How will our new government treat the disabled? Letter from a local resident
How will our new government treat the disabled?
Because this is how the disabled is presently being treated: My funny bone is empty right now; which means I have nothing inside me to dish out, to express. Except sadness and negativity. The Blackdog breathes his putrid breath over my left shoulder; keeping me in a perpetual state of anxiety and nausea.
Why?
Because of our current government. In 2004, just two years after graduating with a BA HONS degree I was signed off from work ‘indefinitely’. On the grounds of my various health problems and illnesses–which include Major Depression, Fibromyalgia and Chronic Ear Disease. I accept this. Now.
And I work hard at trying to do the best for my health: I try to help my mental well being by having therapy/ exercise sessions at my allotment, and although being strangulated by the hairy blackdog beast I continue to try and fulfil my passion of writing comedy. His spit drools down my face making me recoil. I persevere. Despite jumping through the hoops and challenges of the Governmental Krypton Factor procedures of proving my illness and being rewarded with a pass stating my health problems are for life and therefore I will be awarded DLA/PIP ‘Indefinitely’, the government continues to set up trials every few years to prove that my illnesses have not suddenly been cured.
What does one have to do in these trials?
Well let me tell you.
Approximately three years after the initial Krypton Factor procedure and every few years after you suddenly get a form in a lovely big brown envelope, and upon seeing it you collapse in a state of dread, fear and anxiety. The next trial has begun. Think Michael Douglas in the film ‘The Game’. Except this is reality. The form states you must have a ‘Review’. But this is a trick, it’s not really a ‘review’ based on all the prior evidence you’ve already produced, this is a new claim and every piece of documentation since you were a glint in your father’s eye is needed. And all the evidence, in the form of doctor’s letters, must prove that you’re really ill. All the evidence preceded is null and void. When you had your last bowel movement must also be noted. You have four weeks to do so. If you fail to produce such documentation within four weeks your benefits will stop immediately. Your time starts now. The Blackdog has crawled inside my spine. He feels cold like razor wire.
I need a GP letter. I contact the GP’s surgery, I cannot just request for the doctor to write me a letter. I must make an appointment to speak with him directly. The first available appointment is in four week’s time. An appointment with my surgeon will take even longer. The surgeon kindly waives the fee of the letter despite the fact these letters are not NHS work so have to be written in the Professional’s spare time. The GP can’t waive the cost of £30 for the letter, he has many letters he has to write every week. Consequentially it will take up to eight weeks for the letter. (But I don’t know this yet. I won’t know how long the letter will take to write until another four week’s time when I finally get my appointment with him.) It’s taken me a week to recover from the Fibromyalgia attack brought on by the brown envelope. Now I have to dig through all my paperwork in the hope I have additional evidence to enclose with the form. Two weeks after the first brown envelope I receive another brown envelope, this time this is an aggressive ‘hurry-up’ letter, which reminds me that I were written to two weeks prior and I have not replied to them with my filled-out-form and evidence yet! This is despite the fact they gave me a four-week deadline and despite the fact they should know how long it takes to get an appointment with a GP. I feel like I’m in a medieval trial by ordeal: if I drown I’m innocent. The Blackdog growls in my thorax. His breath creating moisture droplets suffocating my lungs. This letter has the same effect the first letter had and knocks me for six, putting me in bed for a week with excruciating pain and inability to think straight.
The form deadline is one day after my birthday and it’s all I can think about in the run up to what should be a celebration. But the trial takes over my mind so much I can’t even think about celebrating my birthday so I have to cancel it.
Just when I’m back on my feet and feeling ready to do battle with the form, they send an additional trial to complete. You must attend a medical assessment on the other side of Manchester and be there at 9am. Panting. Near suffocation. Strangulation of the voicebox.
In order to be able to attend the assessment I need them to provide me with transport to get there and I need a lip-reader interpreter at the appointment to assist me. However, the only way to book these needs is to phone up the number displayed on the letter. But I can’t use a phone because of my deafness and chronic earache. A textphone system is available but this is an obsolete antiquated system which isn’t permanently managed, and I don’t have this system in place. I can’t afford to run a phoneline for the internet, to send emails, and at the same time run a textphone line to communicate with the DWP. It’s ridiculous.
The Deaf are not allowed to directly contact the DWP and the Job Centre via email because of fears of Data Protection, virus, terrorist threats—but the powers that be WILL allow a terrorist to have a day trip to London and knife two people and maim many others. But Oh No, allowing a Deaf person to email a government body is far too dangerous. So my only option is to contact the medical assessors via letter and snail-mail, which I do. On the day of my appointment I patiently await—albeit in a rage of anxiety–transport arriving to take me. None turns up.
The following day, despite the severity of the pain from another attack of Fibromyalgia brought on by the stress of this ridiculousness I send them another letter explaining why I didn’t attend the appointment. To date, approximately twelve weeks later, I have still not received a reply from them. We now beat as one. His growl is mine. I filled out the big bad form and posted it in time for the deadline. I added as much evidence as I had to hand and I explained that letters off my GP and surgeon were to follow. Two weeks later I receive a letter from the DWP informing me that my form had been reviewed and the decision had been made to stop my PIP with immediate effect. Bang. £500 per month gone. Bang! The reviewer states that he has based his decision on the fact that he doesn’t believe my anxiety to be ‘Severe’ because of the antidepressant I take. Now, let’s just back up a minute here. A man who reads forms, who has no medical knowledge whatsoever, who is not a doctor or a pharmacist is being permitted to stop a disabled’s person’s benefit because HE doesn’t think my medication matches my ailments. In what kind of universe is this legally allowed to go on? A man reading a form, thinking he’s a doctor can suddenly push a disabled person into abject poverty and can get away with it. In Conservative Britain. That’s where. I’m outraged, offended and wind up in a manic state. I reply to his letter, resending all my evidence—which he’s blatantly ignored—and request a review of HIS review.
To date, thirteen weeks later, I have still not received a reply from my letter. BUT, they HAVE managed to stop my PIP. With immediate effect. The black demon pulsates through me. My body is taut in rage. But inside there is nothing. I’m empty. Presently, it’s been nine weeks since my doctor’s appointment in which I requested a letter from him. I’m still awaiting his letter.
I have received another letter with an appointment to see the Medical Assessors and the date of this appointment is on December 19th 2019. Nowhere in this letter does it mention the two previous letters I wrote to them, nor does it mention how I can order transport with them or how I can book a lip-reader interpreter to this new assessment. I think it’s futile to write to them again. So instead, yesterday, I sent all this off to my MP Debbie Abrahams in the hope she can correspond with them on my behalf—because I’m at my wits end with it all. I’m not sure if Debbie will currently be able to help me though, because the government is presently dissolved because of the election… I should hopefully find out in a few day’s time. This is the reality of a Tory Britain. This is why we need Food Banks. I’d like to say if you agree with how Tories are treating its disabled then I’d appreciate it if you exit stage-left; I don’t want to be friends with you anymore. I’m fortunate, that my illnesses are not terminal. But imagine those that are dying and have to go through this Tory Krypton Factor Procedure. The endless fear of not providing enough evidence to an unrealistic deadline or be plummeted into deprivation. Through no fault of their own. I can’t say that though, I can’t say ‘Exit stage-left’, because I believe in freedom of speech. I won’t turn anyone away. I WILL still be your friend if you’re a Tory. But inside my stomach is shredded into pieces of misery. Is that a light I see? Or a reflection? Or a mirage? Can I float above and catch it?
I’m now three months into my poverty. I have enough food to survive until the end of December, but the pet supply cupboard is on its knees. My creatures–whom are all adopted and rescued and who mean more to me than anything; are my lifeline to carry on. A tasselled anchor disseminates before me. I wrestle the demon’s tail and loop it in a sailor’s hitch. But as the kedge descends I’m pulled too. The Blackdog and I are still connected.
Dingo Endeavour
Author: Jude Gidney - Editor
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