As you might have read, I’ve been finding my care assessment more aggravating than actually useful – it really doesn’t take six weeks of twice a day visits to figure out if I can feed, wash and dress myself, all of which have already been demonstrated.
And even though we have times that – as I have been very firmly reminded – I agreed to, people still turn up anything up to 45 minutes early – seriously pisses me off in the morning (tip – I am not a morning person – I have lots of drugs to take, and loads of pain to work through before my day can start!).
So, despairing of getting the assessors to agree that we’re all wasting our time, and that I don’t actually need a care package (that day might well come, but it’s not yet), I bit the bullet, made an executive decision, and it’s over. Better they work with someone who actually needs them, surely.
The thing is, this was all arranged in hospital – and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Naturally enough, I was feeling very vulnerable at the time, and viewed the prospect of care favourably – even the ambulance crew, who set the care ball rolling, thought it necessary. I even agreed to the times, forgetting the time dilation effect of hospitals – 09.30 in hospital is close to the middle of the day as we’ve been up since 05.30 or so (or, in my case, all bloody night, peeing!).
Might be best to float the idea in hospital, and arrange schedules once the patient is back in their own home and on their own timescale. Just a thought…
What I will quite definitely need, and sooner rather than later, is not care but a wheelie-accessible flat – and I can’t see that happening. It was initially on the agenda, but quickly vanished in favour of a care package. Not helpful.
And I suppose that, at heart, I would have great difficulty, psychologically, being dependent upon others. As I said on Twitter a couple of days ago, I was a latchkey kid from a very early age, and despite what sociologists would like you to believe – that it leads on to a life of crime – what it mostly does is sink the iron of independence deep into one’s soul.
And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.