Just Another Statistic is a gripping memoir tracing your disorienting descent into autoimmune illness and misdiagnosis as you fight to make sense of a body and a healthcare system that keeps failing. Why was this an important book for you to write?

I felt cheated by the system. The doctors colluded despite overwhelming evidence. Experts defended their colleagues by glossing over facts. One doctor was brave enough to stand up against his colleagues, which gave me hope. But when the barrister pulled out the day before trial, it was devastating – I couldn’t afford to continue, and accountability became impossible.

Writing this book became essential because the story needed to be told, but not just mine. Thousands of patients – particularly those with autoimmune conditions – go through this same pattern of dismissal and misdiagnosis. They’re told their symptoms aren’t real, that they’re anxious, that test results matter more than their lived experience. I wanted to create an unflinching record that validates that experience and shows what happens when the medical system fails someone systematically – not through one dramatic error, but through countless small dismissals that compound into something life-threatening. If the legal system wouldn’t hold anyone accountable, at least the written record would exist.

How did you decide what parts of your medical journey to include, especially when so much of it was confusing or frightening in the moment?

I documented everything during my illness in real-time – the confusion, the symptoms being dismissed, the mounting evidence that was ignored. I stopped writing when I ended up back in hospital, and in some ways that natural endpoint made sense. Those initial years were the most significant – this is what fundamentally changed my life. An earlier diagnosis could have prevented so much of the damage that followed.

I also included everything that showed the pattern of medical failure. It wasn’t just about my journey – I wanted readers who might be experiencing something similar to recognise the warning signs. The moments where symptoms get overlooked, where you’re sent home when you should be admitted, where doctors prioritise their assumptions over clinical evidence. The confusion and fear weren’t just backdrop; they were part of the story. Cognitive fog isn’t a neat narrative device – it’s disorienting and repetitive, and I kept that messiness intentional because that’s how chronic illness actually feels: non-linear, scattered, exhausting.

Were there specific memories or scenes that you found emotionally hardest to write, particularly those involving cognitive fog or hospital stays?

Writing about it now has been harder than I expected. Reliving the experience and the frustration – knowing the doctors involved faced no accountability – still makes me furious. I was too ill to fight the case on my own. If I had to do it today, I’d go to court and represent myself. But they took advantage of my illness and lack of funds, and I agreed not to pursue the matter further.

However, I never agreed not to write about it. They probably didn’t worry about that anyway – my life expectancy was supposed to be short. The hospital stays were brutal to revisit – particularly the moments of desperate, uncontrolled pain. I remember begging to be hit over the head with a hammer because the pain was so overwhelming. Writing about that level of suffering, and knowing it was preventable with proper diagnosis, was excruciating. The cognitive fog sections were also difficult because I had to authentically capture what it feels like when your mind stops working properly. You can’t think your way out of not being able to think. And documenting that failed legal battle – the negligence I couldn’t afford to hold anyone accountable for – that was enraging to put on the page.

What do you hope medical professionals take away from your account of being repeatedly dismissed or misread by the healthcare system?

I hope they learn to have a sense of responsibility. Not all doctors are ‘good’, and when they’re asked to review a patient, they need to see them as a blank slate and make up their own minds. Don’t follow like a herd of sheep – it makes second opinions pointless. I was reviewed by twelve different doctors, and the pattern of collusion was unmistakable. Ultimately, I hope they’ll learn the signs of lupus, check results properly, and actually pursue concerning findings instead of dismissing them.

But I’m always left questioning the financial incentives at play. I was in a private hospital where doctors had a blank cheque. Some would pop into my room, nod for two minutes, and charge £100 for the privilege. The longer I stayed misdiagnosed, the more money was made. Perhaps people think I’m paranoid, but the medical notes – and the ones that went missing – tell their own story. When accountability is impossible and financial incentives align with prolonged treatment rather than accurate diagnosis, patients are left vulnerable. That’s the uncomfortable truth no one wants to acknowledge.

Author Links: GoodReads | Facebook | Website