I found something strange on my back – and eventually I just couldn’t ignore it | Adrian Chiles

The NHS is a strange fish. This often works almost wonderfully. Almost, but frustratingly not quite.

I had this thing behind my shoulder that, given where it was, I couldn’t really see it. Yet I could feel it. A soft, warty thing. I will spare you a more complete description.

So I embarked on my tried-and-true routine for dealing with vaguely troubling symptoms: 1. Pretend it wasn’t there. 2. Recognize that this is the case. 3. Convince myself that it’s growing. 4. Ask a loved one to take a photo. 5. Examine the photo while gagging slightly. 6. Send to a doctor friend, who tells you to go to your GP. 7. Forget it. 8. Remember this. 9. Try and fail to get an appointment with a GP. 10. Forget it again. 11. Remember this again. 12. Do your best to get an appointment with a GP and therefore succeed.

All the while of course, I oscillate between two opposing convictions: one that it’s fatal, two that it’s nothing. And between these things, nothing happens.

Also, I have to admit that between steps 5 and 6 I made things complicated by picking up the damn thing almost clean. He came rushing back, looking angrier than before. So whatever the weaknesses of the NHS, I always bear in mind that they are often dealing with idiots like me.

The GP said it was probably nothing, but I should get it checked out. She gave me a reference code to log in and secure my appointment. So far, so good. She said not to worry about the words ‘suspicious’, ‘urgent’ and ‘cancer’ on the form, as it was just a matter of moving things forward. Good. Reassuring, I find. And the referral system seemed robust. Good use of IT, technology, application, etc. Well done everyone.

I searched the site, filling in lots of stuff, moving like I was good at a video game from one level to the next. And then a dead end. A dead end in the form of a message that there were no appointments available at the hospital I had been referred to. And from what I could see, no appointments elsewhere. And like in a video game, there’s no one to call. Shrug your shoulders. There was a box to leave a message/cry of despair, so I put my number and email in hoping someone would contact me.

Two days later, I hadn’t heard a sound. Although if I had received a waiting email advising me not to panic and that they would be in touch, that would have helped. In the absence of that, as far as I knew, I was lost to the system forever. A lack of confidence on my part perhaps? Maybe. If so, it’s my fault. But I considered my options. I could wait, perhaps in vain, to hear from someone. Or I could go back to my GP and take up more of his time. Or go private.

A specialist didn’t have an appointment until December but would look at a photo of what I was worried about for £250. The nerve. In the end, I found a £210 appointment at a skin clinic in a posh part of town. Obviously, I’m lucky enough to be able to consider going private. I did it partly because anxiety was taking over my head; partly because I thought at least I was saving the NHS the trouble.

This place was in a small alley. The air was fragrant. The receptionist looked like a model. I stammered something about a warty lesion and soon a lovely dermatologist took me to her consulting room. “Let’s go check everything out,” she said.

I stripped down to my pants so she could begin a thorough assessment of all my imperfections. Very few were moles. Except when she looked at my butt, at which point she exclaimed that I had more moles there than anywhere else. I felt a surge of pride, for some reason. I won’t tell you where she looked next, except to say, rather her than me. And she was polite enough to ask permission first. The whole process, both slow and stressful, took 45 minutes.

As for the object on my shoulder, it had to be removed and sent for inspection, just in case. For this the price was £610. She said I might as well wait for the NHS to contact me and do it for nothing. But it didn’t feel like cricket to me either.

As I was thinking about it, my phone rang. The NHS had suddenly come to life, a little too urgently for my liking, and within minutes I was heading to a large teaching hospital in a less posh part of the city. No problem here counting the moles on my butt, I tell you. The dermatologist called me over, sat me down and took a look at my stuff. He said it may or may not be cancer, but either way it needs to be found out as soon as possible and they will keep in touch.

I was in and out of there in 10 minutes flat. He had said essentially the same thing the nice woman had said to me an hour earlier, although the cancer/no cancer result was more like 50/50. If I had rated the experience on Trustpilot, I would have said it was decidedly professional, although a little lacking in the bedside manner department. But hey, nothing to complain about.

Then, 10 days after my double-derm day, I still hadn’t heard about an excision appointment and there was no one to call. My trust in the system was waning again, so I decided to find £610 and get it over with. At that moment I suddenly received a phone call, text, email and a message to the NHS app. From no communication to too much.

So it happens that as I write these lines, I am going back to see the same brusque guy to have whatever is incriminated excised. Bring it. I doubt it will take him long. Let’s start by putting an end to this saga.

Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and columnist for the Guardian

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