A day of having VIHA tell me that no, it must be person Q, while person Q tells me it is Person T at VIHA, who says, “No that is definitely Q.”
“I just talked to them”
“Well then it must be F.”
“Actually,” I say, “they were the ones who transferred my call to you.”
“Really!!? Oh, well um, call back Monday.”
And then one organization kept shuffling me by phone back and forth from Victoria to Vancouver. Victoria person asks manager, then sends me to Vancouver, tell story again, told to wait and finally get manager in Vancouver, who asks me if I have the number for the Victoria office. They transfer me, I get another person who then gives me to another manager, who says, ‘Where do you get this information?”
“Your web page.”
I was on the phone or talking, trying to find ANYONE who would put something in writing (none so far), having people yell at me, hang up on me, tell me this wasn’t for me, that they didn’t know or care but not my inch.
Because there was a secret meeting, with people who won’t say they were there, even when I talk to them, and won’t put it in writing. They want me to see a psychologist. They want me to be labeled. Because that will improve my quality of life? It gives them a lens though which to distance themselves from me, and to justify actions. But actions not honest or noble enough to be done openly, or with us present, in case the reality shake the foundations of a self convinced fantasy.
I have moved from having a disease which is all in my mind, to having a extremely painful, debilitating and terrifying disease which can be ignored if I am the mental disease. Somehow having a mental disease trumps whatever physical might be killing me. And here I thought they had given up on controlling me.
After so many hours, always calm, always explaining, always persistent, the last person of the day asked how it was, being me.
“Sometimes I am in too much pain to fully appreciate all that people do for me.” I said.
“That sounds hard, for your caregiver, for you. It must be very hard.”
It was the only person who let themselves risk caring, to speak of the personal, intimate.
“It is,” I said, trying not to let my voice break, “Thank you for your time.”
1 day ago