Thankful, Or At Least I Will Be

So. The 3 Fates, none of them toothless, sadly, have decided that I am, in fact, disabled enough to have the higher rate of the mobility component DLA (again). A year of wrangling culminated in  I feel sort of numb; it isn't exactly something to celebrate, is it, having official acknowledgment that I am f*$%*d. F*$%*d good and proper, like so many of my patients. At least I can speak, and write, and make myself heard, and I had loads of moral support (including Rolos being telepathically beamed at me by @lumpinthethroat when I couldn't find any). I have spent the last 11 years advocating for people in my role as an SLT; now, I need to figure out how best to do it in a way that doesn't involve 4 hours of commuting and beating the hell out of myself.

Oh, and I did manage one other tiny little thing today: my first round of edits is done, and the MS sent off, so that my primary supervisor can have a read through all of the poems and short stories in my M Res collection. If anyone has any ideas about how a poet goes about training as an advocate, or doing whatever I need to do to help other people in the same crappy sinking boat, I am all ears.

All I Can Say

GAH. Yuk. Barf. Hurl. Vomit.  I feel sick. Shaky hands. Shakier legs, especially the Dead Leg. 3 people I have never met, who really don't want to meet or see me or acknowledge that I exist, will make a decision this afternoon that feels as though it will change my whole life. Even to my own ears, that sounds a bit melodramatic. No DLA, no Motability car. No DLA, no Blue Badge. No Blue Badge, no bus pass. No Blue Badge, no renewal of my Disabled rail card. One little freedom-killing thing follows on from another. Walking stick it was, crutches it is, crutches it may be. And to top it all off, my face has erupted in pimples. Great. Now I'm a pubescent-looking 44 year old who walks like a pirate.

Neon Orange, Putrescent Green

I am sorting through a *ginormous* pile of papers (171 pages and counting) relating to my DLA Appeal and my Tribunal hearing on Thursday. The documents from the DLA office are all printed on a vaguely grey, dirty-looking paper that seems to absorb whatever pen I use on it to make notes. The paper is dingy. I feel dingy doing this, grubbing for money to buy freedom with. My highlighter pens are the only bright things around me, and they are blindingly bright: should I go for Insane Orange or Viral Green? And can I really remember all of the stuff I need to ask about/emphasize? AND will the Dead Leg stay quiescent enough for me to think straight?

Gimperella Tries to Dress for the Ball

The second most offensive thing about my crutches is the colour.  The most offensive thing is needing them, of course, needing the relief from pain and exhaustion they (might) offer.  I need the crutches, but I don't know what to do with them, so I'll leave them in the back of the car I can't really drive. Hospital grey, with yellowy-beige-ish undertones, is going to be very difficult to accessorise. I can't believe I'm worrying about what to wear to my DLA Tribunal; how do I look disabled enough? What does 'disabled enough' look like? If I'm too well-dressed, too clean, I'll look like a scrounger bilking the system. Not well-dressed enough, I'll look like I don't take the Tribunal thing seriously. I need armour, preferably in an inoffensive floral print.