Do we expect too much from the NHS? When The King’s Fund, an important think tank asks this question – it makes me think. Moving from one area of the country to another, I’ve just given up expecting anything. On the plus side I now belong to a surgery that offers me appointments with ‘my’ doctor, almost immediately, and I know they write off as soon as I ask, to get me appointments .So when the appointments never happen, I can only assume it’s the because of the mess Administrator are making of the NHS. Mrs. May talks about more funding for NHS after Brexit, but I suspect this will be too late.
My move meant dosh in the bank, earmarked for converting the attic in my new house into a super-luxury flat for a future carer. I don’t want to go in to a home as I would have to sell the house to pay for my care, and I worked hard for it. The NHS would get this money for my care, and all the years when I paid in but had medical insurance means they would pocket a large surplus. But as it was their docs stuffing me with latest designer drugs for cancer that caused my problems, I don’t particularly see why they should make money from me.
My idea is eventually to have a live-in carer and pay for them with Equity release. Not have to sell my home to pay for care, but leave something for my family and still take advantage of NHS care physio, doctors, medicines etc. BUT – the money to do alterations is going looking after my current health. Jeremy Hunt promised seamless transfers from NHS one area to the next – but who does the Weasel think he is kidding? Three months on, and the reality is I no longer have weekly physio, but I have had two letters from Oxfordshire Social Services promising I am “on the list” for this! Occupational Therapy provided me with lots of gizmos in London to make life easier, without any problem: in Oxfordshire I still haven’t seen one person, but spent over £400 on grab handles and a pole that would light up any dancer’s eyes – just so I can use the shower.
Weekly physio or hydro sessions keep my polio and cancer-smitten joints active. Today, I don’t seem to exist in Oxfordshire, with no appointment even months ahead. So I am using up my ‘attic-conversion fund’ to pay for brilliant physio at The Manor Hospital (their physio really understands how polio and cancer affects muscles) or sessions on Circle Hospital, Reading’s Aqua Treadmill. Both are fabulous, and I can feel the sessions really working. But the attic fund is slowly dwindling.
Today I have yet another charming person phoning me to ask if I still need Occupational Therapy – hoping I have fallen off the radar I suppose. Sorry to disappoint them, but the longer they delay the more gadgets I find I would like. I know they are available as every OT has a booklet filled with them, so I can’t wait (although I suspect I will have to). Here I am told “go on line” to order; but I have no idea what these gizmos are called, and last month ended up with an expensive one with lots of bells and whistles, but not a patch on the far-more-useful but simple one I had in London.
There is definitely a post-code lottery in operation, and yet no-one in Oxon wants to rock the boat and ask why services are available in one part of the UK, but not here.