Nearly two years ago I became a ‘patient’. I was happy to be one. It was a small price to pay for having my life saved. And I threw myself into my new role. I allowed myself to be wheeled round the hospital to different departments for various tests, I held out my arm to have blood taken, lifted my top up for the heparin injections to be administered and consented for my chest to be cracked open to have my heart repaired. I was a good patient. I even started to enjoy hospital food. But two years have passed. I am no longer a patient. I have had open heart surgery. I have recovered well. I may be on medication for life but it is now down to me.

My health is my responsibility. And I think I am doing quite a good job. But every now and then I get reminded that the medical profession think they have control and know best. Or think they do. Now I don’t take this view from a position of complete ignorance. I am a qualified nurse and a registered midwife. I am acutely aware of the amazing things the NHS can achieve but also of its limitations.

Last week I had the joy of the annual chat with the pharmacist. Now for those of you that are fortunate enough not to be a regular at the chemist you may require an explanation as to what this entails. It is an opportunity for the pharmacist to quiz you on the medication you are taking ensuring that you know what it is for and that you are taking it correctly. All very laudable but you can’t help feeling patronised by the experience. I do sometimes wonder whether who I see in the mirror is what others see. Surely he must have thought he was addressing a frail old woman with limited understanding and failing eyesight. But things got a bit better when I was able to demonstrate that my IQ was above average and I was unlikely to overdose myself in the foreseeable future. In fact he commented that he remembered me from the previous year as a star student. But things were about to deteriorate.

Back in May I was discharged from Barts Hospital. I think my response to the question on my ability to walk up stairs clinched it. And since then I have climbed a few mountains. But the one thing I did want to know was whether I could reduce the beta blocker I was on. He thought I could reduce it but it had to be done slowly with a close eye on my resting heart rate which needed to be kept below 80 bpm. Five months on, with no sign of medical supervision, I have halved the dose. My resting heart rate remains below 60 bpm.

Foolishly I mentioned this to the pharmacist. He was not happy. He told me I needed to increase the dose immediately and that I was risking my health by not doing so. And that if I insisted on remaining on a reduced dose I needed to tell a doctor. I asked him what doctor should I tell. I am no longer under the care of a cardiologist and I couldn’t see the benefit of discussing it with the two GPs’ that have done their best to bring about my early demise. So stalemate.

We then, somehow, got onto the subject of exercise. Now whilst I have to bow down to his superior knowledge on all things pharmaceutical it wasn’t going to end well if he tried to give me advice on exercise. And it didn’t. Apparently, any attempt to indulge in intense exercise would wear my body out and shorten my life. I felt obliged to tell him that he was wrong. That all the credible evidence supported the position that wear and tear can be reversed by intense exercise.

So with a ‘see you next year’ I walked away feeling disappointed that the medical possession is not required to keep up to date with the latest evidence on what keeps people healthy and even more determined to be responsible for my own health. I am not a patient. And long may that last.