A Regressive Impulse

Three months after submitting my Incapacity Form to the DWP, suggesting that a home visit would be more appropriate than visiting the ‘locked box’ waiting room in York for a medical, I received a phone call this afternoon from Medical Services. Within a few minutes the smoky tarry contents of my nicotine sticks were being consumed at an excessive rate! Their intention is to arrange an appointment in York’s claustrophobic box for February 9th.

However, if I can get my GP to write a few lines, to say that a home visit would be more suitable, that appointment will be over-ridden. Already, the palpitations are at hand as my pulse races and a general feeling of nausea overwhelms me.

My thoughts race too; what a bloody fool I was, futilely struggling to remain at work until the end of 2003 despite ailing health. Had I yielded sooner then, perhaps, my health would not have plummeted to such uncomfortable depths. I curse, once more, the day that the Protestant Work Ethic was infused into my soul.

After the best ten days or so, I have experienced (within my limitations) health-wise, for the past eighteen months, it is almost as if I feel a pall descending to cover and devour this progress.