An Apple a Day.

When i lived in suburbia with my parents our local GP was Mr Williams.

He was a great doctor, always welcoming, a family man himself with impeccable bed-side manner and he gave the impression he cared, even during the night when he would come to visit if you needed him.

When he retired the GP practice became a drop-in health centre where there might be a doctor you had seen before, but most probably not. It was a cold place where no one liked to linger and unless you needed antibiotics you rarely went near the place.

If antibiotics had been available over the counter at the chemist, nobody would have EVER gone there.

When I left for university I discovered that doctors now slept at night time and sent someone else to see you if you were ill; this person neither cared nor knew very much.

And after that I pretty much stopped believing in them.

But the best doctor I have ever had is the one I have now. He lives on the other side of the forest from me and although he too is unlikely to get up in the middle of the night, his daytime service is so close to excellent that you would be unlikely to need him.

When you live in a country different from the one where you were born, people often ask: - “Why did you leave?”

The question that they ought to ask is: - “Why do you stay?” and in my case it could be because this doctor is so good.

I’m not sure of his training; he is certainly a homeopath and a acupuncturist but he is also a bit of a Zen master, and I admire his down to earth approach to health.

One time I turned up for a consultation, he asked me what was up and I launched into a list of symptoms and complaints as long as my memory.

He sat and listened, without more than an occasional nod of his head, and after 45 minutes when I eventually came to a stop he looked me directly in the eyes and said: -“And what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Well I thought you might be able to give a few pills or something.”

“Oh Chris, you know it’s not as simple as that;”

Another time I went to see him about an allergic reaction that I had experienced.

Again he listened carefully.

“The first time I was in Toulouse and I had this pastry in a shop, maybe there was some herb in it that I’m allergic to. The second time I was sitting in the garden, sso I think it might be a plant that grows in grass, and the third time I was eating a pizza, so maybe it’s thyme or oregano.”

He looked at me with those same philosophical blue eyes.

“Well, Chris…there are two ways at looking at allergies. Either you stop going to Toulouse, sitting in the garden and give up pizza or we look at what’s going on emotionally for you at these moments.”

I’ve sat and cried in his office, we’ve laughed and I kiss him when I arrive and when I leave.

Why am I telling you all this?

God knows.

But then, why are you reading it?

Anyway… on Friday I went with my niece – she needed some acupuncture and a translator as her French, isn’t.

“This is my niece”, I explained after kissing him; he has a bristly moustache.

“ I was expecting Krissie to come with her.” He replied.

“Yes, I know, but she had to go and buy point shoes with Minnie and I said…”

“Is it your niece then?”

“Yes.”

“Not Krissie’s?” – my wife had made the initial appointment.

“Yes, her dad is my brother-in-law”.

“He’s married to your sister?”

“No, it’s Krissie’s brother, but he’s my brother-in-law”

“In French I would say this is my wife’s niece”

"Ah really, in England...."

At this point I think we both sensed that the conversation, fascinating as an insight into the French/English divide as it was, was drifting, and my niece coughed inpatiently – so we stopped and I ushered in the symptoms my niece (in law?) had outlined in the car.

He asked questions, I translated, she answered and soon we were both in tears.

I learnt a few things I hadn’t known, though I can’t repeat them – a patient’s secrets are confidential, even if you aren't a priest, only the translator.

Instead I’ll leave you with a translation of something pinned to the wall of the waiting room.

Fear knocked on the door.
Faith opened it.
There was nothing there.