Adventures of a Sociologist

This week has been a productive one dare I say it. Although looking at my diary I was a little depressed to see that I had three hospital appointments within a 48 hour period. I have began wishing that health care had loyalty points like the Air Miles scheme. Seriously if it did I reckon I would probably have made it round the world by now in first class style. As it is I have to content myself with a lukewarm cup of tea and a slice of dried out toast in the cafe at the hospital.

At the moment I dread my medical interactions. My case is managed by three teams, all of whom have differing Ideas about how to manage my care and treatment. A few weeks ago we had the great, ‘Who is responsible for swabbing the pressure sores on Anika’s foot?’ I rolled up for my regular hospital review which includes any arising issues. I dutifully mentioned my sores. I had not been feeling that great and my legs were stiffer than normal even with the high doses of muscle relaxant drugs that are pumped directly into my spine. I have to concede that yes, pain does make spasticity worse.

One of the specialist nurses took a look and suggested a swab, and then had a mini debate about whose responsibility it was to do a swab of the offending wound. I thought this seemed a little petty. Inwardly I fumed, I don’t care who does it, you, the Queen or even God, whilst outwardly involved deep breathing and keeping a tenuous grasp on my cool. It seems that the swabbing process is not as simple as you might expect. The physical act is simple enough. Lightly introduce small cotton bud like implement to wound and put it in a tube and send it for testing; no big deal. The issue is, ‘Who pays?’ Apparently GPs are charged by the hospital if a swab is done there, whereas if it is done at the practice there is no extra charge. This, as one of the hospital staff pointed out, is far more economical. Also, if they didn’t swab they would not be treading on the toes of the other teams treating me. To cut a long story short, the swab got done and showed an infection. I took the required medication, (it was simple really), I am newly invigorated thanks to antibiotics and ready for a challenge.

This is just as well as I am going to the British Sociological Association’s council meeting on Friday. I started planning for this a month ago and it is only one day in London. The thing is disability, particularly mobility problems, can turn the simplest journeys into a Herculean task. I read, ‘Around the World in 80 Days’ as a child and watched Michael Palin’s 90s recreation of it many years ago as my family were glued to it. They all have a wanderlust that in adult life I have singularly failed to acquire. For me London is a positively exotic destination. When you have to book Boarding Assistance for your train a week in advance and have to arrive 30 minutes before it departs, a day out begins to feel like a package holiday. Also, if I want a specific wheelchair accessible taxi I may have to book it 14 days in advance to avoid the special school and social service transport issues that arise during rush hour. At times my days out and trips to conferences begin to resemble one of those holidays ‘On the Edge’ you see on TV.

Having made it to London, I then had to deal with the people that I met there! The taxi that was taking me from the train station to the venue, dropped me off at the wrong destination. As I looked at the high rise flats I began to question if this was a suitable venue for our meeting. Now, I am not one of those disabled people that gets ratty if you try to help them. I frequently look a little bewildered and unsure when my face is at rest, so am accustomed to Good Samaritans offering assistance. This happened on that day.

A very kind lady buzzed me into what turned out to be residential flats and not the conference centre I was expecting. We quickly established that I was in the wrong place. She was reluctant to leave me in the hallway, as this is a security risk apparently, so she grabbed my handles, pushed me down the road and advised me to wait in the reception of a children’s soft-play area two doors down from the flats and advised me to wait there until my fellow Sociologists arrived for our meeting. She then nipped over to Tesco Express to get me a cup of coffee, I took the opportunity of her leaving to come out of the soft-play area and discovered where I needed to be was only around the corner.

So if you see a 30-something in a bright orange wheelchair, looking a bit bewildered in London one day, it’s probably me. And I only drink tea!

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