Quick Reads This Is Going To Hurt: An Easy To Read Version Of The Bestselling Book

In 2010, I left my job as a junior doctor. My parents will probably never forgive me.

Last year, I was sent a letter that said I would never be able to work as a doctor again. It wasn’t a big shock, as I had not set foot in a hospital for so long. But I still found it sad that this part of my life had come to an end.

It was good news for my spare room at least. I cleared out box after box of papers, and the only things that I saved were my old diaries. As I read through the stories – some funny, some sad, some painful – I remembered the long hours and the huge effect the job had had on my life. I could not believe I had worked so hard, though at the time I just got on with it.

Around the time I was reading my old diaries, junior doctors were being attacked in the news. It was hard for them to tell the public their side of the story, probably because they were too busy working all the time. I thought people should know the truth about what it really means to be a doctor. I wanted to do my bit to stick up for them.

So I decided to share my story. Here are some of the notes I kept during my time in the NHS – the good, the bad and the ugly. They show what it’s really like on the wards, the ways the job changed my life, and how one day it all got too much.

Tuesday, 3 August 2004

Day one. My partner, H, has made me a packed lunch. I have a bag full of brand-new doctor’s equipment, a new shirt and a new email address. The person who set it up has spelled my name wrong. It is [email protected]. It’s good to know that, no matter what happens today, no one can say I’m the most useless person in the hospital. I can blame everything on Atom, whoever he is.

Monday, 30 August 2004

We may not get much free time, but we make up for it in stories about patients. Today over lunch we are telling each other the strange things we have had people complain about. They include itchy teeth and a patient who felt pain in their arm every time they went for a wee. Each story gets a polite laugh.

Then it is Sam’s turn. He tells us he saw someone this morning who thought they could only sweat from one half of their face.

He sits back and waits for the laugh, but there’s nothing. Until we all say at the same time that it sounds like the sign of a serious lung problem. Sam runs off to make a phone call and get the patient back on the ward. I finish his Twix.

Friday, 10 September 2004

I find it strange that every patient on the ward has a pulse of sixty on their chart, so I go and watch the nurse at work while he’s not looking. He feels the patient’s pulse, looks at his watch and carefully counts the number of seconds per minute.

Sunday, 17 October 2004

I didn’t panic when my patient started spraying blood out of his mouth and onto my shirt. But I didn’t know what else to do either. Shove a load of kitchen roll down there?

When my boss arrived, he acted quickly and put a tube down the poor patient’s throat. Blood was going everywhere: all over me, my boss, the walls, the ceiling. It was like a nightmare episode of Changing Rooms. The sound was the worst part. You could hear the blood choke the man with each breath.

The man did stop bleeding, but for the saddest reason. My boss confirmed the patient’s death, wrote in the notes and asked the nurse to tell the family. I changed out of my wet clothes.

So there we go, the first death I’ve ever seen and every bit as awful as it could have been. My boss took me outside for a cigarette – we both needed one after that. And I don’t even smoke.

Tuesday, 9 November 2004

I am called down to the ward at 3 a.m., just as I’ve closed my eyes for the first time in three shifts. It’s to give a sleeping pill to a patient whose need for sleep is apparently more important than mine. I must have magic powers, because I stagger down there only to find the patient has already fallen asleep.

Friday, 12 November 2004

My boss, Henry, has worked out why a patient’s blood tests aren’t normal. They have been affected by some herbal tablets the patient has been taking to make her feel calmer. Henry explains the side effects and she is shocked. ‘I thought they were just made from plants. How dangerous can they be?’

Everyone else in the room goes silent, as Henry sighs. It’s clearly not the first time he’s heard this from a patient.

‘Apricot stones contain