Medical Complaints

This story was in the news yesterday about how a "complaints revolution" is needed in the NHS. But a few years ago I came across a much bigger problem with making complaints about negligent medical care. The problem wasn't with the NHS; the problem was with our stupid legal system. I'd have come across the same problem in trying to get justice if a negligent private doctor had been responsible for my mother's death.

I've never written online before about what actually happened to my mum. I've mentioned that she had died without going into the details of what happened. I've told friends off-the-record in real life, but I've never published it on the internet before because that publication could have affected any legal proceedings. But now justice is well and truly off the table, it's something I can write about.

How she died

The story of how my mum died actually begins 10 years and one month before her death. My mum's youngest sister was married to a bloke from mainland Europe and in November 1998 my aunt and her husband flew home from visiting his family. As soon as they landed in this country my aunt started complaining of chest pain. My aunt was overweight, a lifelong smoker and had just flown. Despite these risk factors, when she saw her GP the next day; he diagnosed her with indigestion and gave her Gaviscon.

Five days later she was feeling really ill so went to get an early night. Her husband made her a cup of cocoa and took it up to her. By the time the cocoa was made and he'd carried it up the stairs; she was dead. My 85-year-old nan (who my aunt and uncle lived with) ran barefoot across the street to fetch a neighbour nurse. Said neighbour performed CPR on my aunt until the emergency services showed up, but she was gone. Unsurprisingly she'd had a massive, and instantly fatal, heart attack.

If my aunt's GP had sent her straight to A&E when she presented with chest pains 5 days earlier, it's possible she'd still be alive 15 years later. Of course she just as easily might not be; but it's possible that she would.

The reason the story of my mum's sister's death is relevant is because 10 years later, my mum died the same way thanks to the same response from a GP. Not the same GP, it's important to note: It seems the response is a standard one wherever you see a doctor.

My mum died in December 2008. Her chest pains began around two years earlier, so that would've been 2006. Just as her sister did 8 years before, my mum went to see her GP about her chest pain and was diagnosed with indigestion. Unlike her sister, my mum was prescribed omeprazole - rather than Gaviscon - for the indigestion.

My aunt died within 5 days of the indigestion diagnosis. My mum lasted for 2 years and repeatedly visited her GP during that time. She struggled to push her wheelchair, became unable to lay down flat, and clutched her chest at the slightest movement. You have to remember that this was a woman with osteogenesis imperfecta; she had a fucking high pain tolerance. When she was in hospital as a child with broken limbs, she would still be changing nappies of babies on the children's ward and showing some love that cold-hearted nurses wouldn't. (Parents weren't allowed to visit: Hospital rules.) My mum was not someone who was easily stopped by pain, so for her to stop and clutch her chest while transferring from wheelchair to armchair; she must have been in agony.

For two years she kept going back to her GP, and her GP did nothing. No referral to a cardiologist, no cardiac tests, nothing.

On the 4th of December 2008, she went to go to bed; but couldn't get out of her armchair and into her wheelchair. She couldn't breathe. She admitted defeat and called 999. Once in hospital she was assigned a consultant cardiologist who told her, in no uncertain terms, that "you should have been referred to me two years ago."

Apparently, according to her test results, her heart attack had been massive and she was lucky to be alive. It didn't last. On December 13th at around 10pm her heart gave up and stopped completely.

A few months after mum died, the British Heart Foundation ran an ad campaign on buses with wording to the effect of "chest pain is your body's way of telling you to call 999." Such a shame they don't teach that in medical school. My mum and her sister might still be around if GPs were smart enough to know that chest pains indicate a need to rule out heart problems. Yes, you can say that my mum and her sister should've skipped the GP middle-man and gone straight to A&E themselves. But these were women with no academic qualifications who placed their faith in their GPs, expecting them to be educated enough to treat them.

The legal snag

While mum was in hospital we had a conversation about the need for mum to sue her GP to make sure he didn't treat anyone else so badly. I remember pointing out that she was lucky to be alive and that he could have killed her. Turns out he did kill her: By the time she was hospitalised, she was beyond saving.

Shortly after her death I contacted a lawyer. Obviously I wanted justice for my mum; but what I wanted most was to protect her GP's other patients; to make sure he couldn't kill anyone else with his indifference.

I was told that I couldn't sue because I'm not legally considered my mother's closest living relative: My father is. I once lived inside my mum for 9 months. That's really fucking close. But no; the only person who could sue my mum's GP was my dad.

My dad will not do anything that involves moving from in front of the TV. Anything. For three years I kept begging him to be reasonable, to think about protecting other patients. To try to make him see that if that GP kills anyone else; their blood is on his hands because he could have stopped it.

He wouldn't. He cares more about the patients on Doctors than the patients registered at my mother's doctor's surgery.

You can only instigate a case within 3 years, less one day, of realising the doctor was wrong. So the deadline for initiating legal action was Dec 3rd 2011. That's long gone, so like I said at the start: Any potential justice for my mum is long off the table.

How fucked up does a legal system have to be when a dead woman's daughter is considered too distant a relative to be able to sue the doctor whose negligence resulted in the woman's death? Yes, the NHS complaints procedure needs work and the news yesterday was full of examples as to why. It can be scary complaining, especially if you're complaining about doctors whom your life depends on. But beneath the NHS complaints framework we need a legal system that protects NHS and private patients alike. Sometimes issues are so severe (like fatal negligence) that a surgery complaint form isn't enough and you need to take legal action. We need to fix NHS complaint systems, but we need to fix our ludicrous legal system too.

♫...And I shouldn't be here, without permission. I shouldn't be here...♫

"I wish you'd never been born."

I remember the Sunday morning a couple of years ago when a well-known pro-eugenics tweeter was banging on about how babies with genetic conditions shouldn't be born. Despite claiming he was not disablist towards disabled people once they'd done the getting-into-the-world thing, all I could see in those tweets was that he wished I'd never been born because I have a genetic condition. He might have blocked me on Twitter so he can't see me; but I still see him RTed into my timeline frequently (something he said is actually 4th from the top in my timeline as I type). I'm constantly reminded that someone that thinks the world would be a better place without me in it is so well liked among the people I respect enough to follow on Twitter.

I remember all the times I've read that "parents on benefits shouldn't have kids. They shouldn't have kids other people will have to pay for." That includes my parents. So these people are saying that I should never have been born because my dad was forced out of work and onto benefits by impairment not long before I came along (my mum became a housewife when she married my dad because that's what women did in the 70s). I haven't just read it in the right-wing press. I've heard it from people I know. I've even heard it from other disabled people.

They may not have directly used the words "Lisa Egan should not be here," but it was what I inferred from their statements.

I remember the times my father said it to me when I was growing up. He was, and still is, someone that demands to be the centre of attention at all times. When I was a child my mum prioritised me over him and he resented the little brat getting more of his wife's attention that he did.

It's a powerful statement that haunts you; knowing that people think you shouldn't be here.

I remember a very long time ago seeing a mother on the news with her young child saying that if she'd known her daughter was going to have Spina Bifida she'd have had a termination. That child knows that not only is she unwanted, but she's so unwanted that her mother desired to tell the country about it. Her main passion was dancing to pop music; and at her age (IIRC she was about 4) that should have been all she had to worry about. She shouldn't have had to have heard from the people closest to her that they'd prefer her not to be around.

This week there have been 11 living children hearing all about how they shouldn't have been born. In the unlikely event that there is an afterlife where you look down on the world you left behind; there are a further 6 children hearing the same words.

The press is full of stories about how Mick Philpott's children were only born to milk the welfare state. Right wing commentators are queueing up to appear on the news to talk about how families shouldn't have so many children. There are, of course, plenty of people claiming that people living on benefits shouldn't be having children at all.

The most hurtful thing has got to be that these 17 children have been singled out by someone at the heart of government, the Chancellor, as being "a lifestyle" that needs to be "handled". Not human beings deserving of respect. Not people that have lost siblings. Not lives that have been cut short. But a problem that needs to be "handled" by government.

When I've read in the press that parents on benefits shouldn't have kids I knew they weren't talking about me directly, they were talking non-specifically about a group of people I happen to belong to. The same when I read tweets about how babies with genetic conditions shouldn't be born. But this week, all week, there have been 11 children hearing very loudly and clearly every time they turn on their TV that they - those children whose father is Mick Philpott - should not have been born.

I can't even imagine how it feels to be told on the front page of every paper, and on every news bulletin, that you - specifically you - should not exist because of someone you happen to be related to. Someone you didn't choose to be related to. And at a time when you're grieving for the loss of your siblings to boot.

The #no2av campaign's preying on the uneducated

I've just been talking to my dad on the phone. He has a postal vote so has already voted in the referendum.

My dad will be 77 in July. He grew up long, long, before disabled children had any right to be educated. He was ignored in mainstream school and then sent to a segregated college where he was taught nothing much. No-one taught him to read until a family friend took on the challenge when he was 21.

In addition to poor literacy due to no-one bothering to teach him until he was an adult he's almost certainly dyslexic. They didn't do much diagnosing of that during World War II.

In addition to that it's only been in the last 2 and a half years since my mum died that he hasn't had anyone living with him to help him understand things like the instructions on a polling card. He can read well enough to read the names on a card and identify which are his preferences. He can also count to three so would be capable of ranking his preferences in order.

One of the "no" campaign's loudest cries is that AV is too complicated for the masses. That you need to be some kind of genius to work out how to fill in a polling card under AV.

Out of fear that he wouldn't understand how to vote under AV; out of fear that AV is too confusing and too complicated, my father voted "no".

I am furious that the "no" campaign are preying on people like my dad by telling them they're too stupid to understand AV.

If my dad really believed that FPTP was a better system than AV I'd respect his choice. But that's not why he voted "no". The "no" campaign took advantage of his poor education, of his illiteracy, and his almost certain dyslexia by telling him that under AV he wouldn't be able to understand his polling card. They told him he was stupid and he believed it.

How many more people are going to be tricked into voting "no" because the campaign are preying on their poor education, their learning disability or insecurity about their intellect and telling them that they're just not smart enough to get it?

So, illness got the better of me, and I never did finish NaBloPoMo. Oh well.

On Nov 25th I finally got the sinus surgery I've been waiting for for about 3 years. Yay!

Except 9 days later, my mother had a heart attack. She's still in hospital in Colchester.

My body is trying to divert all its energy and resources in the direction of my nose for healing purposes, while I'm trying to use all my energy in driving up and down the A12.

Needless to say that I think the biggest loser in my body's energy war is me, and I'm knackered.

One of life's great mysteries has been solved.

Whenever I tell people how low the IQ of the whole town of Clacton On Sea is, no-one believes me. They don't think it's possible for a whole town to be so thick, and for all the residents of the town to completely live up to the Essex stereotype.

How a whole town came to have such a collectively low IQ has been something that's puzzled me. I'm afraid to drink the water in case it's contagious.

But, now I know.

Me and the cat went to stay with the parents over Christmas. As usual I ate too much, watched lots of crap TV and had to listen to lots of old fogey music (my Mum bought my Dad an iPod for Christmas and guess who got the task of loading music onto it?).

I came home on the 28th because I had tickets to see Much Ado About Nothing in London that night. Having never seen nor read the play before, on the 27th I wanted to go shopping to get a copy of the text to familiarise myself.

"Mum, where's there a bookshop in town?" I asked. I've never lived in Clacton. My parents moved there after I'd moved down to London, so I don't know the town that well.

"I don't think there are any."

And she was right.

Suddenly all made sense. How can Clacton residents educate themselves in a town where no-one is able to access books?

My mother had bought me some new underwear, and one pair of knickers has "sweet enough to eat" written on the crotch. Like anyone would be, I was disturbed by receiving such a gift from a parent. Her defence was "I never really read it," which at first I didn't believe. But now with the knowledge that Clactonians are denied literature, I found myself believing her.

On the night of the 27th, my parents and I played some Scrabble. The first 4 games I won with ease. The fifth and final game was very close between me and Mother, right up until the end. But, I refused to lose at a word game to someone who lives in a town without books: I had a reputation to uphold.

During the course of the games, words I came out with included "sex", "horny" and "groin" which are perhaps words which should be avoided in front of the 'rents. But, in my defence I got "sex" on a double word score and my "groin" landed on a triple word score. I wish that was somehow a metaphor.

So, I returned to London and went to the theatre as planned. The fact that I spent the duration of the performance pondering how pretty Tamsin Greig is rather than paying attention to the plot is something I hold Clacton entirely responsible for: If Clacton had books, my IQ wouldn't have dropped several points over Christmas.

Happy New Year everyone.

Just because the appointment bookers in UCH's Maxillo Facial Unit can travel 3 days forward in time to know that I was going to fail to attend an appointment, they seem to think I have the power of time travel too.

Though, I wasn't planning on missing the appointment. But, who knows, maybe had the sound of the postman at 8am on June 19th (delivering a letter telling me I'd failed to attend an appointment 3 hours into the future) not roused me enough to get out of bed, I would have missed the appointment. So, it's possible that their on-staff mystics are right.

I was a little perplexed to receive a letter telling me that on the day of my operation I had to be on ward T14 at 7:30am. Now, anyone that knows me knows that asking me to be somewhere at 7:30am is asking a lot. Hell, most days I'm not even out of my pyjamas by 7:30pm. But the time they expected me to be there wasn't the aspect of the letter that left me befuddled.

What was confusing was the paragraph following the time they expected me to be there. The letter asked me "to call the ward between 9am and 5pm on the day of arrival to check there is a bed available for you."

So, I'm supposed to go an hour an and a half forward in time to call the ward to check that an emergency admission hasn't been dumped in my bed, before showing up?

I wish while I was in there, they'd taught me how to do that. Time travel would be fun. I'd never have to worry about oversleeping again. My alarm clock goes off, I want to roll over and go back to sleep for a few more hours? No problem. Just go back 2 or three hours and get that bonus kip. Lather, rinse and repeat as needed.

I'm incredibly jealous of that girl from Out of this World. Always have been. I wish my Dad was an alien (though, sometimes I think he might be. He's not allowed to eat grapefruit because it interacts negatively with one of the medications he's on. Part of his birthday present from me this year was some grapefruit shower gel. He asked my mother if he would be OK using it. I now think my Dad has a policy of washing from the inside) and I'd inherited from him the power to freeze time. Just how cool would that be? You'd never need to run late again! I think all punctually challenged people like me should be awarded that gift.

Actually, I think I should have the power to freeze time awarded to me as a reasonable adjustment under the DDA. It takes me longer to get anywhere in London than it takes non-disabled people (or disabled people whose impairment doesn't affect their ability to use stairs/escalators) because I can't get on the tube. This means that to get somewhere at the same time as non-crips, I have to get up earlier. Meaning I'm deprived of sleep. If I could freeze time with a clap of the hands, all would be equal in this animal farm we call London.

On the subject of being deprived of sleep, of course on that morning I had to be at UCH, I didn't bother to go to bed the night before. I was being given a general anaesthetic, it's not like I didn't have an opportunity to sleep during that day.

Or so I thought.

Many people wake up from a general rather dopey and spend the rest of the day sleeping, but, I've always woken up and immediately taken on behaviour resembling that of the Energiser Bunny. This was my first general since the age of 9, and I know the effects are often different on adults than they are on children. I was fully planning on sleeping like my mother does after an operation.

My mother is the woman who had her only child, by cesarean, under general anaesthetic. Instead of waking up and being overjoyed by the sight of her newborn bouncing baby girl, and being so excited by parenthood that she just couldn't get back to sleep; she took one look at me, said "Oh," rolled over and went back to the world of dreams. What a welcome into this world I got. "Oh." I suppose at least in her bleary state she didn't start calling me "Peter" which was going to be my name had I had a winky.

So, fully expecting to have turned into my mother, I was planning on catching up on some kip. I was so sure I'd be out for the count that I didn't even bother to pay the exorbitant fee to have the TV by my bed turned on.

Instead of course I woke up insanely hyper, with a major case of verbal diarrhoea (quite impressive given how swollen my mouth was having just had a bone saw in it). Much to the annoyance of the nurse overseeing the recovery room. Eventually she told me to lay down and shut up. You can see why with a bedside manner like that she opted to work with patients who are mostly unconscious.

The closest I came that day to proper rest was when I decided to change from blood stained hospital gown into my own pyjamas. Despite being rather squeamish, I was OK with the sight of dried blood on my surgical attire. I was even fine with the Lisa-juice covered blanket I woke up wrapped in. But, still, nighties aren't very me, I wanted my proper jammie bottoms on, so I decided to go in the toilet and get changed. Drip and all.

Changing from something with sleeves, into something else with sleeves, while you've got a drip in your hand is rather challenging. Still, I was confident I could manage it without having to ask a nurse to help me with all the tubes. As Julia Roberts once said "Big mistake. Big. Huge." Taking the drip down off it's stand to get it through various sleeves meant that my blood started flowing up the drip tube where gravity was no longer pushing the saline in the right direction. One notice of "Ooo, my blood's flowing in a direction it's not supposed to," had me laying on the floor, attempting to preserve what little consciousness I had left.

Actually, I wish I could go back in time and rethink that decision. How embarrassing.

BADD

Today is BADD.

No, I haven't woken up with amnesia thinking I'm stuck in the 80's

And, no, today hasn't been really shit, necessitating the extra "D" for emphasis.

Today is Blogging Against Disablism Day (The brainchild of The Goldfish, inspired by Blogging Against Sexism Day, Blogging Against Racism Day, Blogging Against Heteronormativity
Day and others).

You may be thinking "Why does Lisy need to participate in a designated day? All she seems to do is winge about the discrimination she faces." And you'd be right. I asked myself the same question many times. But, in the end, faced with a shiny, exciting bandwagon - I just had to jump on (the bandwagon had working ramps, how could I resist?).

It comes at an apt time for me, as I'm suddenly in a state of heightened awareness about being disabled. Why? Because, for the last fortnight, I haven't been disabled.

Did my Osteogenesis Imperfecta vanish for the duration of my holiday? No. Of course not. But, for the two weeks I spent in America, I was not disabled. There was nothing I was stopped from doing because America (or at least the state of California) has almost entirely ridded itself of disabling barriers.

During my holiday I found myself able to go wherever I wanted to, whenever I wanted to. All buses, trains, underground trains, trams, etc... are accessible. Whereas here in London of course, I'm disabled. Not by my Osteogenesis Imperfecta, but by the stairs/escalators on the underground and at train stations, by buses with ramps that don't work, etc.

And it wasn't just in the arena of getting around that my disability was removed. I could go into any bar, I could eat in any restaurant (well, not *any* because Americans just don't seem to "get" vegetarianism, but my impairment proved no disability), I could visit any tourist attraction, safe in the knowledge that there would be access, and I wouldn't be disabled.

Now I'm back in the UK and, whilst my impairment is at exactly the same level as it was on the other side of the Atlantic. But now, I'm so severely disabled I can't even get into my local organic food store - because it's their steps disabling me, not my impairment.

I even did two gigs in San Francisco. Both clubs were fully accessible from the point of view of audience members (and so, *gasp*, on both nights there were actually crips in the audience) and one, with it's level performance area, was even accessible to wheelie comics. That's a 50% rate of full access. I must've played in over 50 comedy clubs in the UK. And how many of those were fully accessible to a performer? 3 (incase you're wondering, my criteria is: access to the entrance, an accessible toilet and either level access to the performance area or a ramp up to the stage). And only a handful more have access for audience members too. It seems that only time you're going to hear the word "access" in conjunction with the words "comedy club" here in the UK is if you happen to overhear a conversation between me and Liz.

Attitudes in America are completely different too. During my trip, two whole weeks, only one small child pointed and stared at me like I was a freak of nature. That was at Universal Studios, so I'm assuming that she too was a British tourist.

As I said in a previous post - in California, wheelchair users can get everywhere - so we are everywhere. Here I know far too many people (my parents included) who, due to disabling barriers, leave their own homes far less often than is healthy. I'm guessing British tourists going to America for the first time probably think there's been some kind of plague because there are so many crips about - shopping, socialising, taking the bus to work. (I guess technically there has been a kind of plague - war veterans who've become disabled due to the Bush family's tendency to pick fights with countries they don't like).

Of course, disablism isn't only about the barriers preventing us from getting to public places. Many of us face discrimination the second we get out of bed in the morning, before we've left the house. Laurence, in this article points out that there is an estimated shortfall of 300,000 wheelchair accessible homes in the UK. I live in an inaccessible flat. There's 3 steps to get in (fortunately each far enough apart from the others for me to bump my chair up and then regain my balance before tackling the next one) and my flat is far too small to move my chair around in.

You may be wondering why a feisty character like me would accept such sub-standard accommodation. Simply, when I was offered the flat it was more accessible than where I was living, and I knew it was going to be the best I was going to find for a long time.

But, why is there such a shortfall of accessible accommodation? You guessed it - disablism. If architects, builders, local councils, etc could just bear in mind that building accessible houses would not only eliminate the discrimination disabled people face, but, more importantly from their point of view, would bring in a profit - cos, guess what, crips pay rent and even buy houses! Shock, horror!

That is of course the other side of disablism. Not only do disabled people face inequality, but also, landlords, shop owners, restauranteurs, etc, etc lose profits by excluding crips. Sadly, maintaining inequality and an unjust society seems more important to these people than raking in the profits. Which seems like bizarre business sense to me. You'd never see a pub with a sign outside saying "No blacks!", so why are steps at the door acceptable? It's tantamount to the same thing.

And, at the end of the day, while all prejudices are wrong, disablism is the least rational, yet the most rampant (though white, I am a woman, and I am gay. I never experience sexism or homophobia, yet, as I pointed out, I encounter disablism before I've even left my flat of a morning). Tomorrow you could get hit by a bus. You wouldn't wake up suddenly gay, you wouldn't wake up suddenly black, you wouldn't wake up suddenly female, but, it's highly likely that you might wake up disabled. And if you're a pub landlord I bet you'd really find yourself wishing you could still kick yourself for not making the place accessible when you spent all that money on refurbishing last year.

A friend recently suggested meeting up in this pub. Notice the access comment: "Disabled access (access only, no accessible toilets)". So, an accessible drinking establishment, as long as you don't want to drink anything. That'll bring in the £80 billion crips collectively have to spend every year.

Though many crips do have money, disablism is also an economic construct. Using my holiday as an example: A non-disabled person carrying a suitcase would have no difficulty at all walking from my flat, down to Euston station to get the 205 bus to Paddington, so they could get the Heathrow Express, no difficulty in getting the case onto the bus, and off the bus. I can't. With a case, I have to get a taxi. That 205 bus in London costs £1.50. Taxi's cost considerably more. Mobility impaired London residents can get a Taxicard, and that reasonably short journey to Paddington, with a Taxicard cost me £1.50. The same as the bus would cost a non-crip. See how the Taxicard eliminates the financial penalty for having a mobility impairment? I recently heard someone argue that Taxicard should be abolished because "Why should disabled people be able to travel however they want, whenever they want? If disabled people can have a Taxicard, I should be able to take a limousene to work on my monthly travelcard!"

Yes. Let's bring back the financial penalties for being disabled just cos you're jealous that you have to take the tube. At least you can take the tube.

That's a very small scale example of economic discrimination. This woman claims that her £110,000 compensation doesn't cover the extra living costs of being disabled for life. Quite rightly so.

Someone I used to know received over £1 million in compensation from the hospital trust responsible for causing her Cerebral Palsy to cover her extra living costs for being disabled.

Both these people are eligible for Disability Living Allowance. A benefit which is supposed to cover the extra costs of being disabled.

From these amounts of compensation, we can ascertain that, during the course of the average disabled person's life, they are underpaid between £110,000 and £1 million in DLA. I fully agree that where there is blame for an impairment, the "victim" should be compensated for the trauma. But, to include living costs in the compensation calculation? That shouldn't be neccessary. Surely we should *all* have our extra living costs met. But, no. We're financially penalised and economically discriminated against.

And someone can begrudge me paying a taxi fare equal to the bus fare they would pay.

All over London there are these Chinese Herbal Clinics, with displays in their window offering treatments and pain relief for impairments such as arthritis. Obviously, I'm not one of these people that believes that alternative medicine can provide cures, but I do firmly believe that many can offer some degree of pain relief. So, these clinics are offering to help crips ease their pain - but have I ever seen just *one* that didn't have steps at the door? No. Not even one. You'd think that if they're targeting their services at people with chronic pain, that they wouldn't exclude most of their potential clients by renting inaccessible premises. "Oh, hi. Yes, we can treat you. As long as there's nothing "wrong" with you to begin with of course."

Duh.

Other places you'd think you wouldn't find disablism would be in services specifically for disabled people, right?

As I've mentioned before, my father went to a "special" college for disabled young men, when he was a disabled young man. The entry criteria? You had to be able to walk. I love all his old college photo's, full of people who should be wheelchair users, but were forced to prop themselves up with every walking aid going, just to get some semblance of an education (no-one taught my father to read until he was 21). When you look at the pictures you get to play "Guess who fell over just after the picture was taken!" I think it was Dad several times.

Sounds like something that wouldn't happen "in this day and age"? This evening I had a telephone conversation with an old school friend. He now lives in a segregated community specifically for disabled people (in a first floor flat with no lift up the stairs). He was saying that they're currently evicting all the residents who are *too* disabled and actually need any assistance with, anything.

It is now just before midnight, BADD is nearly over, and much like realising you've got three minutes left of your exam - I feel I should write a conclusion.

So, much like drugs, disablism is wrong. Just say no, kids.

There.

This public information post was brought to you by vast quantities of tea and the letter "Ouch my arse hurts from sitting still at the computer for too long."