It started, as these things often do, with the promise of progress. A urology appointment, finally. I walked in hopeful. The consultant opened with, “I believe you spoke to my colleague Mr…” — only I hadn’t. I’d spoken to no one. The CT scan on her screen? A year old. To the day. Honestly, if I had realised it was its birthday, we could’ve lit a candle and sung it a song.
She informed me, with a straight face, that they couldn’t operate based on an old scan. That would be reckless. No, what we needed was a fresh scan, so they could definitely ignore that one too. Apparently, the NHS aims to remove stuck kidney stones within six weeks. I’m now on month thirteen. The stone left my kidney before the first scan — so we’re treating the aftermath of something that happened before the diagnosis, which happened before the referral, which was forgotten.
And just to add insult to literal injury: I wasn’t even meant to be waiting this long. I’d received a letter saying Mr… had arranged an “urgent appointment.” However, somewhere between urgent and useless, I was quietly removed from the waiting list by mistake. Nobody thought to mention this. It only took me nine months to find out I was, in fact, waiting for something I’d been officially erased from. Efficiency at its finest.
Scan done. Two weeks pass. I received an appointment notification for six weeks after the scan was performed. Yes, the same scan that was needed urgently, to meet the target… of six weeks. The irony is so thick you could pass a stent through it.
Still no op. But I know what’s coming: a laser, up the old chap, to blast the thing out. In medical terms, that’s called retrograde intrarenal surgery. In Bleh! terms? It’s called a very long wait for a laser up your bits because someone lost the paperwork.