We’ve entered into the long-term care of various local health authority departments and the painful beurocracy and form filling that comes with it.
There’s home visits from several parties and one department miscommunicates with another and already we’re having issues with George’s medical supplies – for example, a large van arrived yesterday to deliver us a single syringe, not a single box of syringes…a SINGLE syringe. We need three a day indefinitely.
It all means phone calls and chasing, which is as big a pain in the bum as poor George’s washouts are for him.
These health departments want to offer us ‘support’ which consists of forehead-slapping advice gems like ‘talk to your children’ and ‘read them books’ (I write books for mine for crying out loud!).
When it comes to actual practical matters; like helping Caroline with the washouts when I return to work, they can’t help. That’s the ONLY help we actually need just now.
I don’t know what ‘support’ means anymore. If we call them they’ll either say “it’s a non emergency, see your GP” or “it’s an emergency, go to A&E”. Precious NHS pounds well spent there then!
They seem preoccupied, if not obsessed, with finding out if there’s domestic violence within our family setup (and indeed our extended family) and whilst I 100% get the need to ask (once) – I just want to get practical help and supplies for our boy.
There’s an accusatory whiff about how it’s dealt with. You want to shower straight afterwards.
We’re smart, experienced parents being treated as the stupid lowest common denominator. “Never smoke in the same room as your baby” stuff. Duh!
I know…I know, they don’t know us and everyone gets equal treatment, but it’s frustrating. Dealing with the agencies is more demoralising than anything hands on we do for George.
The care we had in The Royal Alexandra Hospital was so completely amazing that all this feels like a step back.
It’s all depressingly predictable and this is just the start.