Diagnosis by google and the man who ate too much fish

So, on Monday I had to go to Accident and Emergency. Nothing serious, but worth getting checked out to assuage my own over-active paranoia. However, before going to the A&E I went to the walk-in clinic in Soho - kind of like an emergency GP's office - to make sure that it wasn't something that could wait a few days to go see my actual GP about.

After spending an hour waiting to see someone, and having to subsequently cancel my evening with two old friends to which I had been looking forward for some time, this little Irish lady popped her head out of her room and called my name like it was an item off an Indian takeaway menu. Nevertheless, I followed her in and I told her what was wrong. Now what followed was possibly the least confidence inspiring experience I have ever had in a doctor's office.

At first, everything was going normal. She checked my vitals and asked all the right questions, but then it came to making a diagnosis - or even just a rough estimate would have been helpful. After reading all my symptoms that she had scribbled hastily on to her little notepad for the third time, she said: "oh my God, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. If I were you, I'd go to A&E, but I just don't know."

Now, you can imagine how I, the patient who had been panickly saying those exact words to myself for the last hour, felt on hearing these words. Fair to say, I was starting to have my doubts about the ability of this particular nurse practicioner. Yet lo and behold, she had an idea. Perhaps I had misjudged her. Maybe she did know her stuff all along and I was just being too hard on her.

So, I stood next to her and watched as she typed my symptoms into google and then proceeded to scroll through each website that came up, most of which were internet forums dominated by random people discussing the details of their own exotic illnesses to each other. For a brief moment she thought she had struck gold when she found one post listing all the same symptoms as me. Alas her hopes were dashed as she read on and discovered that the author had in fact been complaining about mercury poisoning he had contracted through eating too much fish.

So, I finally put our brave friend out of her misery, informing her that I now definitely would be going to the A&E where I could see, you know, an actual doctor. She asked for my number (try not to get too hot under the collar here - it's not what you think) so she could check on my progress because she was "just curious" as to what the hell exactly was wrong with me. Luckily she has not yet called me, so either she forgot or she finally found the answer she was looking for on google. In any case, she has saved me an awkward conversation and an unwanted reminder of the dilapidated state of British medicine today.

God bless the NHS!