The Patient Who Never Left the Practice

What do we carry as GPs? Not just a stethoscope, a clinical bag, or the weight of a busy day. We carry fragments of people’s lives. Sometimes, we carry a patient long after they have left our consulting room. It was an ordinary day in 2012. I was performing a skin procedure. In the cubicle next to me, a two-year-old girl—a regular patient of another GP—was having a dressing changed for recurrent burns. She was crying while a young nurse tried to comfort her. After finishing my procedure, I went over to support the nurse and offered the little girl a lollipop. A tiny gesture. But it became the beginning of a friendship. She returned every week for another dressing. I was not her GP, yet somehow I became her “lollipop GP.” Sometimes Mum brought her. Sometimes Dad did. Then a question began to follow me: Why was this little child being burned so often? I spoke with the nurse and her regular GP. During one visit, I gently asked Dad about the recurrent injuries. I learned he was her stepfather. He explained that she loved playing in an inflatable pool and that this was causing the burns. The explanation was plausible. Yet something in me remained unsettled. Then I went on vacation. When I returned, she was missing. What followed was devastating. The little girl had been the victim of homicide. Fourteen years later, I still remember her face. And the lollipop. For years, I wondered whether I could have done more. Eventually, I realised I had a choice: carry her as guilt, or carry her as a lesson. I chose the lesson. That lesson has become something I now teach my registrars: Know the relationship of whoever accompanies your patient. Don’t simply record “mother,” “father,” “partner,” or “friend.” Pause. Ask yourself: Why are they here? Are they here for support? For accompaniment? To help communicate? Or are they answering questions that the patient should be answering themselves? It is not about suspicion. It is about professional curiosity. A repeated injury. An inconsistent story. A sudden change in behaviour. A child’s silence. A relationship that feels uncomfortable. None of these, alone, proves anything. But they may be the loose thread that deserves gentle attention. As GPs, we often encounter people in the ordinary moments of their lives. Sometimes, hidden within an ordinary consultation, is an extraordinary story. We may be the person who notices the detail everyone else walked past. That is our third eye. Not paranoia. Not judgement. Just awareness. I never stopped being the lollipop GP. But I became a more observant one. And I still tell this story—not to create fear, but to remind us of the privilege and responsibility of general practice. Look beyond the diagnosis. Listen beyond the words. Understand the relationships. Ask the extra question. Because sometimes, the smallest observation can become the difference between simply treating a patient and protecting a life. Some patients leave our consulting rooms. Some become part of our conscience. And some remain with us for a lifetime. That is what we carry.