WHAT A PALAVER!

WHAT a palaver.

We’re moving up to our daughter’s until July – she’s  a full-time surgeon and has major childcare issues so we said we’d come and help.  She’s moving this Friday so we’re completing her packing this week.  She has not been able to get the day off for the move – the NHS requires 6 weeks’ notice and she did not have 6 weeks from the agreement on the completion date for the houses being sold.  So her fiance is coming from Daventry on Friday and we’ll help him move …

… which is all fun and games!  We like him very much and look forward to seeing him again.  In between getting two grandchildren breakfasted and off to school, doing the last frantic bits of packing, etc etc …

However.  Madame Thumb has raised her ugly head again.  I had to have another biopsy last week – and moved 48 hours later to immediately look after grandchildren etc.  So I am also moving GP surgeries and health authorities.  😦

This happened when I was first diagnosed 3 years ago – I got the biopsy results, literally the day before we moved to Devon.  I signed on with a GP the next day, and before the week was out the hospital had contacted me – this sort of thing (skin cancer) is treated as an emergency.

Or so I thought.  This time it’s like wading through setting cement.  Both GP surgeries are dragging their feet, constantly telling me I will have to wait 6 weeks for my transfer to take effect.  Daughter advises me to use the C-word to get things moving, so I do.

I speak to my new GP.  I speak to my old one.  I get the new surgery to fax the old one for a medical summary.  The old one gets the fax but does nothing.  I phone the old hospital.  The secretary is covering for someone else and doesn’t know the protocol.  I give everyone my new address and the new GP address over and over again.  I still get told by the old GP that my notes can’t be transferred.  I speak to the new GP surgery.  They assure me it can be done.  I phone the old one again, this time requesting for it to happen.  They ask for the new GP fax number.  I tell them it’s on the fax they were sent last Thursday at 5.30.  She clearly can’t be bothered to look for it.  Eventually, wearily, she asks for their phone number and says she will see what she can do.

I need chocolate … meanwhile Madame Thumb thinks she is going to a fancy dress party as an Egyptian mummy.  Sigh …

Why does everything happen at once?