As soon as it was explained to me by the Prime Minister back in the spring that it was my job to ‘protect the NHS’ and not vice-versa as I’d been thinking all these years, it all started to make sense.
Having one thumb dangling off the side of my hand indefinitely as I drove past empty private hospitals that the government seemed to be paying for, but not using, was simply a way that I could express my solidarity with the national effort.
If I could have given them all a ‘thumbs up’ I would have, but the thumb just went on hanging limply, much like the will to live at a Matt Hancock press briefing, and hurting like nobody’s business. As it was, I just stuck his picture up on the wall of my office, opposite the one I already had of Gavin Williamson, to make me feel well cared for, and well educated.
Every now and then, I spoke to my blameless and helpful GP on the phone, and he was able to tell me how sorry he felt for me, without ever once making me feel guilty that I was wasting time that could be better spent on people who were genuinely unwell. He even fixed for me to have an x-ray back in June, which was wonderfully exciting, especially as, in their enthusiasm, they clean forgot to x-ray the one bit he’d asked them to.
Then, as quite often happens, in my life, nothing happened. And nothing went on happening for the next two months, punctuated by the odd pulsing sign that my limb was flickering weakly across the attention span of someone at the hospital. But then silence. Restful, contemplative silence. Somehow, it made that £150 billion we bung them each year all worthwhile.
Meanwhile, I was doing my bit for the economy in gulping down industrial quantities of pain killers and anti-inflamatories, (to the point that I began to expect the imminent arrival a thank you letter from the CEO of BASF or Biotechnica), and boring my family.
Finally, like we all do if we are lucky enough to be able to afford it, I paid my £180 (inc VAT) and went privately to see the delightful wrist specialist that one of my GP friends had told me about.
It’s a funny old thing, but when you have paid out your £180, you want to make sure that you get full value. He reached a diagnosis in about 11 minutes, which then meant that we chatted about bee-keeping (good) and homeopathy (bad) for the next 19 until my time was up. He was delightful, and the whole experience was not unlike going out to a good film.
And now it is all fine. I mean, it’s still as bad as it was- obviously- but at least it has a label. Like all good medical labels, it consists of a German sounding name, and includes the word ‘disease’ afterwards. It is chronic in character which, in my book, is half way up the staircase to incurable. The importance of having a label cannot be over-emphasised. How much better, when someone asks you what is wrong with you to say rather bravely: ‘Oh, nothing really; I have de Quervains Disease, that’s all’ than to say simply that your thumb and wrist hurt.
To be honest, I have been like a new person ever since, and am seriously thinking of setting up a support group for people like me, with a minor royal on the letterhead, and an agreeable lunch in London once a year.
Back in the day, I hated the pain. But now I know what it is, I can fly it like a pennant at the back of a £500 million yacht.
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