Complaints: The Tomahawk and the Truth

There’s a line in Hamilton — yes, the musical, not the man — about trying to put out a fire from inside the house. That’s what complaints can feel like as a doctor. You’re burning, you’re inside, and you’re somehow expected to be the one holding the fire extinguisher. Objectivity? Forget it. You can’t stay neutral while you’re the one on fire.

Now, full disclosure — I’ve had complaints. Some have been about tone, some about delay, some about existing, probably. I’m not perfect.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever said, “Sod this guy and everything he stands for,” then fair play. I get it.

I might’ve written something you disagreed with.

I might’ve looked at you funny.

Or maybe you were just having a really shit day.

It happens.

But complaints are hard to talk about without sounding defensive or, worse, condescending. So I’m not going to give you a listicle of “Ten Ways to Handle Complaints Like a Pro.” That’s bollocks. This is the real side of it.

The Two-Headed Beast: Direct vs. Indirect Complaints

Most complaints boil down to one of two types:

• Direct: Your name’s on it. Aimed squarely at you. Probably about your tone, your plan, your face. If you’re lucky, it’s a misunderstanding. If you’re unlucky, it’s deeply personal.

• Indirect: More nebulous. The system. The team. The appointment structure. A general air of disappointment with the universe but filtered through your clinic door.

Direct complaints sting. Not always because they’re unfounded — sometimes they are absolutely bang on — but because they’re filtered through someone else’s grief, anger, or frustration. You stop being a human and start being The Doctor Who Didn’t…

What People Want When They Complain

Here’s the rub — most complaints aren’t about getting you struck off. They’re about needing to be heard.

Someone wants to know that something went wrong, and that someone, somewhere, gave a shit about it.

And let me be crystal clear: complaints can absolutely be justified. I’ve handed people the complaints forms myself when I knew something wasn’t right. It’s not about denying that harm happens. It’s about dealing with that harm in a system that often responds with bureaucracy and cold letters.

But sometimes the complaint isn’t about that.

It’s about escalation.

It’s about control.

It’s about proving something — to themselves, to the system, to you.

And that’s where it gets tricky.

The Problem with Complaints-as-Weapons

Because sometimes complaints are a tomahawk, not a torch. Not designed to illuminate anything, just to scalp. To cause fear, or make sure the next time someone gets extra bloods, extra scans, extra sorries. That kind of defensive medicine — it’s a survival mechanism. And it’s dangerous.

I’ve seen colleagues shattered by the process. Not because they did something wrong, but because they were on the end of someone’s everything.

I’ve seen investigations launched where the actual issue was that the patient “just didn’t like him.” And maybe they didn’t. That’s allowed. But there is a difference between disliking someone and demanding their career in exchange for your discomfort.

What a Good Complaint Looks Like

Yes, there are good complaints. They sometimes start with framing, honesty, humanity: “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I just don’t want this to happen to someone else.”

That? That’s the start of gold. That’s the kind of considered complaint that changes systems. It’s not about punishment. It’s about learning.

Compare that to: “I want him gone.” That’s not learning. That’s vengeance.

And if you’re someone making a complaint, my plea to you is this: know what you want from it.

Is it an apology?

A change in practice?

Clarity about what happened?

Fine. Fab. Ask for that. If it’s a scalp? Ask yourself why first.

Professionalism and the Persona of Perfection

Doctors aren’t perfect. Some are dickheads. Some are just tired. Some are both. But the standard we’re held to is often paradoxical — higher than humanly possible and lower than you’d expect, depending on who you ask.

We’re expected to never err, but also expected to handle twenty patients with complex needs in ten-minute slots while documenting like a barrister. Mistakes are inevitable. They just are.

So when you complain — and again, you should complain when things go wrong — know that what you’re starting is a process. One that will be weighed, investigated, audited. But it won’t always end the way you want. And that’s not a betrayal. That’s just the mess of trying to turn human error into system reform.

Closing Thoughts: To the Person Who Complained About Me

I’m sorry. Truly. If you were hurt, I want to know how. I want to understand it. But I also want you to understand that I’m human too. I’m not going to treat your illness with a checkbox or your anger with a script. I’m going to try my best, and some days that won’t be enough.

So if you do have to complain — about me, or anyone else — do it with the same thing we’re supposed to bring to the job: empathy.

Because this isn’t about avoiding complaint. It’s about making sure complaint means something.

Stay Indignant

—DW