There was a day, about three months ago, when my hip was in such agony I was reduced to dragging myself around the floor of my house by my arms, and just trying to lie still. Searing pain shot down my leg to my upper calf, and the whole area around my hip felt weak and tender, so I couldn’t put any weight on my left leg. I would be woken at 4am by pain in my lower back, having only got to sleep by using heavy doses of painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs, which caused my stomach to churn and ache. Their effects wore off after two hours.
I’m 28 years of age. This was not normal.
I had endured back problems since my late teens, and ran the gauntlet of physiotherapists, herbalists, nutritionists, and fitness instructors. They told me I had a weak left buttock, an over-developed iliopsoas muscle, tight hamstrings, loose hamstrings, magnesium deficiency and an aversion to wheat. None of their advice amounted to anything constructive. They tried, but they failed. I still ached.
Eventually, when things became unbearable this year, I went to the A&E in Loughlinstown, where two junior doctors told me there was nothing wrong with me. I felt like I was being eyed up as a candidate for painkiller-dependency, trying to slyly cajole a prescription for a fix. His tests are negative, he must be having a laugh. I went back four days later and was BERATED by another doctor for not waiting a week before coming back. What was I doing there? Had I not been told to leave it for seven days?
‘But I can’t walk or sleep’, I told her. The vacuum of sympathy was overwhelming.
I finagled a meeting, forcefully, with a consultant in Loughlinstown, and spent two full mornings, a fortnight apart, waiting in line to see him. For anyone who hasn’t dealt with the public health system, bring a book. Unless you are bleeding directly onto the floor or holding your own organs in with your hands, you’ll spend a lot of time waiting. Doctor A took two visits before admitting the problem was beyond him, and sent me up the chain to Doctor B a week later. Doctor B, a decent chap, sent me for more x-rays and an MRI, and then brought me back in. At this stage, the A-bomb was dropped. Arthritis, specifically, Ankylosing Spondylitis. With a sombre, sympathetic face, I was referred to Doctor C, a specialist in rheumatology in St Vincent’s Hospital. I feared the worst case – that I could be in a wheelchair by my late forties, with parts of my spine fusing. I assumed my sporting life was over. I have run marathons, I mountain bike, surf and sail.
But I’d have to wait further or confirmation. Doctor C was a busy man. It would be a year before an appointment in his public clinic opened up. Another year of agony, downing ulcer-inducing painkillers, and uncertainty.
‘I’d pay to go private – is that an option?’, I asked the secretary.
Well, private is a different story. The waiting list is only six months if you’re willing to go private, I was told.I was pencilled in for June 24, 2009.
For fuck’s sake. I began to recall the times I had defended Mary Harney, and cringed. This is not a health system, I thought. This is anarchy. This is an absence of organisation.
In desperation, I went to the hospital’s website and looked up rheumatologists. There were three, including Doctor C. I rang the secretary for another, and explained my symptoms, and the ordeal to date.
‘You sound young,’ she said. ‘What age are you?’
I’m 28.
‘Well we should get you in soon, then. I can fit you in on Friday.’
She rang Doctor C, who had my scans, results and x-rays, and said that they’d need them sent across, and, get this, Doctor C was ANGRY that I’d gone and sought another appointment. Wait six months or wait four days? No-brainer.
This was progress. There was a further glimmer of hope when I stepped into Barry Bresnihan’s office in Sandymount. On the floor, in a pile of charts, was one marked ‘Michael Flatley’. I was going to see the man who serviced the most well-worn ankles in Ireland. Encouraging. Ten minutes later, after a definitive and clear-cut diagnosis, Prof Bresnihan (a former London Irish and Ireland rugby player) ushered me out of his office with the words: ‘This is the first day of the rest of your life’. He shook my hand and told me I’d be taken care of.
Four weeks after starting treatment, I’m signing up for a 55km Ultra-race from Dublin Castle to Glenmalure, over the Dublin mountains and into Wicklow. At night. And barring the lack of fitness coming from a few sedentary, arthritic months, I reckon my body will carry me all the way now.
I can run, cycle, and swim without a hint of pain or discomfort. I could kiss Barry Bresnihan.
But all that happened only because I could afford to go private. If I was Jo Shmo, public patient, with the same condition, I’d be waiting until next Christmas for a diagnosis. My arthritis would be progressing unchecked, getting worse, eating into my worklife, my sleep, affecting my every movement.
For anyone who thinks the health system works – you are wrong. The health system only works if you can afford to pay for a different level of service. If not, expect to fight your way upwards through a raft of junior doctors, lose days waiting in corridors, and spend plenty of time on hold while paper is shuffled and your call is batted from department to department. The difference between public and private is like night and day. The private system is the officer’s mess. The public is the trenches.
Thankfully, for me, this war is over. For now.
‘There is nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats’.
I will wear your name in public for 55kms. I will sweat on your name, quite possibly slobber on your name, get it covered in filth and make it smell quite bad. I will, quite possibly, drag your name or that of your company through the muck at times, literally rather than figuratively. I will ask you to pay for the privilege, and I will then write about it and take photos of the process, and tell people how great you and your company were to allow me borrow your name for a night.
Alkos
