Equality funding. Today is National Woman’s Day.
I’m waiting to see a consultant gynaecologist regarding a TVT mesh implanted by Mr Hextall in St. Albans City Hospital in 2005. This article is because myself and thousands of other women are waiting too long.
Both myself and Mr Hextall were lied too by the manufacturer of the TVT mesh implant regarding it’s effectiveness and it’s ability to stay intact for the duration of my life.
The TVT mesh is in two parts, migrated from it’s original position, causing damage to my bladder and basically not doing what it was intended for.
The manufacturer is the well known pharmaceutical gangster J&J.
It’s been well over three years since Mr Hextall referred me via Oxford to ‘look into’ the removal of the TVT mesh; recognising (to my face) it was causing me a great degree of pain, negatively impacting my professional, emotional, sex and social life.
Miss Price saw me at the John Radcliffe in Oxford and I really thought my misery would be ending soon but she then left. I could be responsible for this as I hear that she isn’t practicing for political reasons. Perhaps I was the last person she saw?
Bizarrely, as no correspondance was received about our consultation, I remain without the medical proof that the TVT is causing my symptoms that a legal team will accept for any court action. A radiography scan is not enough.
During my consultation with Miss Price, thankfully, I had someone with me. We were both witness to the issues she’d had, trying to get the other gynaecologists on board. She stated the need to ”justify” my removal surgery to a team and this would be exceptionally difficult.
That consultation took place years ago. Discharged from Oxford because of lack of funding… I’ve yet to be referred to a specialist mesh gynaecology clinic and just remain waiting. I’m wondering if my life will ever be worthy enough to justify mesh removal surgery.
Painfully needing to go for a wee; every second of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year since this mesh was implanted in me is hard…it was hard enough before the scan showing it was broken. But actually having the proof and still being denied treatment is somehow worse.
All this does is make me realise I’ll never be a priority.
I watch the National Health Service adverts come up on facebook’s newsfeed. How can I help but ask, how much do these cost? Recently I was offered £200 to turn up in my wheelchair as an extra for an NHS TV advertisement.
I declined. The irony too much. But it proves they’re using paid extras and actors/dancers not volunteers. The NHS must be spending hundreds of thousands on advertising.
We get confronted by our own worthiness every day and I feel this more than most, but this week it happened in a manner almost too hard to handle.
Regular readers will know I used to be an electrician. I miss work a lot. I miss doing something ‘useful’, productive and wholesome. This week an engineer attended my home because my medical pendant alarm was sending error messages and losing radio signal.
I wasn’t looking forward to the engineer arriving.
Feeling super extra lousy as my chemist didn’t have my medication again and having gone around three weeks without HRT everything was wrong, including my mood.
It is a regular thing for me to go without my basic medications because of the system and bad administration.
But, although I do know right from wrong, often I can’t stop myself saying ‘rude’ things in response to my treatment so I avoid situations, making it hard to deal with the supply issues which can drag on weeks.
However, when visitors or mainenance people come I can’t be seen sitting around naked on towels.
Obviously I hide my potty, adult nappy pads and other embarrassing things. I present myself well by getting dressed into uncomfortable clothes. I open the windows, clean up, brush my hair etc
I try and seem as normal as I can for a sick person.
My door bell sounded and through the intercom a male voice stated they were the carealarm engineer. I buzz them in and as they made their way up in one of the two lifts; I propped the door open and get back under my blankets, cosy on the sofa.
I live on a high level and it can take some time before visitors arrive.
It’s ages before a deep voice shouts out from the front door and I respond to them to come on into the lounge. Soon a figure is standing across the door frame, filling it. They are transgender female.
We then have a conversation regarding the alarm. I’ll be honest, they were polite and well presented. There was nothing to dislike really but I felt envious and jealous of her.
She did still manage to manexplain the alarm and showed me how it works by dropping it… although, it didn’t go off when it fell and she had to repeat this action several times. Something which I already knew as I’d tripped last week and it hadn’t sounded.
But I was intrigued, bitter with pain and rude questions. I mean, she obviously can’t have an issue getting her HRT can she? She’d obviously had surgery too – breasts and gynaecological. She is obviously a more worthy woman.
I tell her. I wrote an article about transgenders and how I’d live longer because of it. I realise I’m overstepping the line of what is decent but hope she understands a fellow woman’s fight for her right to treatment too.
She looks up at me. A look passes between us, it says;
‘I can’t believe you just said that’.
However, she relents and decides to share. She doesn’t have to request or beg for her HRT every month. She tells me she has an implant which delivers her medication in regular doses. Her bloods are checked every three months to ensure her medication is at the right dose.
Wow. Amazing. How lovely for her. My face must have said it all as she followed with,
“But I have to go all the way into London to get my bloods done.”
At least I found out about HRT implants…not available to me but I know about them now. The GP tells me, it’s the government…
Thanks for reading.