Thus states the affirmation in the CMF Handbook,[1] sentiments with which we are all likely to agree. Yet, how many of us as doctors have groaned at 'not another over-dose', or become annoyed with the drunken driver or the familiar abusive alcoholic. If our conscience catches us, we can readily think of excuses - we're over-tired or hungry or we can't be expected to care for those who are dirty, drunk, or whom we cannot understand.

As a junior doctor I was guilty of these thoughts, even if I would have denied it when I was well rested. Recently, however, I have been forced to think about this again, but from the other side.

We are made in God's image. We all know that we should care for our bodies. Some might think that no Christian could deliberately harm their body, but this is what I did. During a long spell of depression, which led to the loss of both my job and career, I deliberately harmed myself, cut myself.

Once, I made a mistake and went further than I had intended, beyond the point where I could steristrip myself back together. I summoned up my courage and went to casualty. Actually, if I'm honest, it wasn't a mistake. I wanted to go to casualty. I was desperate. I had spoken to my Key Worker only days before and again she had reinforced the fact the services were so stretched that there was no one in the Mental Health Team I could contact between appointments. I already felt I had a season ticket with the Samaritans. I didn't know what else to do.

Imagine yourself working in casualty on a Friday lunchtime. You are dreaming of your weekend off, or maybe dreading your weekend on call. Another patient walks in, this time with a relatively minor but self-inflicted wound. The wound on the outside seems small to you, but inside there is a confused, hurting and desperate person. There is someone who used to enjoy life and who worked hard like you do. There is someone who knows that God loves her even if she finds that difficult to believe at times. There is someone who, only a few months ago, would have never believed that she could do this to herself.

I learnt a lot that Friday lunchtime. I learnt about non-verbal communication. I had to, for the nurse ignored me as she stuck me back together with steristrips.

'We don't stitch people who cut themselves', she said, although she later denied this. I learnt that how we treat our patients affects them for the rest of that day, that week or longer. I hated myself. I wasn't helped by other people showing that they resented me being there.

There was one positive experience in that casualty department. One nurse held my hand, listened for a while and made me feel that I mattered, at least to her. I wonder whether she realizes how important that was. Professionally, I have probably learnt a lesson too late. I am unlikely ever to return to clinical medicine and treat my patients as I would like to have been treated.

Commenting on patients whose illnesses are self-induced, the Doctor's Life Support for 10th July states:[2] 'Stern warning may be needed but a loving word or deed accompanying professional advice may make all the difference to their lives... If we care, he cares far more and can even bring great good from great tragedy.'

We all need to remember that the patient who calls us as we sit down to a meal, disrupts our social plans, the drunk, the overdose and the self-harmer are someone's friend or relative, possibly even our friend or relative. And may I suggest, 'they' may be 'us' one day.

Anonymous