Roasted Mediterranean veg, halloumi, crispy potato slices
Another day of wrangling NHS services, against which herding cats looks positively entertaining. (Although, now I think about it, how is playing with a load of cats not universally agreed to be a good time? Who cares if they, or you, get to the destination anyway?)
The emergency prescription for steroids that caused such hassle over the weekend ran out today and, as I hadn’t heard from the GP, I had to call them to ask if mum could have some of the tablets that prevent her going blind1. This necessitated explaining the whole sorry situation to the receptionist, then waiting around for the GP to call back.
Instead one of the ANPs called back so I got to explain all over again to her. She said they hadn’t received anything from the rheumatology consultant, and I would need to chase them myself. I pointed out the ridiculousness of me chasing one part of the NHS on behalf of another part of the NHS, and got an insincere-sounding apology “if it feels painful to make a phone call”. The explanation was that the GP surgery staff had no different or better way of contacting the hospital department, so I might as well make the call as I had the number anyway.
I did as requested, left a message on the rheumatology answerphone, and then, as the ANP put it, “we’ll just have to hope”. Which sounds more than a little casual for a potentially catastrophic medical condition, and mum certainly thought so: she overheard the end of the conversation and was crying with fear “I don’t want to die”.
I managed to distract her with some gardening while I looked up the contact details for some organisation that might be able to help: not PALS, as they only deal with matters relating solely to the hospital, but (with thanks to my AI friend 💎) the Hampshire and Isle of Wight ICB (Integrated Care Board, maybe?) looked to be my best bet.
I started the email, but quickly decided I needed lunch first, as my stomach was growling at me. Part of one of the chipolatas (leftovers from last night’s dinner) that I served myself made a bid for freedom, bouncing off my shoe and onto the floor. I picked it up, but there was some greasy residue left behind. Thankfully, we own a tabby and white cleaning machine that was more than capable of resolving that situation. 😸
Before I got back to my email, I received a text message from the GP surgery, saying (and this is the whole message):
Dear Mrs [sic] Palmer, i have done the prescription of steroid, kindly pick it up from your chemist. Thanks, [doctor’s name].
The ANP called back a little later, just to check everything was resolved, and told me about the members of the rheumatology team she had spoken with in getting hold of the information they needed to do mum’s prescription. I shouldn’t be picky, when she clearly went out of her way to help sort the situation, but the “I don’t have any better way of contacting them” line clearly wasn’t strictly true.
So that’s sorted, and all I need to do now is hope the prescription is delivered tonight, or I’ll be spending tomorrow morning arranging a trip down town to collect it. Everything else I was meant to be doing today – finding someone to fix the washing machine, buying a new freezer, cancelling my taxi bookings for the training I’m no longer going to attend – remain undone.
Dinner was the sort of meal we only get around the time the groceries are delivered: Mediterranean veg, crispy potato slices (from Mash Direct, and a current favourite of ours), and squeaky cheese (as my sister and I always called it)2, followed by toffee apple pudding and cream / custard.
Now the church bells are ringing out (Wednesday is practice night at the local church), and I’m just hoping I can stay awake long enough to watch The Repair Shop with mum. And possibly Suki, if she ever emerges from hiding and squeaks at us that it’s time for the daily Adoration Of The Cat session to begin. 😻
Is it pineapple sponge today? 