Overheard from a nursing colleague in response to some Bureaucratic dictate;
"I'm a professional. For f*cks sake ...."
I'll leave that one with you.
Tuesday 6 July 2010
Did you miss me ???
I am sure nobody has really noticed that I have been gone for a while..... eight months to be exact.
Quite a bit has changed during this time. I have left my previous job and some other poor sucker now has the pleasure of dealing with the misdemeanors of my previous team and undergoing the daily ritual of thinking of reasons not to go to work and/or leave early.
I still work in primary care as an advanced practitioner, but now actually get to work as a practitioner rather than spending my days managing a service and a team. Its fabulous; not having the buck stop with me when something goes wrong, and being able to sleep at night without the aid of alcohol.
I am now the lead nurse for the team I work with, but we also have a lead GP and a practice manager, so we take collective responsibility for leading and dealing. I thought I would I miss 'being in charge' (or rather everyone doing what I say because I am the boss), but I really don't. We do have some 'quirky' team members, and its likely that they will pop up from now and then in this blog.
I am loving spending time with patients; some patients ground me, and really put my grumbles into perspective, whilst many amuse me in some way or another, and mostly in ways that I would never tell them as I really dont think that they intend their idiosyncrasies’ to be entertaining....... However, unless they read this blog or drink in my local they are unlikely to ever find out ...... but, if you do read this blog and think you recognise yourself, then perhaps its time for a long hard think
Quite a bit has changed during this time. I have left my previous job and some other poor sucker now has the pleasure of dealing with the misdemeanors of my previous team and undergoing the daily ritual of thinking of reasons not to go to work and/or leave early.
I still work in primary care as an advanced practitioner, but now actually get to work as a practitioner rather than spending my days managing a service and a team. Its fabulous; not having the buck stop with me when something goes wrong, and being able to sleep at night without the aid of alcohol.
I am now the lead nurse for the team I work with, but we also have a lead GP and a practice manager, so we take collective responsibility for leading and dealing. I thought I would I miss 'being in charge' (or rather everyone doing what I say because I am the boss), but I really don't. We do have some 'quirky' team members, and its likely that they will pop up from now and then in this blog.
I am loving spending time with patients; some patients ground me, and really put my grumbles into perspective, whilst many amuse me in some way or another, and mostly in ways that I would never tell them as I really dont think that they intend their idiosyncrasies’ to be entertaining....... However, unless they read this blog or drink in my local they are unlikely to ever find out ...... but, if you do read this blog and think you recognise yourself, then perhaps its time for a long hard think
Thursday 10 September 2009
care planning for idiots
My husband has had a painful knee for ages. After months of moaning, limping and ignoring my advice, he finally went to see his GP who gave exactly the same advice as I had. However, he then began to dutifully take his paracetamol 4 times a day. Because the doctor said so. A few months passed, several more visits to his GP, followed by an MSK consultation and, last week, a physio appointment.
He returned from his physio assessment clutching an exercise regime, a red elastic band and a fluorescent post-it note with “Don’t forget, see GP” written on it. His first point of call, as usual, was the remote control, quickly followed by the telephone to make an urgent appointment to see his GP. Being slightly concerned, I enquired as to why he needed to see his GP urgently, to be told that the physio had pointed out that he had a rash on his legs.
“That will be your eczema then” I said, before pointing out that he had had eczema patches intermittently for years and had ignored any advice or remedies that I had provided during this time. Nevertheless, off he went to see his GP, and returned with the expected tube of steroid cream. This now sits in the bedroom alongside the identical tube provided by yours truly.
The very next morning, the alarm went off, I legged it across the bedroom, pressed snooze and, as I was climbing back into bed, caught sight of myself in an ill-placed full length mirror. “Oh bugger” I thought to myself as I pulled the duvet over the offending wobbly bits “I’m still fat”.
Not wanting to waste time pondering this, I shut my eyes to get another five minutes before I had to repeat this ritual. Next thing, I heard a groan and prising open an eye, saw himself’s head and shoulders appear into sight from the floor at his side of the bed, followed by a red elastic band landing on the bed. Breathing a sigh of relief that he isn’t on the bedroom floor because I accidentally kicked him there in the middle of the night, I then watched him pick up his steroid cream (the new one, of course) and start to apply it to the offending dry, scaly patches on his legs.
I was slightly incensed about this. I had spent months, if not years, offering explanations, advice and treatment to clear up some relatively mild eczematous patches and one word from a physio and off he was seeing his doctor, not only that, he then follows the self-same advice to the letter.
“What have they got that I haven’t” I wondered aloud, childishly pointing out that I had given him exactly the same cream as his doctor, only to be informed that “obviously, he is a professional; he knows what he is doing and anyone would be silly not to follow the treatment he has prescribed to sort the problem out. Especially when you had to get your legs out in a fortnight and be evaluated on the effectiveness of the treatment”.
Strange language from my husband indeed, I thought, especially the ‘evaluated’ word. Clearly, he had taken great notice of these words of professional wisdom.
I fumed about this all the way to work, still pondering why he will follow someone else’s advice, but not mine. My conclusion was that I am just the missus. One that can’t (won’t) change a light bulb, and can’t (won’t) lift heavy things. He obviously doesn’t recognise me as someone with any medical knowledge or ability. And why should he? He has never seen me at work and I tend not to talk about the details of my work, unless they are really juicy. After all, there are far more interesting things to discuss than patients and their common ailments. However, he does sometimes comment on how nice the house smells and the occasional tasty meal, and he asks my advice on how to work the Hoover or sew a button on, but given he spends much of his time at home watching me do these things, he obviously see’s my housekeeping ability as my true vocation. Once I had rationalised his behaviour, I still felt a bit annoyed, but I could understand his logic.
This morning, as usual, I jumped back under the duvet muttering profanities at the image in the mirror. Hubby isn’t usually around to hear this every morning, but his cream-rubbing ritual means he has witnessed this for several days now. “what’s wrong with, you grumpy sod?” he lovingly asked. So I stuck my leg from out of the duvet, grabbed hold of my thigh and gave it a shake which, I incidentally noticed, made my upper arm and stomach wobble too. So I told him that I am sick of waking up, looking in the mirror and seeing the same depressing reflection every day.
“Mm” he pondered, “given how much low fat crap and vegetables you make us eat, and how much your bloody gym membership costs, I’d be a bit pissed off too I suppose. But obviously your plan isn’t helping you towards your goal. Maybe you need to re- evaluate it”
“Pardon?” I snapped, but he was off, bouncing down the stairs, tripping over a cat, and out of earshot. I turned the alarm off – well and truly awake by now, and got back into bed without looking in the mirror. Reflecting on our strange conversation (strange in that we don’t usually have any conversation whatsoever in a morning), I get inklings of a distant memory...... bloody hell...., Goals, evaluation, problems, treatment,............ care plan language!
“That’s it”, I thought. Realisation dawning. How could I expect to change my body when I had never really sat down and thought about what I wanted to achieve? OK, ‘lose some weight’ is kind of a goal, but not very specific. After all, I could lose half a pound and have achieved my goal, but I would still be swearing at the mirror every morning. I was a member of a gym, but quite often just went to sit in the aromatherapy steam room and then have a coffee and a cake with my mate. Steamed broccoli plays a huge part in my culinary repertoire, but was the creamy, cheesy sauce poured over the top helping?
“That’s it” I realised, “I need a care plan”. Identify the problem, have a SMART goal, develop a plan of action, and evaluate my progress regularly.
Easy!
Just one thing before I get started, can anyone remember what S.M.A.R.T stands for??
He returned from his physio assessment clutching an exercise regime, a red elastic band and a fluorescent post-it note with “Don’t forget, see GP” written on it. His first point of call, as usual, was the remote control, quickly followed by the telephone to make an urgent appointment to see his GP. Being slightly concerned, I enquired as to why he needed to see his GP urgently, to be told that the physio had pointed out that he had a rash on his legs.
“That will be your eczema then” I said, before pointing out that he had had eczema patches intermittently for years and had ignored any advice or remedies that I had provided during this time. Nevertheless, off he went to see his GP, and returned with the expected tube of steroid cream. This now sits in the bedroom alongside the identical tube provided by yours truly.
The very next morning, the alarm went off, I legged it across the bedroom, pressed snooze and, as I was climbing back into bed, caught sight of myself in an ill-placed full length mirror. “Oh bugger” I thought to myself as I pulled the duvet over the offending wobbly bits “I’m still fat”.
Not wanting to waste time pondering this, I shut my eyes to get another five minutes before I had to repeat this ritual. Next thing, I heard a groan and prising open an eye, saw himself’s head and shoulders appear into sight from the floor at his side of the bed, followed by a red elastic band landing on the bed. Breathing a sigh of relief that he isn’t on the bedroom floor because I accidentally kicked him there in the middle of the night, I then watched him pick up his steroid cream (the new one, of course) and start to apply it to the offending dry, scaly patches on his legs.
I was slightly incensed about this. I had spent months, if not years, offering explanations, advice and treatment to clear up some relatively mild eczematous patches and one word from a physio and off he was seeing his doctor, not only that, he then follows the self-same advice to the letter.
“What have they got that I haven’t” I wondered aloud, childishly pointing out that I had given him exactly the same cream as his doctor, only to be informed that “obviously, he is a professional; he knows what he is doing and anyone would be silly not to follow the treatment he has prescribed to sort the problem out. Especially when you had to get your legs out in a fortnight and be evaluated on the effectiveness of the treatment”.
Strange language from my husband indeed, I thought, especially the ‘evaluated’ word. Clearly, he had taken great notice of these words of professional wisdom.
I fumed about this all the way to work, still pondering why he will follow someone else’s advice, but not mine. My conclusion was that I am just the missus. One that can’t (won’t) change a light bulb, and can’t (won’t) lift heavy things. He obviously doesn’t recognise me as someone with any medical knowledge or ability. And why should he? He has never seen me at work and I tend not to talk about the details of my work, unless they are really juicy. After all, there are far more interesting things to discuss than patients and their common ailments. However, he does sometimes comment on how nice the house smells and the occasional tasty meal, and he asks my advice on how to work the Hoover or sew a button on, but given he spends much of his time at home watching me do these things, he obviously see’s my housekeeping ability as my true vocation. Once I had rationalised his behaviour, I still felt a bit annoyed, but I could understand his logic.
This morning, as usual, I jumped back under the duvet muttering profanities at the image in the mirror. Hubby isn’t usually around to hear this every morning, but his cream-rubbing ritual means he has witnessed this for several days now. “what’s wrong with, you grumpy sod?” he lovingly asked. So I stuck my leg from out of the duvet, grabbed hold of my thigh and gave it a shake which, I incidentally noticed, made my upper arm and stomach wobble too. So I told him that I am sick of waking up, looking in the mirror and seeing the same depressing reflection every day.
“Mm” he pondered, “given how much low fat crap and vegetables you make us eat, and how much your bloody gym membership costs, I’d be a bit pissed off too I suppose. But obviously your plan isn’t helping you towards your goal. Maybe you need to re- evaluate it”
“Pardon?” I snapped, but he was off, bouncing down the stairs, tripping over a cat, and out of earshot. I turned the alarm off – well and truly awake by now, and got back into bed without looking in the mirror. Reflecting on our strange conversation (strange in that we don’t usually have any conversation whatsoever in a morning), I get inklings of a distant memory...... bloody hell...., Goals, evaluation, problems, treatment,............ care plan language!
“That’s it”, I thought. Realisation dawning. How could I expect to change my body when I had never really sat down and thought about what I wanted to achieve? OK, ‘lose some weight’ is kind of a goal, but not very specific. After all, I could lose half a pound and have achieved my goal, but I would still be swearing at the mirror every morning. I was a member of a gym, but quite often just went to sit in the aromatherapy steam room and then have a coffee and a cake with my mate. Steamed broccoli plays a huge part in my culinary repertoire, but was the creamy, cheesy sauce poured over the top helping?
“That’s it” I realised, “I need a care plan”. Identify the problem, have a SMART goal, develop a plan of action, and evaluate my progress regularly.
Easy!
Just one thing before I get started, can anyone remember what S.M.A.R.T stands for??
Thursday 3 September 2009
It isn't my fault I love these people ...
I have just read my previous post, and something a little odd stuck me.... I profess to 'loving' my patients and my team. Mostly.
Now, my nearest and dearest would be spluttering with disbelief if they were to read this. Those who dare to ask if I have had a good day at work are usually met with a mouthful of profanities, followed by a diatribe of who did/said what, what I thought of them and what I wished I could do or say to them, if only I could get away with it.
However, it seems that over time, I have found that to get through the day without having a grievance taken out against me, that I have moderated my behaviour. Thinking about this, it is really difficult to change any trait of your personality without a mindshift. Fair enough, I have had my fair share of rubbish managers who taught me how NOT to behave and what NOT to say to get the best out of people. I have had far fewer positive role models but, of those I would put into this category, the qualities I most admire are having the ability to say what they really need to say, get the result that they want and leave the recipient with a nice warm ready-brek glow or, at worst, a feeling of slight disbelief and bewilderment at how this person has just got them to agree to what they did. This is more commonly known as manipulation, and I love it. My professed fascination with manipulation through the use of linguistics and body language has staved off many critics who dare comment about my 'Big Brother' habit. In fact, to this day, my husband still thinks that watching Big Brother was deemed as essential by the course leader when I was studying for my MSc. Now I just watch it for revision purposes!
I wake up most mornings, press the snooze button 4 or 5 times, and only drag myself out of bed to feed the cat, who by this point is sat on my chest and trying to gouge my eye out in his quest to drag me to his empty bowl. On the way to the kitchen I have a quick think about what the day ahead holds, and more often than not wish I hadn't bothered. I run through the list of reasons why I cannot possibly go to work, and if I do go, what reason can I give for leaving early. This is where professional nurse starts whispering in the ear of the lazy slob who would rather stay at home and watch 60 minute make-over. "Remember what Paul* says, remember to be positive..."
Paul is a nurse and independent trainer who delivers some training events for the PCT. Most training and education events are usually an opportunity for me to write my shopping list, do the off-duty, or just sing in my head. But Paul's sessions are always good. He knows what he is talking about for a start, has some pretty good anecdotes, and is a down to earth guy who remembers where he came from. Plus he doesn't drag his sessions out so I am always guaranteed an early finish!
Several years ago I attended a series of sessions on neurolinguistic programming. I arrived on the first morning in a foul mood. I was late after sitting in my car on the car park, (a.k.a. the motorway), for almost two hours, in torrential rain, with no fags and a radio that wouldnt work. During the coffee break I was chatting to Paul, and apologised for being late, explaining the reason why.
"Oh, what a great opportunity to get some time to yourself to just think, do a bit of people watching, and have a little bit of peace and quiet" he said.
"Weirdo" I thought.
Nevertheless, on the way home, sat on the motorway, in the rain, ... you get the picture....., I got to thinking how less stressful life must be if you can resign yourself to shit happening and find something positive from the situation. In fact, by the time I arrived home I had decided that I would get some bottles of water, emergency fags and put some music on my mobile for next time it happened. I had written my shopping list (in the dust on my dashboard), and mentally written the difficult report sitting in my in-tray. Plus, I discovered how to work bluetooth and spent a good deal of time surveying my fellow motorists trying to work out who was 'Hot and Horny'.
So by the time I arrived home, and my beloved asked how my day was, I found myself replying "Oh, I had a really good day, let me tell you all about..."
(This didn't last - I couldn't cope with his bewildered looks, and the cats hate skipping).
I thought about this a great deal, and really tried to practice finding the good out of the truly horrible, especially at work, and on most days it really does work. However, I do a have a vague recollection of Paul touching my shoulder and holding my gaze for slightly longer than necessary during that chat............ he changed my thought processes with the clever use of linguistics, or, as I tell my friends, I was manipulated and didn't even realise it!
Now, my nearest and dearest would be spluttering with disbelief if they were to read this. Those who dare to ask if I have had a good day at work are usually met with a mouthful of profanities, followed by a diatribe of who did/said what, what I thought of them and what I wished I could do or say to them, if only I could get away with it.
However, it seems that over time, I have found that to get through the day without having a grievance taken out against me, that I have moderated my behaviour. Thinking about this, it is really difficult to change any trait of your personality without a mindshift. Fair enough, I have had my fair share of rubbish managers who taught me how NOT to behave and what NOT to say to get the best out of people. I have had far fewer positive role models but, of those I would put into this category, the qualities I most admire are having the ability to say what they really need to say, get the result that they want and leave the recipient with a nice warm ready-brek glow or, at worst, a feeling of slight disbelief and bewilderment at how this person has just got them to agree to what they did. This is more commonly known as manipulation, and I love it. My professed fascination with manipulation through the use of linguistics and body language has staved off many critics who dare comment about my 'Big Brother' habit. In fact, to this day, my husband still thinks that watching Big Brother was deemed as essential by the course leader when I was studying for my MSc. Now I just watch it for revision purposes!
I wake up most mornings, press the snooze button 4 or 5 times, and only drag myself out of bed to feed the cat, who by this point is sat on my chest and trying to gouge my eye out in his quest to drag me to his empty bowl. On the way to the kitchen I have a quick think about what the day ahead holds, and more often than not wish I hadn't bothered. I run through the list of reasons why I cannot possibly go to work, and if I do go, what reason can I give for leaving early. This is where professional nurse starts whispering in the ear of the lazy slob who would rather stay at home and watch 60 minute make-over. "Remember what Paul* says, remember to be positive..."
Paul is a nurse and independent trainer who delivers some training events for the PCT. Most training and education events are usually an opportunity for me to write my shopping list, do the off-duty, or just sing in my head. But Paul's sessions are always good. He knows what he is talking about for a start, has some pretty good anecdotes, and is a down to earth guy who remembers where he came from. Plus he doesn't drag his sessions out so I am always guaranteed an early finish!
Several years ago I attended a series of sessions on neurolinguistic programming. I arrived on the first morning in a foul mood. I was late after sitting in my car on the car park, (a.k.a. the motorway), for almost two hours, in torrential rain, with no fags and a radio that wouldnt work. During the coffee break I was chatting to Paul, and apologised for being late, explaining the reason why.
"Oh, what a great opportunity to get some time to yourself to just think, do a bit of people watching, and have a little bit of peace and quiet" he said.
"Weirdo" I thought.
Nevertheless, on the way home, sat on the motorway, in the rain, ... you get the picture....., I got to thinking how less stressful life must be if you can resign yourself to shit happening and find something positive from the situation. In fact, by the time I arrived home I had decided that I would get some bottles of water, emergency fags and put some music on my mobile for next time it happened. I had written my shopping list (in the dust on my dashboard), and mentally written the difficult report sitting in my in-tray. Plus, I discovered how to work bluetooth and spent a good deal of time surveying my fellow motorists trying to work out who was 'Hot and Horny'.
So by the time I arrived home, and my beloved asked how my day was, I found myself replying "Oh, I had a really good day, let me tell you all about..."
(This didn't last - I couldn't cope with his bewildered looks, and the cats hate skipping).
I thought about this a great deal, and really tried to practice finding the good out of the truly horrible, especially at work, and on most days it really does work. However, I do a have a vague recollection of Paul touching my shoulder and holding my gaze for slightly longer than necessary during that chat............ he changed my thought processes with the clever use of linguistics, or, as I tell my friends, I was manipulated and didn't even realise it!
Wednesday 2 September 2009
The pen is mightier than the pin.....
Something happened at work today...., a difficult conversation with a challenging member of the nursing team. As a senior nurse and service manager this is not an unusual occurrence although, to date, I have usually been able to deal with and resolve uncomfortable situations without the residual feelings of acute anger and frustration that I feel now.
Obviously, this is not the first time I have felt like this. I have several ways of resolving or dispelling such feelings, and these usually include tobacco and alcohol plus interchangeable items including play-dough, pins, an evil cackle and/or a pen.
I have spent many an enjoyable evening fantasising about nasty, unpleasant, painful events befalling my antagonist and have even made plasticine effigies and stuck pins in them. However, whilst these remedies were fun while they lasted, the only one which had any lasting effect was the use of pen and paper. Yes, I have written many an un-delivered letter to my boss over the years and have started many reflective diaries, sometimes following a model, other times just letting rip and writing what I thought without any guidance whatsoever from Mr Gibbs, Mr Johns or Mssrs Palmer and Burns. Somehow, all those toxic emotions and thoughts have just dispelled as the ink flowed.
I just have one problem with reflective diaries and other such writings; you either have to shred them, hide them or risk a member of your family finding them and contacting the local police/psychiatric hospital/your ex-boss (this last one actually happened, but that’s another story). However, I don’t want to have to curtail my therapy on the off-chance that someone will stumble across them, so blogging seems the perfect answer.
Considering how much potential damage a blog can cause, and the fact that I hold a clinical caseload and manage a team, I intend this to be anonymous. After all, whilst many of them are infuriating at times, and all are a bit bonkers in their own way, I do love them all. Mostly.
So, back to today, this individual seems to rub everyone up the wrong way. This became evident quite soon after she joined the team several years ago, and resulted in a great deal of time and energy being invested in friendly chats, critical feedback, coaching, mentoring, supervision, academic teaching and plenty more. Despite all this, she has continued to upset patients and intimidate her colleagues on a daily basis. Initially I concluded that she had absolutely no insight into how what she said, her tone of voice and body language affected those she came into contact with, hence all the supportive interventions to help her gain some self-awareness.
However, following today’s events and a recent conversation with one of her patients, (who also happens to be a member of the PCT’s senior management team), I have come to believe that she has full insight into her behaviour; It seems that once she realised that her patient was actually a ‘VIP’, she dropped the patronising and dismissive approach; became courteous, charming and amenable, and eagerly handed over a script for antibiotics which she had been denying the patient to treat the ‘virus’ she had diagnosed until, that is, their identity became evident.
Today, during a debate about another patient’s management, she momentarily forgot who I was, allowing me to experience being on the receiving end her alter-ego for the first time. Her alter-ego is not a nice person, her nostrils flared, her eyes became wild, her hands balled into fists and her language became very controlled and articulate. Very few people have intimidated or frightened me at work, until today. Feeling quite vulnerable, I managed to hold my nerve and pointed out that the patient was waiting, and asked that she come back later to discuss this once she had calmed down. “I don't think so” was the response, followed by my office door slamming. (personally I would have added 'Sonny Jim' to the end of this response, c/o Halfwit of Big Brother fame, but maybe that would have made it less venomous)
Once I had done a spot of deep breathing, lifted my head out of my hands, walked around the block for a breath of fresh air (sneaky fag) I ventured to the toilet. There I was, a slave to my nervous bladder, when I heard a couple of people enter the toilets. We all know the girls’ toilet is a good place for a gossip. Let me tell you that it is also a good place to find out what people are saying about you. Especially when they don’t know you are there. It appears that this individual had certainly reflected on our encounter and her behaviour, and used the ensuing time productively. Word on the block is that I turn into a mad, swearing woman with a fondness for chucking small bits of office equipment around her desk if anyone dare get on my wrong side. "How unprofessional...", then the door closed, and I was alone again.
Suffice to say, the suggested discussion didn’t happen, or I may well have turned into that mad, swearing woman I had been depicted as. Instead, I did what anyone else would have done, and came home to get my plasticine and pins out......
Having had a good pin sticking session and a therapeutic vodka and tonic, I think I know how I am going to manage this situation, however, if any of you out there have any sensible (or insensible but satisfying) suggestions, then please let me know ................. I would love to hear what you would do in this situation.
Obviously, this is not the first time I have felt like this. I have several ways of resolving or dispelling such feelings, and these usually include tobacco and alcohol plus interchangeable items including play-dough, pins, an evil cackle and/or a pen.
I have spent many an enjoyable evening fantasising about nasty, unpleasant, painful events befalling my antagonist and have even made plasticine effigies and stuck pins in them. However, whilst these remedies were fun while they lasted, the only one which had any lasting effect was the use of pen and paper. Yes, I have written many an un-delivered letter to my boss over the years and have started many reflective diaries, sometimes following a model, other times just letting rip and writing what I thought without any guidance whatsoever from Mr Gibbs, Mr Johns or Mssrs Palmer and Burns. Somehow, all those toxic emotions and thoughts have just dispelled as the ink flowed.
I just have one problem with reflective diaries and other such writings; you either have to shred them, hide them or risk a member of your family finding them and contacting the local police/psychiatric hospital/your ex-boss (this last one actually happened, but that’s another story). However, I don’t want to have to curtail my therapy on the off-chance that someone will stumble across them, so blogging seems the perfect answer.
Considering how much potential damage a blog can cause, and the fact that I hold a clinical caseload and manage a team, I intend this to be anonymous. After all, whilst many of them are infuriating at times, and all are a bit bonkers in their own way, I do love them all. Mostly.
So, back to today, this individual seems to rub everyone up the wrong way. This became evident quite soon after she joined the team several years ago, and resulted in a great deal of time and energy being invested in friendly chats, critical feedback, coaching, mentoring, supervision, academic teaching and plenty more. Despite all this, she has continued to upset patients and intimidate her colleagues on a daily basis. Initially I concluded that she had absolutely no insight into how what she said, her tone of voice and body language affected those she came into contact with, hence all the supportive interventions to help her gain some self-awareness.
However, following today’s events and a recent conversation with one of her patients, (who also happens to be a member of the PCT’s senior management team), I have come to believe that she has full insight into her behaviour; It seems that once she realised that her patient was actually a ‘VIP’, she dropped the patronising and dismissive approach; became courteous, charming and amenable, and eagerly handed over a script for antibiotics which she had been denying the patient to treat the ‘virus’ she had diagnosed until, that is, their identity became evident.
Today, during a debate about another patient’s management, she momentarily forgot who I was, allowing me to experience being on the receiving end her alter-ego for the first time. Her alter-ego is not a nice person, her nostrils flared, her eyes became wild, her hands balled into fists and her language became very controlled and articulate. Very few people have intimidated or frightened me at work, until today. Feeling quite vulnerable, I managed to hold my nerve and pointed out that the patient was waiting, and asked that she come back later to discuss this once she had calmed down. “I don't think so” was the response, followed by my office door slamming. (personally I would have added 'Sonny Jim' to the end of this response, c/o Halfwit of Big Brother fame, but maybe that would have made it less venomous)
Once I had done a spot of deep breathing, lifted my head out of my hands, walked around the block for a breath of fresh air (sneaky fag) I ventured to the toilet. There I was, a slave to my nervous bladder, when I heard a couple of people enter the toilets. We all know the girls’ toilet is a good place for a gossip. Let me tell you that it is also a good place to find out what people are saying about you. Especially when they don’t know you are there. It appears that this individual had certainly reflected on our encounter and her behaviour, and used the ensuing time productively. Word on the block is that I turn into a mad, swearing woman with a fondness for chucking small bits of office equipment around her desk if anyone dare get on my wrong side. "How unprofessional...", then the door closed, and I was alone again.
Suffice to say, the suggested discussion didn’t happen, or I may well have turned into that mad, swearing woman I had been depicted as. Instead, I did what anyone else would have done, and came home to get my plasticine and pins out......
Having had a good pin sticking session and a therapeutic vodka and tonic, I think I know how I am going to manage this situation, however, if any of you out there have any sensible (or insensible but satisfying) suggestions, then please let me know ................. I would love to hear what you would do in this situation.
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