of Captain Tom were, the week he died another frail, older man died, also as a result of COVID-19. Few will know his name, only those who loved him for who he was. Many of them will, themselves, not have been fully aware of the ‘heroics’ of his life — how he worked to provide for his family, how, year after difficult year, he was there for his children, and how it was his habit to show kindness to those he lived alongside in the community where he made his home. His too, in its ordinariness, was a remarkable life. Similarly, the frail, older woman who, that same week, covered in a sea of blankets and confined to the chair in which she was wheeled to my vaccination station, was, despite her crumpled body, closed eyes and mute lips, no less worthy than her more able peers of her dose of vaccine, a shot of love.
It is good to herald the exceptional achievements of individuals, but we do, I think, need to be a little careful that in doing so we don’t lose sight of the value of the ordinary. Most of us will not achieve greatness in the eyes of the world, but our everyday contributions still make a significant difference to those among whom we live and work. Furthermore, as my vaccinated, older woman demonstrates, our value isn’t lost the moment we no longer contribute or achieve in the way we may once have done.
Life shouldn’t be competitive, a race to see who wins, rather it should be collaborative, ensuring we all get to the finish line in as fit a state as is possible. Constantly judging each other’s worth, on the basis of our achievements does none of us any good, burdening as it does the currently ‘successful’ with the need to maintain their lofty position while demonising and demoralising those who are deemed to have failed. We, and those with whom we live alongside, need to learn how to be kinder to one another, accepting each other and acknowledging our humanness. We need to stop insisting that we all must be more than we actually are and start, instead, to accept one another despite our being the flawed people we, inevitably, sometimes prove ourselves to be. Because we would all feel a lot more loved if we all became a lot more loving. [More on the nature of love from my own Christian perspective can be read here].
6. We must seek to keep what is vital from being lost.
As doctors, one way to think of our work is that of seeking to keep what is vital from being lost. But we are not up to such a task. We all fail, every day. There are some things we just can’t succeed at, no matter how hard we try. So, as we consult with our patients, perhaps we should sometimes cease from our constant striving to achieve those things which we cannot hope to succeed at and seek instead to remember together what it is that we are all a part of.
Leaving aside any religious convictions, there are those who believe that we live on after our death, as part of humankind’s continuous existence. It’s a comforting notion — but is it one that’s true? For, no matter how prettily we try to wrap it up, the ugly reality is that we do all die. Even so, perhaps there is something worth thinking about here. If we make our lives only about ourselves and what we can experience or achieve, all of what we are will indeed die with us. But if we are part of something bigger, something we gladly accept our being a part of, something vast that continues on beyond the few years of our existence, then there is a sense in which what we are does indeed continue after our death.
Sometimes we, as well as our patients, would do well to be encouraged to appreciate this bigger picture. Because sometimes, rather than looking in, it is better to look out, rather than looking down, it’s better to look up, and rather than looking forward, it’s better to look back.
Without denying the ugliness of death, we all need to remember the beauty of life. There are moments that we do indeed need to fix as they go past, moments that ground us in something bigger than the here and now, moments that will stop us from being lost in our own individual present and, perhaps, enable us to muster some hope for our future. Maybe it is the inability to do this that contributes to the tragedy of dementia, that cruel disease that vividly displays for us the importance of our need to remember. The fact is that we are not meant to live merely in the moment, we aren’t meant to live such lonely, disconnected lives.
7. We need to leave behind remote ways of consulting
Which brings me to my last point, our need to leave behind the remote way of consulting that has become our abnormally ‘new normal’. Back in the 1960, Stanley Milgram, a psychologist from the US, published the results of studies which showed an alarming willingness on the part of subjects to act against their conscience when told to do so by authority figures. Furthermore he demonstrated that individuals tended to act less compassionately towards those with whom they had less contact on account of them seemingly being less concerned about the welfare of those they could not see.
I wonder if this has something to say to those who have been encouraged to remain remote from our patients. Leaving aside the dangers of missing important diagnoses and the withholding of human contact from those who really would profit simply from sometimes seeing us, could it be that working remotely has adverse effects on us too? Might it be that the less contact we have with those for whom we are supposed to care leaves us less concerned about their welfare than we might otherwise have been? Might we too find ourselves just going through the motions? And if that is the case for us, might it also be the case for our patients who, on account of having less contact with us, end up less concerned about us and, as a result, less forgiving of us when things don’t go as well as they would like?
At the start of the pandemic we heard a lot about the so-called ‘new normal’ but there has been nothing normal about the virtual world we have been living and working in. We are all diminished by such a virtual existence. As restrictions continue to be lifted we mustn’t be tempted to hold on to our remote methods of consulting, or, at least, not too tightly. For though some problems may genuinely benefit from such an approach many do not. And even though some conditions can be managed perfectly safely over the phone, that doesn’t mean that they aren’t better dealt with face-to-face. I know for sure there have been occasions when I have made better, more humane, decisions as a result of seeing a patient I might otherwise have been tempted to manage from a distance.
Since, as Milgram’s experiments seem to suggest, remote care runs the risk of us not remotely caring, avoiding patient contact is detrimental for both patients and doctors alike. Furthermore, by working at arm’s length from our patients, we have allowed much of the satisfaction that the job once held to slip through our fingers. As restrictions begin to lift, rather than holding onto the remote consulting that some see as more efficient, I believe we should once again make face to face consultations with patients our normal working practice. By doing so, not only will we providing better care, but we also begin to grab back some of the job satisfaction that has been lost of late.
Three years ago, I wrote of my unease about how medicine was being encouraged to adopt more remote ways of delivering health care. [that article, entitled ‘Contactless’ can be read here.] I never imagined then that I would be practicing the way I have been forced to for much of the last two years, encouraged as I have been to avoid patient contact wherever possible. Such a remote existence must not be allowed to become the norm, not for medicine, nor, indeed, for any other area of our day-to-day lives. Because it’s simply not healthy.
Humans are social creatures. To fully live we need to have contact with one another, we need to touch. When lovers kiss, it’s more than just a sign of their love, it is an act of love too. And that’s important because more than simply knowing we’re loved, we need to feel it too.
We need to be present in each other’s lives. Life alone is hard and so, when it seems there is nothing one can do, to simply be there is of genuine value.
In ‘Out of Solitude’ Henri Nouwen wrote:
‘When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.’
Perhaps that is also the type of GP who cares. If Milgram’s experiments have anything at all to teach us, perhaps it is this: that it is not simply that those who care will draw close to those in difficulty but rather it is those who draw close to those in difficulty who will find themselves caring for others in ways that they wouldn’t otherwise have been able.
Over the coming months let’s look to leave social distancing behind — in all its forms. And let’s look to sit down with, and care for, each other once more. Because living a contactless life isn’t a remotely good idea. It would be shocking to think otherwise.
This article was published in the BJGP in March 2022 under the title ‘General Practice after Covid-19’. I have altered the title and the first paragraph in the light of the current increasing numbers of Covid-19 cases. It is an amalgam of blogs I’ve written over the last two years. The piece written three years ago and referred to above is entitled ‘Contactless’. It can be read here.
Posts from which the above is drawn:
To read ‘Vaccinating to remain susceptible’, click here
Some musings 