One Sunday morning I could not get out of bed. I was not hungover. Over the next few hours, I sweated through the bedsheets and mattress protector in our friends’ guest room. By early afternoon I had put myself in their shower and shame-facedly stripped the bed.

The next day, I called in sick for the first time in 23 years. Tuesday morning, I dragged myself into work, did morning surgery, and was found by one of our receptionists asleep on my examination couch. Not my best demonstration of responsible behaviour. My (fairly newly appointed) junior partner woke me up, took bloods, and sent me home. Luckily Tuesday was a half day for me, but I wasn’t able to share the midday home visits with him. My results were unremarkable.

Wednesday was spent in bed and by Thursday I allowed myself to ask for …