*Blows dust from website*
Again, it’s been a year since I blogged at all. I need to get back in the habit, for cathartic reasons if nothing else. Pretty much my only purpose these days.
Nearly 2 years ago now I had my second round of leg surgery. now, 20 months later, I still haven’t recovered. I was told to wait a fortnight before fully weightbearing, which I duly did. And for a month or two, that was going well. I had physio post-op which I wasn’t given last time. Saw that through to the end, although I had to cancel the odd appointment a couple of months in as the surgical scar, a good – if not straight – five inches, split open a few times. For a while that stopped, although it caused a few problems getting to my lectures during my [now completed] MA. Come summer 2015, I agreed to move in with Char as her carer. There’s no pay, she’s not always the easiest to look after, but all the same it was the right thing to do. I planned to get a job doing 9-5 or similar. Went to a few interviews, was universally rejected, until I tried Lidl. Bless them, they were happy to take me on with no previous retail experience, but less so when my scar picked that moment to bleed over their shop floor.
First, let me point out that since UK law forbids discrimination on the grounds of disability, that’s not quite the logic they used to deny me a job. What they pointed out is that it comes down to a matter of Health and Safety, both given someone could slip if a repeat occurred and the obvious risk of things being contaminated by blood. Fair enough. I head to the Job Centre, figuring they must have something I can do, only to be told those rules carry across the board and I need to apply for benefits. OK, not what I’d planned, but it would enable me to be a full-time carer AND not over-stress the legs as they got worse. More on benefits later.
Starting in summer last year, prior to the Welsh job hunt, I did a bit of work in my mum’s pub on the Norfolk coast. I basically worked Sunday night and Monday lunchtime, on the basis that any more than that and my legs would end up in a lot of pain with vastly increased chances of the scar bleeding. Even then I found myself unable to walk most Tuesdays and into Wednesday at times as well, so I returned to the crutches I hoped I’d never need again.
Crutches, of course, are great things to rock up to job interviews on. Well, they’re something to lean on, at least. They don’t impress the interviewer, but as I said above they can’t legally judge a candidate on that basis.
So, no longer being allowed to look for work, I apply for PIP as instructed. A pair of assessors come over, listen to me telling them about my disability, make a load of notes, do a few tests on my standing ability, that kind of thing. Barely able to stand at this point, I figure it’s just a matter of time. In due course a letter comes through: I’m not disabled in any capacity and should look for work.
Erm.
So I phone them up, protest half the details on the letter and ask them to re-examine the case. In due course, through the door comes another letter – nearly identical to the first, citing the first as the superior source of information. So I send off an appeal for assessment by tribunal. I send THREE PAGES of corrections against the two previous assessments, including details of various falls in shops and on NHS property, all of which shouldn’t happen if my medical records are to be believed – “No danger of falling”, according to the DWP. Even better, this second letter says I’ve been discharged by the surgeon. Last I heard he was so concerned about the fact my scar can no longer stay knitted together for 24 hours, and I can no longer feel my foot after a steroid injection that failed to deal with the excruciating pain in my ankle, that he was trying to get a second opinion. So I’m now waiting on the NHS to explain why the hell I’ve been discharged without my knowledge, why the DWP know more about that than I do and what the NHS plans to do to get me un-bedridden as I pretty much now am. Aside from a 2 hour bath every other day to minimise tension in my calves and tendons, after which I have a small pain-free window of maybe half an hour or so, I’m housebound, hobbling everywhere on crutches and totally financially reliant on the girl who I am meant to be looking after.
Oh, and while the NHS should get back to me within the next 9 days, I have to wait up to SIX MONTHS for my PIP reassessment. SIX MONTHS. I’m damn lucky I’m not living alone, because I’d have starved to death by now.
tufty1992 