Showing posts with label Politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Politics. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Friday, November 12, 2010
One Proactive Girl (or Always Always Always Always Always Be Insured)
As I mentioned a few weeks ago - then without the experience to back up my statements - it is a good idea to get private health insurance as soon as you are diagnosed with a mental illness. I would actually suggest getting it now so you don’t have to worry about waiting periods, it’s not that expensive in the scheme of things and it will save you from what follows -plus elective surgery waiting times, being on a ward post-baby and much more. (I don’t work for insurers by the way). Let me tell you about my current experience in one of our states’ (better) public hospitals.
I was admitted here at 1am Tuesday morning, lightly sedated and in a little shock due to the nature of the situation. I was quickly examined by a doctor of some kind, vitals checked, tummy poked(?), given more meds and sent off to bed. The following morning I was seen by the psychiatrist who un-sectioned me. Good so far, but the session with that psychiatrist lasted only 10 minutes and didn’t go into drug discussions, even though I was right in the middle of a changeover. There are no therapy programs here and no regular talks with nurses. That 10 minute talk was the last I saw of any doctor until this afternoon when I kicked up a storm. Post storm I was able to see one of the junior doctors. During the session with this doctor there was a quick question about how I was going but nothing in-depth. I then informed him that I had been on the phone to the private hospital I wish to be admitted to, already given them my insurance details and basically arranged my admission, all he had to do was write the referral. He understood my frustrations with the public system - everyone knows it’s crap - so he agreed to get the senior psychiatrist to write the referral, though he couldn’t guarantee it would happen. With this half hearted response in mind I thought it might be worth having a word with my truly amazing GP. We spoke for 10 minutes or so and she agreed that this situation is awful and said she would get on the phone to both the hospital I want to get into to speed up the admission process and also call here to give the senior psychiatrist a kick up the bum – something I know she followed through with as my nurse told me. So hopefully I’ll be out of here tomorrow and into a hospital which offers care and therapy rather than a secure facility in which to stare at walls. People laugh at the benefits of therapy, especially art therapy, which is my preferred type; but it really is beneficial and I’ve learnt so much about myself, my illness and I’ve been reminded that I’m not the only person in the world. If nothing else the therapy programs at the last hospital provided two positive ways to pass two hours of the day. Hopefully hospital number 4 (in 6 days) will provide the same, if not better. I just have to hope they accept me – they know about the reason for my sectioning - that they have a room available and that I get assigned to a good psychiatrist. I think it will be okay, I’m trying to have a little hope.
I was admitted here at 1am Tuesday morning, lightly sedated and in a little shock due to the nature of the situation. I was quickly examined by a doctor of some kind, vitals checked, tummy poked(?), given more meds and sent off to bed. The following morning I was seen by the psychiatrist who un-sectioned me. Good so far, but the session with that psychiatrist lasted only 10 minutes and didn’t go into drug discussions, even though I was right in the middle of a changeover. There are no therapy programs here and no regular talks with nurses. That 10 minute talk was the last I saw of any doctor until this afternoon when I kicked up a storm. Post storm I was able to see one of the junior doctors. During the session with this doctor there was a quick question about how I was going but nothing in-depth. I then informed him that I had been on the phone to the private hospital I wish to be admitted to, already given them my insurance details and basically arranged my admission, all he had to do was write the referral. He understood my frustrations with the public system - everyone knows it’s crap - so he agreed to get the senior psychiatrist to write the referral, though he couldn’t guarantee it would happen. With this half hearted response in mind I thought it might be worth having a word with my truly amazing GP. We spoke for 10 minutes or so and she agreed that this situation is awful and said she would get on the phone to both the hospital I want to get into to speed up the admission process and also call here to give the senior psychiatrist a kick up the bum – something I know she followed through with as my nurse told me. So hopefully I’ll be out of here tomorrow and into a hospital which offers care and therapy rather than a secure facility in which to stare at walls. People laugh at the benefits of therapy, especially art therapy, which is my preferred type; but it really is beneficial and I’ve learnt so much about myself, my illness and I’ve been reminded that I’m not the only person in the world. If nothing else the therapy programs at the last hospital provided two positive ways to pass two hours of the day. Hopefully hospital number 4 (in 6 days) will provide the same, if not better. I just have to hope they accept me – they know about the reason for my sectioning - that they have a room available and that I get assigned to a good psychiatrist. I think it will be okay, I’m trying to have a little hope.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
First Dog On The Moon Comic
Crikey's First Dog On The Moon comic for today. (Click for larger view)
http://www.crikey.com.au/firstdog/
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Read This
If you're anything like me you'll see a link in someone's blog and not bother to follow it, you're more likely to read something if it's shoved in your face... Read this, it's from The Age, link's at the bottom
MICK the Syrian, as he's known, sells excellent vegetables at the Queen Victoria Market. Usually he's to be found smoking and flicking through wads of cash and flirting with customers, like the louche, art-house actor he so closely resembles, but last Tuesday he was reading from a darker script.
Lying almost prone over his leafy greens, he argued with a boy, a young student with a clipboard, sent to gather opinions on the federal government's policy on asylum seekers.
Perhaps the teenager imagined Mick, with his droopy, Dennis Lillee moustache and Driza-Bone accent, was the usual laconic, stuffed-if-I-know, stuffed-if-I-care type of Anglo-Celt, someone who could furnish him with quick, anodyne answers to drag back to the classroom.
''OK, get this down in your survey,'' Mick told him, shifting his weight to a pile of capsicums. ''The government has very, very seriously f---ed up on this.''
The boy blanched but began to take notes.
''These people aren't coming out here on leaky boats because they feel like a little holiday,'' Mick told him. ''They're coming here because they're terrified of what's going to happen to them if they stay. They have no future where they come from. Do you understand?''
The boy nodded and scribbled.
''Now, what I can't understand,'' Mick continued, his voice rising, ''is why we want to make them suffer all over again by putting them in such a remote place, way out in the middle of a frigging desert, where nobody can reach them, hoping that most of us will forget about them. Again, why are they doing it?''
The gathering shoppers, the schoolboy and I stood silenced, galvanised by his urgent, honourable, incandescent questions. The boy fielded them, literally, as it occurred to me every last one of us residing in this country should be made to. Impressively, he wrestled with the subject, and before an audience of impatient, attendant strangers.
''They put these people there,'' he answered Mick, uncertainly, ''because they have to process them. And a desert's probably a good place to process somebody, isn't it?''
''Processed?'' Mick cast around at his customers. ''Can you believe this? They've got kids talking like this now! That frigging word.''
He turned to the boy. ''You ever heard of Villawood?'' The boy shook his head. ''Villawood's in Sydney, mate, right near the city. It's a s---hole, and I'm not saying put them there, but at least people can visit it. Who's going to drive to the WA desert to check on these people?''
The boy looked befuddled. ''But we have to put them somewhere, don't we? They can't just come straight in off the boats. They're illegals.''
''They've brainwashed you!'' Mick barked. He'd forgotten, it seemed, the real object of his anger, or else, like those of us who are similarly provoked to frustration and despair by the uncertain fate this country has consistently dished out to asylum seekers, he'd lashed out indiscriminately. I felt for the boy, taking the weight for something so grave and serious, a matter that properly belongs, after all, with mature, compassionate and politically engaged adults, men and women who have agency enough and a sense of moral duty to act on the matter.
''I want you to take your survey away and have a think about this stuff, OK?'' Mick said briskly. ''Take it home, go into your bedroom, lie down, and think bloody hard about it, because it's not right how we're treating these people. We have to let them quickly into towns and cities where they can start working, start living again.''
The boy put his pen away, shaken. He murmured a hasty word of thanks to Mick and turned and walked. He didn't stop at any of the other stalls, I noticed, but made his way, dazedly, out.
''Jesus,'' I ventured, ''you've traumatised that kid for life. If he didn't eat his greens before,'' I joked, ''he certainly won't now.'' But this was cowardice speaking, a manoeuvre brought about by shame.
Too upset to answer, too affronted to laugh, Mick lit a cigarette and retired to the mudguard of his truck, from where, with a despondency I hadn't seen before, he watched his Indian staff serve those of us who had stood about listening awkwardly, shopping lists in hand.
Pissed off with surveys and done with talk, he'd made his message clear, and that message, it seemed to me, deserves a wider hearing than just those in the market for fruit.
The Age
http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/if-only-we-could-all-hear-views-of-migrants-20100709-1040m.html
If only we could all hear views of migrants
CATHERINE FORD
MICK the Syrian, as he's known, sells excellent vegetables at the Queen Victoria Market. Usually he's to be found smoking and flicking through wads of cash and flirting with customers, like the louche, art-house actor he so closely resembles, but last Tuesday he was reading from a darker script.
Lying almost prone over his leafy greens, he argued with a boy, a young student with a clipboard, sent to gather opinions on the federal government's policy on asylum seekers.
Perhaps the teenager imagined Mick, with his droopy, Dennis Lillee moustache and Driza-Bone accent, was the usual laconic, stuffed-if-I-know, stuffed-if-I-care type of Anglo-Celt, someone who could furnish him with quick, anodyne answers to drag back to the classroom.
''OK, get this down in your survey,'' Mick told him, shifting his weight to a pile of capsicums. ''The government has very, very seriously f---ed up on this.''
The boy blanched but began to take notes.
''These people aren't coming out here on leaky boats because they feel like a little holiday,'' Mick told him. ''They're coming here because they're terrified of what's going to happen to them if they stay. They have no future where they come from. Do you understand?''
The boy nodded and scribbled.
''Now, what I can't understand,'' Mick continued, his voice rising, ''is why we want to make them suffer all over again by putting them in such a remote place, way out in the middle of a frigging desert, where nobody can reach them, hoping that most of us will forget about them. Again, why are they doing it?''
The gathering shoppers, the schoolboy and I stood silenced, galvanised by his urgent, honourable, incandescent questions. The boy fielded them, literally, as it occurred to me every last one of us residing in this country should be made to. Impressively, he wrestled with the subject, and before an audience of impatient, attendant strangers.
''They put these people there,'' he answered Mick, uncertainly, ''because they have to process them. And a desert's probably a good place to process somebody, isn't it?''
''Processed?'' Mick cast around at his customers. ''Can you believe this? They've got kids talking like this now! That frigging word.''
He turned to the boy. ''You ever heard of Villawood?'' The boy shook his head. ''Villawood's in Sydney, mate, right near the city. It's a s---hole, and I'm not saying put them there, but at least people can visit it. Who's going to drive to the WA desert to check on these people?''
The boy looked befuddled. ''But we have to put them somewhere, don't we? They can't just come straight in off the boats. They're illegals.''
''They've brainwashed you!'' Mick barked. He'd forgotten, it seemed, the real object of his anger, or else, like those of us who are similarly provoked to frustration and despair by the uncertain fate this country has consistently dished out to asylum seekers, he'd lashed out indiscriminately. I felt for the boy, taking the weight for something so grave and serious, a matter that properly belongs, after all, with mature, compassionate and politically engaged adults, men and women who have agency enough and a sense of moral duty to act on the matter.
''I want you to take your survey away and have a think about this stuff, OK?'' Mick said briskly. ''Take it home, go into your bedroom, lie down, and think bloody hard about it, because it's not right how we're treating these people. We have to let them quickly into towns and cities where they can start working, start living again.''
The boy put his pen away, shaken. He murmured a hasty word of thanks to Mick and turned and walked. He didn't stop at any of the other stalls, I noticed, but made his way, dazedly, out.
''Jesus,'' I ventured, ''you've traumatised that kid for life. If he didn't eat his greens before,'' I joked, ''he certainly won't now.'' But this was cowardice speaking, a manoeuvre brought about by shame.
Too upset to answer, too affronted to laugh, Mick lit a cigarette and retired to the mudguard of his truck, from where, with a despondency I hadn't seen before, he watched his Indian staff serve those of us who had stood about listening awkwardly, shopping lists in hand.
Pissed off with surveys and done with talk, he'd made his message clear, and that message, it seemed to me, deserves a wider hearing than just those in the market for fruit.
The Age
http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/if-only-we-could-all-hear-views-of-migrants-20100709-1040m.html
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Challenge Complete
I did it, a whole week without my precious Age. For seven days I have read nothing but The Australian and Crikey, and it was a massive failure. The Australian is a little better than The Age in its omission of junk but not as much as I was expecting, it’s just national junk as opposed to Victorian junk, and the layout makes it look a little more sophisticated. A lot of the national stories were scandal pieces that wouldn’t be amiss on A Current Affair, and if I wanted any Victorian news I was ushered to the Herald Sun’s website, and there’s no way I’m going to read that without several massive grains of salt. What I have come to realise though is that a lot of the news just doesn’t interest me; Australian politics is given more coverage than it deserves - although to be informed voters I suppose we need information, but that said a lot of it is just spin – and the few issues I am interested in at the moment are getting negative, brainless coverage that is making me angry. I think the general populace, and those in parliament forget their heart when it comes to asylum seekers. We have a (closet) mildly racist population who don’t take the time to think about the situations asylum seekers are fleeing from, or to look at the tiny numbers we actually receive. This is an area where votes should be completely disregarded and the right thing done by those seeking safety. This Wednesday's Hack on Triple J showed me this week just how insensitive and uninformed some of our population are.
I’ve just realised that in all this I’ve completely forgotten the ABC; they’re good for national news, but again not great for Victorian news. Maybe from now on I can read the ABC and Crikey and just check the Victorian section of The Age. Or not read anything and submit a very informed donkey vote at the end of the year, something I’m seriously considering since both major parties seem to be made up of heartless fools.
I’ve just realised that in all this I’ve completely forgotten the ABC; they’re good for national news, but again not great for Victorian news. Maybe from now on I can read the ABC and Crikey and just check the Victorian section of The Age. Or not read anything and submit a very informed donkey vote at the end of the year, something I’m seriously considering since both major parties seem to be made up of heartless fools.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Mental Health Olympics
I don’t know about other fields, but certainly in the arts we see a lot of funding comparisons made between us and sport, the comparison is getting a little tired but it’s still telling of where we as a society place value. Today’s Croakey blog had an interesting comparison between mental health and sports funding in the most recent budget. I found it interesting, maybe you will too. I for one would be very glad to see elite sports funding slashed dramatically and for it to be redistributed amongst the many vital services (and the arts) which remain disgustingly under-resourced.
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