Bent double, like our patients with sore
backs,
Inwards we curse, observe but never judge
As we treat symptoms, paper over cracks;
Our tiring, caring hearts won’t budge.
Not having time to explore the roots
Of patients’ existential pain, and so
half-blind,
Drunk with fatigue; searching for any
shoots
Of change, or words that seem a little kind.
QOF! QOF! Alerts flash! — Prompting quiet
mumbling,
Asking the clumsy questions, just in time;
To someone still not finished with their
grumbling,
And we flounder like fish caught on a line.
Squinting hard through misty eyes in
artificial light,
Thrown by the incongruity, I saw him
frowning.
‘Do your asthma symptoms bother you at
night?’
He answered me, spluttering, joking,
clowning.
Too many measurements to keep up with
the pace
Of change in evidence, and in politics
mixed in,
With the science of counting and giving
chase
To markers of performance and all the
points we win;
Once we’ve ticked all the boxes that we
could,
Begged forgiveness for the QOF-corrupted
wrongs,
Realised the patient’s more than flesh and
blood,
But a product of the community to which
he belongs,
A warning cry, before ordering another
test,
To GPs ardent for yet more QOF glory,
Lest you believe: sticking to this soulless
quest
Completes the patient story.
- © British Journal of General Practice 2013
