You won't know you should have missed me, because of my cunning use of that thing what lets you make posts happen from the past (from the future?) when you don't know if there will be internet, but you should have! Don't worry, I'm back...
So, how's this for an I-love-my-life story? I had been in the land of my beloved for a little over 24 hours when I had an unholy puke attack. Charming, I know, but I made a promise with myself to be honest in this wee corner of the blogosphere (not that I'm dishonest in another corner of it, you understand). This means, if you're keeping track, I managed one day of elective, before having two days off sick. How's that for making a good impression? Plus I forgot my meds last night and therefore didn't sleep just to maximise my awake with noone to talk to time.
[pause to give some love to daft cat]
The psych post that should have appeared for you today, combined with a conversation I had with a very-mini-patient's mum the other day have got me thinking.
I know that the post is fairly cheery in tone, and there's no reason for it not to be as I coped with the placements in psych pretty well, my experience of mental health services from the other end was almost universally not good (with the exception of one awesome adolescent consultant, and one equally awesome therapist). Not to mention my recent experience of being diagnosed with a condition that noone's heard of, and everyone's a bit scared of because it doesn't get better, and that makes them feel impotent or something.
This is a not particularly articulate way of saying : every time I think about government cuts, every time I feel the impact of them, every time I see patients hit with them, it makes me angry. We didn't need less of this stuff - we needed more.
More support for psychiatric service users/patients (I realise that I always say patient because I prefer it - if you don't, I apologise) in the community, more provision for pain management courses and ongoing physio for those with chronic conditions, more support for mums who've just been told that their baby will never talk to them. If you want us to work, you need to find us a job that we can actually do before telling us that we are fit for work, you need to not cut funding to groups who working to end discrimination in the workplace, you need to make laws that don't grovel and beg, leaving more loopholes than a rollercoaster.
We needed more, we deserved more, we are worth more. And I can't be coherent, because it doesn't make sense to me. I can't be coherent because I am scared for myself, for my friends - old and new, and for that little baby and his mum.
This is a time when services need strengthening, to build up to deal with our ageing population. We can deal with these people in two ways - primary and secondary prevention, which saves lives, quality of life, and money, or not. If you've only 5 years to persuade people to
not vote for you again, the cheaper option is to cut early intervention services. Because the cracks won't show for a few years, and the next guys'll be the ones who end up raising taxes to deal with it.
The NHS turned 63 yesterday. I don't think it's overdramatic to wonder if she'll make 70.
We are living in strange and scary times my friends, but there is hope in the fight, I think.