Thursday 14th November 1991   Morning surgery 10:50

Valerie Vaughan stomped into Dad’s room. She sat down and looked angrily at him. She was obviously in a bad mood.

“I would like to see my medical notes, Dr Dennis.”
“Your medical notes?”
“Yes, my medical notes. I think I’ve got every right to see them.”
“Why do you want to see your notes, Mrs Vaughan?”
“I would like to see what’s in them.”
“Yes, but what has made you want to see that after all these years?”
“Well, last week I saw Dr Rothman, the locum.”
“I know.”
“You were away, fortunately. He said to me that he has never seen a woman of my age with such a thin set of notes.”
“I see.”
“He said that he was very surprised that I had never had a single, serious illness. My past medical history was completely empty.”
“I see.”
“He said he was shocked that, apart from a few blood tests in 1979, I had never been referred for investigations or sent to see a specialist. He seemed to think it was unheard of.”
“I see.”
“Over the years, Dr Dennis, I have come to see you fairly frequently with, what I would regard as, a number of serious health complaints. In all that time, you have not made one proper diagnosis! I have never had any treatment. It is a wonder I am still here!”
“Well, you are still here, Mrs Vaughan, and, to me, you are looking as fit as you ever have. As far as I am concerned, a thin set of notes is a credit to both of us.”

A thin set of notes.