On a Friday morning earlier this year I kept an appointment with Dr Mark Hamilton, a consultant physician and gastroenterologist at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, to ask him about a bowel complaint.
I was in two minds about whether my symptoms were significant enough to justify taking up Dr Hamilton’s time. It seemed to me that if I went to see him, I might be yielding to hypochondria, but if I did nothing, and I turned out to have the early stages of a still curable cancer, my wife would be furious. She speaks very highly of Dr Hamilton, who has treated her for ulcerative colitis. About a year ago she had a colonoscopy, and I formed the distinct impression that she would not be satisfied until I had undergone the same procedure.
On the way to hospital, I felt a pain in my chest, but attributed this to a rather contemptible anxiety about seeing Dr Hamilton, and decided not to tell him about it. He examined me, and after listening intently to my chest, told me I have a heart murmur. It seemed unreasonable at this point not to tell him about the chest pain, which I had never experienced before. He said he wanted me to have some tests, which could be carried out most quickly in the accident and emergency department.
The cardiologist who saw me in A & E said the first tests were fine, but he wanted to do a second blood test, 12 hours after the pain started, and a stress test on a treadmill which could not be carried out until Monday. I was admitted to Langton Ward on the eighth floor, from whose window I could see about ten minutes’ walk away the tiny street where I live. I felt as if I was in a castle — or a very brutish, unromantic fortress — gazing down at the dwellings of peasants.
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