
General practice teaches many things
Grief arrives quietly
Hypertension rarely announces itself
And dignity
I have learnt,
Is the first casualty
Of a viral gastroenteritis
When the bowels start their quiet, steady mutiny
Trust dissolves faster than the electrolytes
You begin to lose faith in a sphincter you didn’t realise you had
And the daring gamble of a sneeze, a cough or even a laugh
They never say diarrhoea. They say
‘Doc, it’s not right’.
Each patient becomes a reluctant poet of their bowels
Obsessed with the contents of a toilet bowl
I asked about duration. He answered with textures
A detailed description fit for an artist
I sought symptoms. She answered in colour codes
with the precision of a sommelier
describing Pinot Noir
What is this obsession with food metaphors?
‘Like gravy fleeing a Yorkshire pudding’
‘It was the consistency of pesto’
‘like a chocolate mousse — the cheap ones’
‘suspicious colour like a bearnaise sauce’
The vivid accounts continue
‘Explosive, doctor, truly explosive’
‘I nearly didn’t make it’
Niagara through a paper straw
With such volcanic force
a muddy river after rainfall
And still I push to ask
‘Any blood or mucus?’
As though there is ever a dignified answer.
Somewhere in every NHS surgery
A clinician nods solemnly
At a description of ‘floating fragments’
Whilst internally wondering
How civilisation became this.
You suffered this symphony of A minor and major urgency
Desperate to be witnessed, to share the details
Then comes the sentence every clinician dreads
‘I took photos, would you like to have a look’.
No, no clinician living or yet to come
Has ever thought:
I wish there were pictures.
Featured photo by Belinda Fewings on Unsplash.