Inquiry into vested interests - M.E. related

We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to take up Gibson Inquiry into M.E. recommendation of a Public Inquiry into vested interests.

Please click on the link and sign this petition, it only takes a couple of seconds, - We are fighting to have our illness recognised.

http://petitions.number10.gov.uk/MEInquiry/#detail

The All Party Parliamentary Group's Gibson Inquiry into ME in 2006 came to the conclusion that it was highly inappropriate for psychiatrists such as Simon Wessely and Peter White et al to act as advisor's on illnesses like ME CFS for the Government and the DWP while working as consultants for the medical insurance industry for companies such as UNUM Provident. The insurance industry have a clear vested interest in classifying such illnesses as psychiatric conditions (despite the WHO classification of ME as a neurological condition ICD 10 G93.3) since they have to pay out less on policies.
The recommendations of the Gibson Inquiry called for an appropriate standards body to be set up to investigate these clear and alarming vested interests. This recommendation seems to have disappeared in a puff of smoke?

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We the undersigned petition the Prime Minister to take up Gibson Inquiry into M.E. recommendation of a Public Inquiry into vested interests.

http://petitions.number10.gov.uk/MEInquiry/#detail

In Everything Give Thanks

Although the day started rather muggy, despite a moderately forceful breeze, the atmosphere became fresher as the day progressed; a welcome opportunity to sit beside the pond surveying our modest estate. It’s one of those times when I’m rather overwhelmed by gratitude for these simple delights right on my own doorstep. The sudden sighting of a few baby frogs, emerging from the gardens southern border and, other more mature specimens whose camouflage prevented me from spotting them amongst the ponds vegetation.

 

First thing this morning, bearing in mind that my “first thing” is usually a couple of hours after my other half has gone off to work, I notice a manila envelope on the doormat from the DWP (Department of Work and Pensions) and, it’s with relief that I discover that the next medical assessment review, regarding my Incapacity Benefit, will be due on 8 July 2013. The actual date becomes something of an irrelevance as I will be in receipt of a State Pension from June next year! One side of me thinks it would be really great if I was able to present myself as fit for employment before that date even; at least that would mean I was well enough to pursue some of my former social pursuits. Fortunately, our financial needs are relatively modest; we don’t go in for an extravagant lifestyle even though the wine-cellar suggests otherwise!

 

This morning I ventured down to ‘Open Church’, for coffee and a chat, where the narthex was a real hive of activity as differing groups of toddlers and infants spontaneously and positively interacted. It’s always a treat to catch up with some of the regular, and not so regular, visitors to these weekday coffee mornings. On my return to the homestead, it was great to enjoy the aforementioned outdoor inactivity. I did manage to exert myself sufficiently to transplant a few of the overcrowded tomato plants from the greenhouse to a sheltered spot in the garden border.  [Actually, they were rather sickly specimens which I’d already put out freestanding in their pots, where the wind far too regularly took advantage of their precarious stance!]

ATOS Calling

11.30 am, Sunday morning, and the telephone rings. The caller asks if I’m me, a disembodied voice from ATOS, the private medical arm employed by the DWP, proffering me a date to attend a medical in York. It has got to be York (not Leeds, my preferred option next to a home visit), in the most dismally oppressive claustrophobic building, where one is locked in the waiting room, outer door locked behind you and the door to reception locked in front of you. If you need the toilet, one has to get the attention of the receptionist and traverse the corridors beyond the receptionists room; an ideal setting for people who have problems with their physical and/or mental health.

The date suggested by the disembodied one is a Tuesday, to which I have to point out that I’d already explained on my form that Wednesdays are the only day when my beloved chauffeuse is available to transport me there. Of course, they had an available time on the Wednesday so they’ll be sending a confirmation letter regarding the date and time of the appointment.

In less than one year’s time, I shall be in receipt of a State Pension, as well as a couple of other policies maturing; the big question is, will I be in receipt of incapacity benefit until that time? The unpredictable nature of my condition, how I will be from one day to the next, (the only certainty being that if I overdo it I’ll be wrecked for several succeeding days), has prevented me from taking on any voluntary work or having what I used to consider a normal social life. To be honest, if I was to declare myself as being available for paid employment, I would be lying to myself as well as any potential employer. I’m sure they’d all rush for the opportunity to give employment on the basis that I would only attend when I was fit or alert enough to attend, at the whim of my erratic achingly exhausted body.

The only viable option, should they (under their remit to attack the most vulnerable members of society) deny my eligibility for IB, is to live off my savings, and make the necessary national insurance contributions, for the next eleven months.

Just something I had to get off my chest, at the same time acknowledging that there are far too many people in a worse predicament and condition than myself. I just wonder why I should be made to feel guilty about having a health condition which is not immediately obvious, except to those like my beloved who have to live with its effects.

Progress Report

Another pendulum day but, overall more settled. After eleven hours in bed, my state of being in the early part of the day fluctuated, quite erratically, between reasonably alert and exhausted. Intermittent ‘cold flushes’ also seemed to take a starring role.

Yesterday afternoon, my beloved had taken a copy of the most recent DWP epistle, asking me to obtain a letter from my GP, down to the surgery; this afternoon, I had to go down to sign a consent form permitting the GP to send such a letter to the Department. [Evidently, neither the DWP nor the outsourced Medical Services are permitted to ask the GP for the pertinent letter; something to do with Data Protection.]

Whilst ma belle was delivering the letter to the surgery, I received a ‘phone call from the DWP which I had difficulty in coping with, as my emotions were so close to the surface, but they did suggest that, if I was unable to get the necessary doctor’s note, perhaps I could get one from my physiotherapist. Unfortunately, I knew that she had been incapacitated for some time, so it didn’t seem a viable option.

This afternoon, I received a ‘phone call from my physiotherapist and, the great news is that my acupuncture treatment will be resuming next week! She also offered to write a note in support of my application to have my assessment medical at home.

So, Sinna Luvva is looking forward to getting the needle! [Much preferred to “the slings and arrows …. ”].

The unheeding bastards are still on the march

The saga continues. When my beloved contacted the DWP in York, yesterday, the person she spoke to ensured her that “yes indeed, the protocol is that we contact your GP and, we will see to that”. This morning a letter arrives from Jobcentre Plus (Part of the Department for Work and Pensions) in York with the following contents:

“I understand you would like a home visit, to get a home visit you will need to ask your own doctor for a covering letter to say why you need a home visit.

You could also telephone the centre in Leeds who arranged your appointment and ask them to arrange a home visit giving them details of why you need a home visit. …..

I am sorry I am unable to do this for you, the Medical Services team have asked that you telephone the above number as soon as possible for your appointment and request for a home visit.”

Remember, this Medical Services team are the very same ones who rang me and, to whom I explained the reasons why a home visit would be appropriate. They are also the ones who asked me to obtain a covering letter from my GP. My GP, when I had made the effort to visit him, explained that the protocol was for them to contact him … blah, blah, blah!

And, above all, remember my request was made on the form submitted to the DWP just over three months ago!

My health, which recently seemed to be showing modest signs of improvement, now seems to be heading towards a sharp decline.

Medical Services?

I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to ‘ATOS Origin IT Services UK Ltd’ aka ‘MEDICAL SERVICES Provided on behalf of the Department for Work and Pensions’ for enabling me to cough my lungs up this morning, a result of an excessive inhalation of tar and nicotine in response to the stress they have caused!

Yesterday I reported on the breach of protocol, which I attributed to the DWP itself rather than their running dogs. Today I received, from MEDICAL SERVICES (aka ATOS Origin), a compliment slip with the hand written message “Please provide a letter from your GP to confirm …..Etc”, together with a reply paid envelope. At least my confidence is restored, to the extent that I hadn’t misunderstood their incorrect telephonically communicated instructions of the 18th inst, which made me feel something of a fool at yesterday’s GP appointment.

Meantime my beloved has managed to communicate, telephonically, with the DWP in York who have cancelled my appointment in the ‘locked box’ for 9 February and, they will be contacting my GP as per protocol.

The question now is, do I respond to the so-called MEDICAL SERVICES in Leeds?

Silly Faffing Games

Further to yesterday’s posting, A Regressive Impulse, the stress continues to mount. Following the advice of the anonymous caller from Medical Services (linked to the DWP), I summoned up the courage, and reserves of emotional stamina, to make and keep an appointment with my GP. This was to find out if he would be prepared to send them a note to confirm that a 'home visit' medical would be more suitable for me.

As soon as I mentioned the nature of my visit, the doctor informed me that the anonymous caller’s suggestion was a breach of protocol. The protocol, unsurprisingly, is that they (the DWP or their medical agents) contact the GP but, he did suggest that he felt a home visit would be more appropriate!

So, having had my completed form for three months, it seems that the Department of Work and Pensions are practising a cheap emotional blackmail with the now pressurised timescale, or perhaps they are quite simply incompetent! My beloved will attempt to contact the relevant section of DWP to ask them to contact my GP, following the correct protocol, as the calendar buzzes around my head.

I had intended to go to an Exhibition Preview this evening, which would have been only my second real social outing in the past year, but now, I feel rather too exhausted and nauseous to contemplate such an expenditure of energy.

My grateful thanks go out to Tony Blair’s Uncivil Service.

Feeling more charitable, I paraphrase a couple of lines from Philip Larkin (Poet and Librarian of my alma mater):

“They f*ck you up, D W P.
They may not mean to, but they do.”

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.