Dr Mireille Sanchez was looking at the screen of her consultation computer. A small orange window blinked in the top right corner: "Patient at risk — liver score to calculate". She sighed. She had already seen twenty-two patients that morning, and the waiting room was overflowing.
"Doctor, have you seen? The reminder for Mr Vasseur. He has diabetes and his liver is fatty on the ultrasound. His score needs calculating."
It was Karim, the coordination nurse, poking his head round the door. Since the practice had joined the screening programme, he checked every alert.
"Another score," said Mireille. "The day will go on filling in boxes."
"It’s just a blood test, doctor. The lab works out the rest."
The score in question was a simple ratio between enzymes and the patient’s age. A number that said whether the liver risked becoming hard as wood. If the result went above a certain threshold, the patient was referred to a specialist.
Mireille opened Mr Vasseur’s file. Fifty-eight years old, diabetic, a little overweight. The software offered to calculate the score from the latest tests. She clicked. The number appeared: 1.8. Above the threshold of 1.3 for his age. A red alert lit up.
"He needs to be seen," said Karim. "I can call him for a dedicated consultation."
"A dedicated consultation? He already comes every three months for his diabetes. He won’t be summoned on top of that."
"Exactly. The programme says it’s the opportunity to talk about it. To discuss the risks, to offer follow-up."
Mireille hesitated. She was thinking of Mrs Lambert, a seventy-two-year-old patient, whose score was also high. But for her, the threshold was higher because of her age. The software had flagged her as "to monitor" without urgency. Yet she already had advanced fibrosis. The score didn’t tell the difference.
"The problem," said Mireille, "is that for the old, the score is less reliable. There’s a risk of missing it."
"It’s adjusted with age," replied Karim. "That’s planned for."
"Planned or not, it’s still a number. There are false positives, false negatives. And besides, there’s no hindsight on what it really changes."
Karim didn’t answer straight away. He knew Mireille was right on one point: the programme didn’t promise to save lives, just to refer patients better.
"Listen," he said finally. "If it isn’t done, Mr Vasseur will carry on coming for his diabetes, and nobody will ever talk about his liver. This way, at least, he’ll know. He can decide."
Mireille looked at the screen. The reminder was still blinking. She thought of the queue, the piled-up files, the tiredness. Then she thought of Mr Vasseur, who never complained, and who perhaps already had fibrosis without knowing it.
"Call him," she said. "But I want it explained to him properly. Not just a number. So he understands what it means."
Karim nodded and went out. Mireille clicked on "confirm referral". A new window opened: "Offer elastography within three months". She sighed again, but this time it was almost a smile.
That evening, tidying her desk, she thought again of Mrs Lambert. The programme had been designed not to leave her behind, but the score aged badly. Mireille wrote on a sticky note: "Review thresholds for the over-65s". She stuck it on her screen. Tomorrow, she would talk to Karim about it.