#as exhausting as office hours are i like clinic setting more than ward setting

[collecting--stardust]

I'm on office hours shift this week (with the exception of Thursday because its a public holiday thanks to merdeka <3) so I'll miss watching the fps on Friday on time. And they are planning to hold a BBQ session on Saturday so my Saturday will be interrupted too if it goes to plan :)

[vesperstalksclones]

Ok so @captainrexisboo was talking to people about Rex and cinnamon flavored mouth wash, which made this amazeballs art happen by @samrubio and that got me thinking about clones and tasty flavors.... and I'm a dirty hoe... and this fell out of my Brain:

Peppermint Playtime

(or something like that)

*I'm sorry, I cannot for the life of me figure out how to do a "read more" line with my phone. Please forgive me.

*Kix x gender neutral reader

*Filth filth filth, Kix gets his brain sucked out thru his peepee, and things get crazy there is a little finger walking of the dirt trail. Just saying.

Have fun!!

●●●●●●

Kix had excused himself to go search out some food, allowing you the first bit of privacy You'd had in four days.

You'd been dispatched to Torrent squadron after the 501st had discovered a hidden slave camp tucked into the dense jungles of this gods-forsaken planet, the occupants suffering terribly from malnutrition and exposure. Tending wounded troopers as well as suffering civilians was more than he was equipped for, so the chief medical officer had dispatched you and a transport of supplies to fill the need. Kix had arched a brow at the nat-born medical technician he'd been landed with, chuckled at your name, Magik' (left over from university when you could repeat practically all of Magik's Anatomy Atlas verbatim) and within the hour was eye-fucking you from the table where he was irrigating infected wounds. Quite the romantic first meeting.

Truth be told, even the difficulty of a four day grind in the field ward couldn't blind you to how damn beautiful the trooper was. They were all made from the same man… but Kix seemed… more, somehow. His amber eyes seemed to burn with more gold and his hair was an inker ebony… his lips more plush and his lilting baritone voice richer. You might have indulged in a great deal of reciprocal eye fucking.

Now, in the privacy of his little cubby hole, you shed your filthy clothes, adding them to the growing pile and dug out your precious pouch of wipes and a spray bottle of saniwash. Metered showers on the Venator sucked. Wipes sucked far more. But you were sweaty and tired and the massaging of the towel bath was marvelously soothing after the grind. You scrubbed yourself down thoroughly, sighing at the cool air kissing at your skin as you ran your palms over your chest and belly to whisk away any remaining moisture. Stooping, you retrieved the used cloths and straightened, your eyes locking with the wide eyed stare of the medic who had appeared out of nowhere and was watching you a little slack jawed. 

Your insides jumped, but outwardly you remained cool, tilting your head coyly at him.

"Kix… how long have you been standing there?" 

A look of panic crossed his face and he gritted his teeth, the spell suddenly broken by the sound of your voice. 

"Not… not too long…. I didn't see… I…" he stammered. You couldn't help but adore his bashfulness, even as the two of you had stared across more naked bodies in the past few days than you'd care to count. 

"Oh, stop. Get over here, you need to clean up!" 

He shuffled forward, discarding the food packets he'd brought before drawing himself up in front of you, training his eyes somewhere above your head. 

"I can help… If you want me to."

His eyes snapped down to yours, surprise painting his features… but also maybe… eagerness?

"If that's ok…" You continued, nodding innocently as your lips pursed.

He nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up into a small grin.

You tucked your fingers under the hem of his blacks, tugging the shirt up until his navel peeked out.

"Look, Kix… It's been a shitty couple of days and I just… I really want to put my hands on something healthy and … " You shuddered as you pressed your palms against the muscles of his abdomen. "... gorgeous."

He nodded again, the corner of his mouth creeping high into smirk, realizing what you were getting at and immensely enjoying the idea. You pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, and he hiked a booted foot up onto a container, working at loosening the shinguards. Not wanting to waste time you worked at his back, marveling at how the droplets of the wash collected on the rippled bronze muscles and the prickles that rose wherever your nails scraped at him while you scrubbed. He threw up the other boot to be loosened as you kneaded at his shoulders, pulling a groan from the medic's lips. You rubbed the tension away until he straightened and stepped out of the armored boots, now clad only in the black tights. 

Grabbing the wash he hurriedly got to scrubbing his chest, eager to get business finished and move on to other things. Never to be the shy one, you cupped your palms over his hips, pressing yourself against his back, and rolling your hips against his ass, eliciting a small noise of approval. He was getting to work on his face when your fingers dipped down the front of his thighs and came together in the front, molding over the growing bulge in his pants. 

"Oh hell… " he groaned, canting his hips forward to press against your palms. "That's not helping."

"Then hurry up, Sir."

He growled low in his throat, dragging his pants down to hurriedly scrub himself as your fingers played at his abdominals, scratching little trails around his hips and scooping handfuls of his firm rear.

"Fucking Maker, you're beautiful." You whisper harshly, nipping at his shoulder. 

Kix clawed his tights the rest of the way off, with a grunt and spun to face you. His arm slipped around your waist and crushed you against his belly, his other hand fisting in your hair and gripping it snugly. 

" What did you want Magik, that you're so damn eager for?" He jerked your head lightly with the fist. "You think I didn't see you looking at me the last few days?" He brushed his lips against yours, holding you back when you stretched to kiss him. "What were you thinking about?"

Your nails were digging into his arms, the tension that hung over the two of you was nearly palpable. You were both exhausted and strung out and really needed something good and mind blowing to force you into a few hours of blissful slumber. 

"I want your cock… I want you in my mouth. I want your hands in my hair, and I want you to loose your damn mind."

"Fuck yes." He growled, slanting his lips over yours, groaning harshly as he thrust his tongue in your mouth, caressing at yours and exploring your warmth. 

You pushed him away and he let you go, your teeth scraping down his neck as you left. You dropped to your knees, pushing him back against the crates harshly and pressed your lips to his middle, leaving searing kisses and licks as you worked your way towards your prize. You were nuzzling at the crease of his thigh, his hard erection bumping at your cheek when you had a thought. He'd worked so damn hard to save those people… why not make things a bit more special for him. You scrambled to the side and dug in the pocket of your smock. He watched you curiously as you unearthed your tin of peppermints and scooped a bunch on to your tongue. You crunched them quickly, shuddering at the intensity of the mentholated chill they brought. Grabbing one of the cold beverages he brought, you slunk back before him and met his eyes with a naughty look in your own. 

"You worried about your breath?" He asked, confusion plain on his face. 

You shrugged and smiled sweetly. "No… but you should be."

His brows raised as you dipped your head towards his member, curling your tongue along his shaft, smiling at his moan of defeat. 

He ran his fingers through your hair before fisting them firmly, holding you tightly as you set to work. You spread your lips over the head, the velvety softness of the skin dragging against yours. A bead of pre-come had swelled at the tip and you ran your tongue through it, teasing at the tiny opening there as his breath hitched. Wetting your mouth thoroughly you slid him past your lips and on to your tongue, sucking experimentally at the mouthful as Kix shuddered above you. 

Flicking your eyes up to his, you found his mouth agape, his golden eyes locked on your face, the point of contact, memorizing the sight of his cock disappearing into you. 

"Is that good, Ad'ika? Take more…"

You pull away and plant a sloppy kiss to the head, before enveloping him again and pushing forward, taking more of his length with each bob of your head. His hands gripped tighter, pushing you forward firmly and you knew what he was wanting. You swallowed around him, shoving him deeply into your throat until your head spun and your nose brushed his abdomen and your shoulders shook as your body fought to reject his length. Fortunately a calm head and a lazy gag reflex kept things smooth and you slipped away, only to press forward again, swallowing him whole. 

Kix was gasping overhead, watching you have your way with him, satisfying your own craving even as he was the one who would surely benefit more. 

"Fuck… Magik! That feels …" his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. "Stars… that's amazing! It feels… agh!" 

You ran your nails over his hips and thighs as you worked and he arched against you. Rolled his testicles between your fingers as you stroked the heavy sack, giggling at the stutter it put in his hips. You fumbled for the odds and ends you had deposited on the floor, dipping your fingers into a bit of oil You'd snatched from the clinic. 

Pulling away, you coaxed him to sit on the crates, leaned back and relaxed, and hooked a palm behind his knee, propping his leg high. 

He chuckled nervously. "Where is this going, Mag?"

"Trust me, doll. I think you'll like this." 

You sunk back down, taking him in your mouth again, your oily fingers smoothed behind his balls and crept back between the cheeks of his ass. He squirmed under your touch, his breaths occasionally turning into little whimpers as you swallowed him down, the sloppy noises of your spit soaked lips making an obscene symphony in the modest space. He trembled when your fingertips brushed against his entrance, the oil making the touch slick and soft as satin. You timed gentle strokes with the motion of your lips, listening closely to his pants and gasps for any hint that he wasn't enjoying himself. 

Seizing the moment,, you slipped a finger in to him up to the second knuckle. 

"Fucking!... Stars… ah!" He arched up his hands flying to clench the edges of the crate and you felt him tighten around you. 

You pull away from his cock, with a wet noise, gently caressing him. 

"Do you want me to stop, sugar?" 

"N.. n.. no!" He positively whined the word, giving himself over to you willingly.

You kissed his thigh and dove back on his member, fucking him sweetly with your mouth and your hand as he moaned and squirmed under your ministrations.

Maybe he thought he was the one in charge, but the beautiful man was your plaything for the moment and hearing him whimper and cry had your insides twisting, your own muscles clenching around emptiness in anticipation.

"Magik! Kriffing Maker Ad'ika … I need…" the words broke off in a sob as you slid your finger out of him.

"What do you need, Beautiful? Tell me.." You whisper, stroking his weeping cock with your free hand, watching his muscled abs gather so that he could thrust against your fist.

"I need to come… I'm close… please, please Ad'ika!"

You smile at the warmth his words bring, wanting more than anything else to see him fall apart from your touch. You drop your mouth over his head, drawing circles with your tongue as your hand pumps his length, the other dipping into your drinking cup and finding a tiny smooth bit of ice.

If he liked the cool on his cock… well..

You raised your head to watch as your fingers slipped to his ass and pressed the bit of ice inside him.

You heard the creak of the crates as his fingers clamped down, saw his pupils shrink to pinpoints and he exploded against your lips, body bowing into the air as a scream ripped from his chest. The climax rippled through him, setting the great muscles in his thighs quivering as ropes of hot spend splashed across your face and neck.

You'd expected it… just not so much!

Pleasantly pleased with yourself, you sat stroking his thighs as the sensations of release ricocheted around within him, making themselves known with little shudders and breathy gasps. 

It wasn't long before he relaxed and quieted, panting softly in the afterglow of his release and he raised his head, searching you with a dazed expression. 

"Hi there handsome. Welcome back."

"You…. Kriffing… what the hell are you?

He gasped out, looking half pleased and half afraid.

You shrugged.

"A discerning collector of orgasms. And yours, Sir, was superb."

He rolled from the crate with a groan, gaining his feet slowly, before pulling you up with him. Sharing in childish giggles, he apologized as he helped to clean your face, before pulling you down to the sleeping palette with a grin.

"Two can play at this game, Ad'ika."

[captainkirkmccoy]

For the AUs, "mutual friend set us up on a blind date" with a side of recounting "awful first meeting" (Hey, you're that guy from the shuttle who threatened to throw up on me)

“Ah hell.”

Jim threw his comm down--he was about to text Gaila and tell her that the so called man of his dreams didn’t show--and looked up to see Dr. Leonard McCoy, looking much fresher than their last meeting on the shuttle. “Bones!”

“You’re the soulful human that Gaila insisted was the love of my life?” Jim ignored the scoff to appreciate the forearms stretched out under the sleeves of a dark green henley. Did Gaila tell him to wear that? 

“Gaila has a record for setting up eight-four couples at Starfleet alone. Bashaan and Hia are expecting triplets!”

McCoy grimaced. “This is probably a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come.” 

Before he could turn around, Jim nudged the chair across from him out with a push from his foot. “Why did you?”

McCoy looked from the chair to Jim and sighed, sliding in. “Gaila has been recalibrating my equipment at the clinic--I refuse to work with the way the previous doctor did it. She won’t finish until I went on a date.”

“And she set you up with me.” Jim sat back in the booth, content that if anything he was close enough to notice that he hadn’t shaved in a few days--something that would irk his CO--and Jim desperately wanted to reach out and touch the scruff there. 

“Looks like.” 

“Gonna be honest with you, Bones. You look fantastic. I look fantastic. This is my favorite bar and I owe Gaila one drink at least with you." He waggled his eyebrows at the other man. "What do you think?”

For the second time that night, McCoy grumbled, "Ah hell."

For the next three hours they sputter and laugh over the worst drinks on the menu. Drinks with names like Starfleet's Finest and The USS Inebriated. There are substitutions in order--Jim is allergic to a cheap synthetic alcohol that most bars prefer to use for mixed drinks but Bones doesn't mind, insisting that he'll pay for the up-charge for the shelf alcohol. 

"Ridiculous. Not your fault your allergic to the cheap shit." Bones said after matching Jim shot for shot. 

Their one drink turned into two, three and more, swapping stories about their most embarrassing moments (Jim was caught naked in the post office after sharting his pants on a class trip, Bones admitted that the hangover and subsequent upchucking on the shuttle was top humiliation). 

The easy smiles that Jim earned from Bones--who leans into the nickname after the first hour--is worth the way his stomach lurches as their waiter brings the Vulcan Salute, a green liquor so pungent Bones gagged as he sniffs. 

"This is most certainly not Vulcan approved." Bones said. 

Jim hiccuped and toasted Bones and the room at large before taking a large gulp, resisting the urge to pinch his nose. 

The details of the next half hour were fuzzy. He knew that the reaction was immediate--though maybe Bones knew what was happening before he did, because he's out of his seat and slamming a hypo into Jim's neck as his eyes watered and he convulsed. It's horrible--the wild look in Bones face as he barks for emergency services, Jim's throat seizing as it tries to cough, his chest straining. 

He passed out as a stretcher and emergency bots storm into the bar, Bones saying, "I got you, Jim." 

***

"By far the worst date I've ever been on." Bones said when he woke up, his eyes bloodshot and skin pale. 

"Have you slept?" Jim rasped, nixing his plan to lift his head off the pillow. He recognizes the egg shell blue of Starfleet's emergency room walls, red stripes and insignias interspersed in no apparent pattern. The effect always makes Jim think he's hallucinating. 

"How could I? You are by far the worst patient I've ever had the pleasure of treating."

At Jim's look, Bones hid a rueful smile behind a hand. "Assisting. I know more of your medical history than they do here and you've been here six times since the start of term!"

"I'm an overachiever." Jim told him, hoping to see that smile again, rueful or not. 

"Do you scare the shit out of all your dates or am I just lucky?"

"Would you call a near death experience a date, though?" Jim asked and took the water Bones offered. He sipped gratefully, happy that only a little dribbles down his chin because he's as thirsty as he's ever been in his life. 

"Slow down, jesus." Bones reached for the cup and their fingers brush. McCoy snatched his hand away just as Jim releases the cup and the rest of the water spills all down Jim's hospital gown as if he wet himself. 

"Oh, lord." 

"I take it back. Post office shart? Not as embarrassing as this."

"Sure." Bones rolled his eyes but grabbed some towels, tossing them to Jim. 

"Pretty pathetic. Don't tell Gaila. She won't let me copy any of her notes in coding class."

"You copy her notes?"

"I use the class to sleep. I've mastered doing it with my eyes open."

Bones snorted. "Of course you did."

Jim found himself yawning. "I'm an actual infant."

Bones grin is immediate. "Exactly." He searched Jim's face for a minute, liking what he found and then looked toward the partition, where the noise of the emergency ward spills in. 

"Shift's changing soon. A friend, Nia is your doctor. You'll be in good hands."

Jim scrambled to sit up, spotting his comm on the bedside table. 3:45 AM 

"You--shit, Bones. You should be home, asleep or at least not with me, christ."

Bones rolled his eyes again. "Couldn't leave you looking like you did, half dead."

"You saved my life," Jim is struck suddenly by the realization that should have been obvious but is not. His brain felt like when you wake up after a  long nap, too fuzzy and slow. 

Bones waved a hand. "My job."

Jim doesn't think that Bones staying bedside hours after a patient has seen medical attention is a part of his actual job but he doesn't push it.  "Seriously. Thank you, Bones."

Bones shoved his hands in his pockets. Hair pushed back, stubble more apparent, even looking like exhaustion personified, he looked amazing. Jim blamed it on the oxygen deprivation for thinking this way about his actual savior. 

"Just don't do it again. But if you--well, if you need, I noticed you don't have an emergency contact. If you need one, if you've got no one more important, I could be--."

"You would do that?" Jim sat up more successfully than his previous attempt and searches Bones tired hazel eyes. There's no air of a man who's just making an empty offer. Bones doesn't seem like that kind of person.

"Yes."

"You might regret it." Jim swallowed the non-lethal lump in his throat.

"We'll see, infant."

And Bones left. And Jim slept. And it was two years before they started officially dating but they Jim and Bones still send Gaila a present on the anniversary of their blind date. She tries not to brag about it. 

[stevishabitat]

The summer wasn’t meant to be like this. By April, Greene County, in southwestern Missouri, seemed to be past the worst of the pandemic. Intensive-care units that once overflowed had emptied. Vaccinations were rising. Health-care workers who had been fighting the coronavirus for months felt relieved—perhaps even hopeful. Then, in late May, cases started ticking up again. By July, the surge was so pronounced that “it took the wind out of everyone,” Erik Frederick, the chief administrative officer of Mercy Hospital Springfield, told me. “How did we end up back here again?”

The hospital is now busier than at any previous point during the pandemic. In just five weeks, it took in as many COVID-19 patients as it did over five months last year. Ten minutes away, another big hospital, Cox Medical Center South, has been inundated just as quickly. “We only get beds available when someone dies, which happens several times a day,” Terrence Coulter, the critical-care medical director at CoxHealth, told me.

Last week, Katie Towns, the acting director of the Springfield–Greene County Health Department, was concerned that the county’s daily cases were topping 250. On Wednesday, the daily count hit 405. This dramatic surge is the work of the super-contagious Delta variant, which now accounts for 95 percent of Greene County’s new cases, according to Towns. It is spreading easily because people have ditched their masks, crowded into indoor spaces, resumed travel, and resisted vaccinations. Just 40 percent of people in Greene County are fully vaccinated. In some nearby counties, less than 20 percent of people are.

Many experts have argued that, even with Delta, the United States is unlikely to revisit the horrors of last winter. Even now, the country’s hospitalizations are one-seventh as high as they were in mid-January. But national optimism glosses over local reality. For many communities, this year will be worse than last. Springfield’s health-care workers and public-health specialists are experiencing the same ordeals they thought they had left behind. “But it feels worse this time because we’ve seen it before,” Amelia Montgomery, a nurse at CoxHealth, told me. “Walking back into the COVID ICU was demoralizing.”

Those ICUs are also filling with younger patients, in their 20s, 30s, and 40s, including many with no underlying health problems. In part, that’s because elderly people have been more likely to get vaccinated, leaving Delta with a younger pool of vulnerable hosts. While experts are still uncertain if Delta is deadlier than the original coronavirus, every physician and nurse in Missouri whom I spoke with told me that the 30- and 40-something COVID-19 patients they’re now seeing are much sicker than those they saw last year. “That age group did get COVID before, but they didn’t usually end up in the ICU like they are now,” Jonathan Brown, a respiratory therapist at Mercy, told me. Nurses are watching families navigate end-of-life decisions for young people who have no advance directives or other legal documents in place.

Almost every COVID-19 patient in Springfield’s hospitals is unvaccinated, and the dozen or so exceptions are all either elderly or immunocompromised people. The vaccines are working as intended, but the number of people who have refused to get their shots is crushing morale. Vaccines were meant to be the end of the pandemic. If people don’t get them, the actual end will look more like Springfield’s present: a succession of COVID-19 waves that will break unevenly across the country until everyone has either been vaccinated or infected. “You hear post-pandemic a lot,” Frederick said. “We’re clearly not post-pandemic. New York threw a ticker-tape parade for its health-care heroes, and ours are knee-deep in COVID.”

That they are in this position despite the wide availability of vaccines turns difficult days into unbearable ones. As bad as the winter surge was, Springfield’s health-care workers shared a common purpose of serving their community, Steve Edwards, the president and CEO of CoxHealth, told me. But now they’re “putting themselves in harm’s way for people who’ve chosen not to protect themselves,” he said. While there were always ways of preventing COVID-19 infections, Missourians could have almost entirely prevented this surge through vaccination—but didn’t. “My sense of hope is dwindling,” Tracy Hill, a nurse at Mercy, told me. “I’m losing a little bit of faith in mankind. But you can’t just not go to work.”

When Springfield’s hospitals saw the first pandemic wave hitting the coasts, they could steel themselves. This time, with Delta thrashing Missouri fast and first, they haven’t had time to summon sufficient reinforcements. Between them, Mercy and Cox South have recruited about 300 traveling nurses, respiratory therapists, and other specialists, which is still less than they need. The hospitals’ health-care workers have adequate PPE and most are vaccinated. But in the ICUs and in COVID-19 wards, respiratory therapists still must constantly adjust ventilators, entire teams must regularly flip patients onto their belly and back again, and nurses spend long shifts drenched in sweat as they repeatedly don and doff protective gear. In previous phases of the pandemic, both hospitals took in patients from other counties and states. “Now we’re blasting outward,” Coulter said. “We’re already saturating the surrounding hospitals.”

Meanwhile, the hospitals’ own staff members are exhausted beyond telling. After the winter surge, they spent months catching up on record numbers of postponed surgeries and other procedures. Now they’re facing their sharpest COVID-19 surge yet on top of those backlogged patients, many of whom are sicker than usual because their health care had to be deferred. Even with hundreds of new patients with lung cancer, asthma, and other respiratory diseases waiting for care in outpatient settings, Coulter still has to cancel his clinics because “I have to be in the hospital all the time,” he said.

Many health-care workers have had enough. Some who took on extra shifts during past surges can’t bring themselves to do so again. Some have moved to less stressful positions that don’t involve treating COVID-19. Others are holding the line, but only just. “You can’t pour from an empty cup, but with every shift it feels like my co-workers and I are empty,” Montgomery said. “We are still trying to fill each other up and keep going.”

The grueling slog is harder now because it feels so needless, and because many patients don’t realize their mistake until it’s too late. On Tuesday, Hill spoke with an elderly man who had just been admitted and was very sick. “He said, ‘I’m embarrassed that I’m here,’” she told me. “He wanted to talk about the vaccine, and in the back of my mind I’m thinking, You have a very high likelihood of not leaving the hospital.” Other patients remain defiant. “We had someone spit in a nurse’s eye because she told him he had COVID and he didn’t believe her,” Edwards said.

Some health-care workers are starting to resent their patients—an emotion that feels taboo. “You’re just angry,” Coulter said, “and you feel guilty for getting angry, because they’re sick and dying.” Others are indignant on behalf of loved ones who don’t already have access to the vaccines. “I’m a mom of a 1-year-old and a 4-year-old, and the daughter of family members in Zimbabwe and South Africa who can’t get vaccinated yet,” says Matifadza Hlatshwayo Davis, who works at a Veterans Affairs hospital in St. Louis. “I’m frustrated, angry, and sad.”

“I don’t think people get that once you become sick enough to be hospitalized with COVID, the medications and treatments that we have are, quite frankly, not very good,” says Howard Jarvis, the medical director of Cox South’s emergency department. Drugs such as dexamethasone offer only incremental benefits. Monoclonal antibodies are effective only during the disease’s earliest stages. Doctors can give every recommended medication, and patients still have a high chance of dying. The goal should be to stop people from getting sick in the first place.

But Missouri Governor Mike Parson never issued a statewide mask mandate, and the state’s biggest cities—Kansas City, St. Louis, Springfield, and Columbia—ended their local orders in May, after the CDC said that vaccinated people no longer needed to wear masks indoors. In June, Parson signed a law that limits local governments’ ability to enact public-health restrictions. And even before the pandemic, Missouri ranked 41st out of all the states in terms of public-health funding. “We started in a hole and we’re trying to catch up,” Towns, the director of the Springfield–Greene County Health Department, told me.

Her team flattened last year’s curve through testing, contact tracing, and quarantining, but “Delta has just decimated our ability to respond,” Kendra Findley, the department’s administrator for community health and epidemiology, told me. The variant is spreading too quickly for the department to keep up with every new case, and more people are refusing to cooperate with contact tracers than at this time last year. The CDC has sent a “surge team” to help, but it’s just two people: an epidemiologist, who is helping analyze data on Delta’s spread, and a communications person. And like Springfield’s hospitals, the health department was already overwhelmed with work that had been put off for a year. “Suddenly, I feel like there aren’t enough hours in the day,” Findley said.

Early last year, Findley stuck a note on her whiteboard with the number of people who died in the 1918 flu pandemic: 50 million worldwide and 675,000 in the U.S. “It was for perspective: We will not get here. You can manage this,” she told me. “I looked at it the other day and I think we’re going to get there. And I feel like a large segment of the population doesn’t care.”

The 1918 flu pandemic took Missouri by surprise too, says Carolyn Orbann, an anthropologist at the University of Missouri who studies that disaster. While much of the world felt the brunt of the pandemic in October 1918, Missouri had irregular waves with a bigger peak in February 1920. So when COVID-19 hit, Orbann predicted that the state might have a similarly drawn-out experience. Missouri has a widely dispersed population, divided starkly between urban and rural places, and few highways—a recipe for distinct and geographically disparate microcultures. That perhaps explains why new pathogens move erratically through the state, creating unpredictable surges and, in some pockets, a false sense of security. Last year, “many communities may have gone through their lockdown period without registering a single case and wondered, What did we do that for?” Orbann told me.

She also suspects that Missourians in 1918 might have had a “better overhead view of the course of the pandemic in their communities than the average citizen has now.” Back then, the state’s local papers published lists of people who were sick, so even those who didn’t know anyone with the flu could see that folks around them were dying. “It made the pandemic seem more local,” Orbann said. “Now, with fewer hometown newspapers and restrictions on sharing patient information, that kind of knowledge is restricted to people working in health care.”

Montgomery, the CoxHealth nurse, feels that disparity whenever she leaves the hospital. “I work in the ICU, where it’s like a war zone, and I go out in public and everything’s normal,” she said. “You see death and suffering, and then you walk into the grocery store and get resistance. It feels like we’re being ostracized by our community.”

If anything, people in the state have become more entrenched in their beliefs and disbeliefs than they were last year, Davis, the St. Louis–based doctor, told me. They might believe that COVID-19 has been overblown, that young people won’t be harmed, or that the vaccines were developed too quickly to be safe. But above all else, “what I predominantly get is, ‘I don’t want to talk to you about that; let’s move on,’” Davis said.

People take the pandemic seriously when they can see it around them. During past surges in other parts of the U.S., curves flattened once people saw their loved ones falling ill, or once their community became the unwanted focus of national media coverage. The same feedback loop might be starting to occur in Missouri. The major Route 66 Festival has been canceled. More people are making vaccine appointments at both Cox South and Mercy.

In Springfield, the public-health professionals I talked with felt that they had made successful efforts to address barriers to vaccine access, and that vaccine hesitancy was the driving force of low vaccination rates. Improving those rates is now a matter of engendering trust as quickly as possible. Springfield’s firefighters are highly trusted, so the city set up vaccine clinics in local fire stations. Community-health advocates are going door-to-door to talk with their neighbors about vaccines. The Springfield News-Leader is set to publish a full page of photos of well-known Springfieldians who are advocating for vaccination. Several local pastors have agreed to preach about vaccines from their pulpits and set up vaccination events in their churches. One such event, held at James River Church on Monday, vaccinated 156 people. “Once we got down to the group of hesitant people, we’d be happy if we had 20 people show up to a clinic,” says Cora Scott, Springfield’s director of public information and civic engagement. “To have 156 people show up in one church in one day is phenomenal.”

But building trust is slow, and Delta is moving fast. Even if the still-unvaccinated 55 percent of Missourians all got their first shots tomorrow, it would still take a month to administer the second ones, and two weeks more for full immunity to develop. As current trends show, Delta can do a lot in six weeks. Still, “if we can get our vaccination levels to where some of the East Coast states have got to, I’ll feel a lot better going into the fall,” Frederick, Mercy’s chief administrative officer, said. “If we plateau again, my fear is that we will see the twindemic of flu and COVID.”

In the meantime, southwest Missouri is now a cautionary tale of what Delta can do to a largely unvaccinated community that has lowered its guard. None of Missouri’s 114 counties has vaccinated more than 50 percent of its population, and 75 haven’t yet managed more than 30 percent. Many such communities exist around the U.S. “There’s very few secrets about this disease, because the answer is always somewhere else,” Edwards said. “I think we’re a harbinger of what other states can expect.”

[artificialqueens]

saint in the city ch.5 (katlaska) - comeapart

a/n: there isn’t much left to write, which begs the q: if i wrote a side witney/trixya in the same verse, would anyone be interested? anyway, ch.1 here & ch.2 here & ch.3 here & ch.4 here. p.s thank you for all the kind comments. p.p.s pink roses

Alaska was proud of her ability to fall asleep in her office without anyone noticing, leaving her with a small amount of privacy and dignity between her long shifts, and her ability to stay under the radar meant that nobody noticed. She was sure if Willam found her, she would be the laughing stock of the staff-room for the next week, and if Courtney did, she would be the subject of all of her pity. She didn’t want to be found, though, and the idea of secrecy sounded perfect. She had mastered the art of making her office looking unoccupied while she slept, and it meant that Courtney and Willam stopped telling her to go home.

She vaguely thought that there might be something against hospital rules about sleeping in her office, but she didn’t want to know. People napped in the staff room all the time. She caught Trixie sleeping there several times on her breaks, and Trixie had never gotten in trouble before.

She must have left her door open one morning, taking the scheduled nap from two till six and avoiding most of her responsibilities, because she woke up to the sound of the door shutting as someone left the office. It took her a few moments for her vision to return to normal, heavy with sleep, and by that point the visitor was completely gone.

It was a surprise to realise that the stranger hadn’t taken the opportunity to make fun of her or shower her with pity, but had simply draped a blanket over her body and left a bag on her desk. There was a note scrawled onto the top that read ‘don’t forget to eat.’ The handwriting was familiar, but Alaska couldn’t quite place it.

She opened the bag up quietly, blinking at the sight. It was vegetarian sushi, but not like the stuff she normally bought. It was expensive, fancy sushi, like the kind that people bought on dates. She hadn’t realised how starving she was until she finished the sushi in record time, and sighed when she was done. It was better than anything she’d eaten in the last week, and the secret note-leaver was right. Being busy meant less time for remembering to eat.

She checked the clock on her desk, and she still had an hour before she had to go back to the clinic, so she tried to settle back into her seat and get comfortable again. The blanket spread over her seemed like it was almost handmade, with the communist symbol that she had learnt about in high-school sewn into it. The hammer and sickle were kind of cute, if not a little sloppy on the stitchwork. It was really warm, and it smelt good too, and soon she was fast asleep again.

Later, once Alaska finally returned from the clinic and went back to meet with a regular patient, the quilt was gone from her office. There was a pink rose on her desk, where the empty bag had once been, and Alaska felt her cheeks flush the entire walk back to the consultation.

*

Alaska was exhausted by the time the next meeting rolled around, and the situation had only proven to get worse to the outside world. Once the meeting was over, she could go home and sleep in her own bed - something that she hadn’t been able to do in days, which was one of the few things keeping her going - and when Courtney nudged at her, it took her a few minutes to zone back to reality and realise exactly why she looked so distressed. She forced herself to listen, and stood as still as possible, despite the overwhelming anxiety filling her stomach.

“It’s just a complete waste of resources, Miss Act,” Dr Crawford repeated, pursing her lips into a tight line. Alaska wanted to punch her, and not just because she was trying to sabotage Courtney. “I understand that there are concerns, but at the rate this virus is spreading, we can’t afford this indulgence. People are sick all over the hospital and we’re struggling to find a cure. It’s ridiculous that you should have a special set of staff all to yourself.”

“It’s not indulgence. It’s quarantine,” Alaska said carefully, unsure as to why this was even being brought up because last time she checked, children shouldn’t have to die due to mistreatment in a place that they went to get better. “Courtney works with very ill children who are undergoing radiotherapy and can’t be subject to a killer virus.”

“Miss Thunder, the flu patients are in clean rooms. You of all people should know this,” Dr Crawford said, as if everything Alaska had told her meant nothing. The fact that she had the nerve to imply that because her ex girlfriend had been admitted made her less of a nurse was insulting, and Alaska didn’t miss how Courtney tensed up. “The staff are clean when they walk in and when they walk out. There is essentially no possibility of an infection from the virus.”

“The smallest possibility is too much,” Courtney frowned, turning to Bianca in an attempt to get her to say something. She was confidently staring between the two of them, watching the scene unfold and silently making her own decision. “These kids are dying, Bianca. Or they’re recovering from nearly dying. You can’t put them in danger like that.”

“We’re short staffed, Miss Act, we need as many people working with the flu patients and in the clinic as possible. We can’t afford to give one department special treatment, and I’m sure they’ll agree with me. We can vote on it.”

“No, Bianca, you can’t allow this,” Alaska frowned, stroking over the back of Courtney’s hand as she turned to look properly at her. They didn’t share a department, but Alaska knew exactly how Courtney felt. The virus was the only strain currently to affect both kids and adults at the same rate, and it was essentially a death sentence if it got into the paediatrics department.

Bianca just raised her brows, glancing to Dr Crawford and then back to Alaska. “Magnolia makes fair points. I don’t like it any more than you or Courtney do, Alaska, but the risk could be worth it. If the extra staff can bring us closer to the cure, then it would be unethical to stop them from doing so.”

“They won’t, though. You know they can’t, Bianca. Look, everyone knows it’s wishful thinking. Courtney is working harder than anyone here, and she’s covered more hours in the clinic than anyone else here whilst still keeping her patients in recovery.”

“Nobody has questioned that, Miss Thunder. She’s clearly dedicated, but there are at least ten doctors and nurses that can be working towards the cure that currently aren’t.”

“Those kids will die,” Alaska frowned, shaking her head.

“They won’t. We’re professionals, and the risk pales in comparison to the possible benefits. Miss Thunder, you’re overreacting completely.”

“She isn’t overreacting,” Katya said, and Alaska’s head turned so fast that it hurt. Katya had been stood in the corner of the room for the past half hour, silent and leaning against Trixie every so often. Alaska was speechless, and Katya was like some knight in shining armour, except she wasn’t. She was just seeing reason. Katya looked just as exhausted as Alaska did. “It really doesn’t.”

“I’m sorry?” Dr Crawford asked, her voice cold and harsh. Katya sighed, pushing her hair out of her face and standing up straighter.

“This shouldn’t even be up for debate, Magnolia. You can’t risk exposing immunocompromised patients to a deadly flu we don’t know how to fix. It’s clear.”

“Katya,” Bianca started, but stopped when Katya stepped forward, looking up at her with a certain disappointment in her gaze.

“I know everyone is tired. Desperation shouldn’t blind you, Bianca. There are fourteen doctors and nurses in the cancer ward, and you and me both know they won’t find the cure. The only thing they would bring would be extra shifts, and we can’t risk patients lives like this. You know that.”

Courtney bit her tongue, and Alaska squeezed her hand a little before letting go. Dr Crawford glared at Katya and said, “Dr Zamo, sticking up for your friends is a very valiant thing to do, but we’re all professionals here.”

“Really?” Katya asked, and if Alaska had never met her before, she would’ve fallen in love all over again at the sight. “A professional would be able to pronounce my last name. I learnt yours, why can’t you learn mine? Is it because you’re scared that someone foreign might possibly be better at their job than you? You’re being ridiculous, Magnolia.”

Bianca looked like she wanted to get up and leave, shaking her head and rubbing her forehead like it might fix the situation. “Katya, is this really worth -”

“Yeah, it is, Bianca. And if you go ahead and do it anyway, me and the other surgeons are going to take a surprise vacation for a couple of weeks. I have years of holiday saved up. Oh, and Magnolia? Eat shit, kindly,” Katya grinned, showing off all of her teeth in the process before picking up her cup of coffee and walking out, Trixie following suit. Alaska had never seen that side of Katya before, the side that wasn’t serious in order to keep her job. It was the first time in years she’d seen any actual personality other than coldness to the surgeon, and she liked it.

“Okay then. I guess that’s that. You’re all dismissed,” Bianca said, sighing and picking herself up, bolting out the door before everyone else could.

Courtney turned to look at Alaska, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. Alaska wanted to do the same, but she was trying not to act like she was still miserable about what had happened between her and Katya, so she just smiled. No matter what happened, she was pretty sure she was going to be in love with her for as long as she worked in medicine. Katya was perfect.

Courtney raised her eyebrows again for effect, leaning into her. “What was that all about? That was awesome. I see why Willam says she’s cool. God, why did Katya do that? She doesn’t even like me that much.”

“I have no idea.” Alaska said quietly, pulling her scrubs a little closer and trying to ignore the way her mood lightened at the thought of the meeting.

*

One thing Alaska didn’t mind about the overtime was the fact that her secret admirer continued bringing her things. There was always her order from Starbucks in the morning, hidden in her office, and when there were night shifts, she found hot chocolate appearing in her path. Most of the time the gifts were left in her office, but when she had to work in the clinic, she would find things left behind the main desk with her name on them. Alaska was pretty sure she was being stalked, but she wasn’t too worried. They were either incredibly good at stalking, or worked in the hospital, and she hadn’t been drugged yet, so she was going with the second option.

She received more pink roses, and more meals. Sometimes they were from local places, but sometimes they were homemade, and most of the time, they tasted really good. There were a few times where she had been gifted things like Okroshka, which she had only learnt the name of after making Willam taste it and google the ingredients. It was Russian. Once, there was a box of chocolates, and they were all perfect. Alaska took them home and ate them while she watched a movie that Courtney had promised was good, but it was kind of bad. She didn’t even mind that much.

“I don’t know if it’s weird or if I should be charmed,” Alaska told Courtney in the cafeteria, picking up a green apple and placing it onto her plate. “It’s weird, I mean. I know it’s weird. But it’s sweet. They know all of my orders, though. Like, even things I haven’t eaten in months.”

“Stalking is kind of creepy, but maybe they’re scared of you. Some people are anxious, they can’t just talk to beautiful girls,” Courtney said way too seriously, and Alaska laughed, nearly knocking the apple off of her plate.

“I guess that’s kind of true,” Alaska smiled down at her, picking the tray up and adding, “Isn’t it kind of stupid to get a crush on someone you don’t know, though? I think someone wise told me that a few years back,” Courtney just smiled, her eyes widening as she turned away, looking back up to Alaska after a moment and raising a brow.

“You didn’t hear that?” Courtney asked, eyes wide, and Alaska shook her head. “There was like a crash or something. That was weird.”

“You know you’re working too hard when you’re hearing things,” Alaska laughed quietly, leading Courtney over to a table and stealing one of the fries off of her plate when she wasn’t looking.

By the time Alaska had gotten back to her office, she felt a lot better, and eating actually did make things feel a little more bearable. It was one of the few simple pleasures in life, like bubble baths or taking drugs in clubs and not getting caught in med school. Willam was in her chair, and there was another Starbucks cup with her name on. Alaska grinned at the sight, picking the cup up and sipping at it. “You didn’t get me this, did you?”

“No, girl, you playin’. I’m not about to go to Starbucks for you. I don’t even like doing that walk for Court,” Willam laughed, staring up at her and crossing her legs in the chair. “Your creepy stalker knows your exact Starbucks order?”

“Apparently. And the fact that I don’t eat meat. Really, it’s more like I have a guardian angel, y’know,” Alaska smiled, biting her lip. “It’s still hot. What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m killin’ time. Me and Court were going to hang, but she’s got a patient, and I was informed that you were supposed to be in the clinic. I was supposed to be going home, but Katya had a tragic accident with a door in the cafeteria and burnt her hand, so I’m covering. Have you heard any news on Needles?”

“I’ve heard that her situation isn’t good. I don’t - I know I shouldn’t care, but I’m worried about her.”

*

Trixie called at two am. Alaska normally would’ve ignored the call, but it wasn’t just Willam or Courtney. Trixie didn’t normally call, unless something was wrong. Her voice was urgent, and everything felt like white noise as Alaska changed and drove herself to the hospital. She was pretty sure this was karma for starting to feel good about her life again, and letting herself forget the distress she had been in since Katya had slept with her.

She broke the speed limit, and tried not to wince when she had to make a sharp break before a speed camera. She pulled into the parking space fast, and sprinted through the main doors directly into somebody making their way out.

“Alaska, hey, whoa,” Katya said, and in any normal situation, Alaska would’ve melted right then and there. She barely recognised the contact, and blinked at Katya’s hands on her arms like they weren’t real. There was a bandage wrapped around her hand. “What are you doing here?” She asked, looking up at Alaska with tired eyes. “You’re not supposed to be in for hours.”

“Courtney’s got the virus,” Alaska said, shoving past and not looking back.

Willam and Trixie were waiting for her by her office when she walked up, and Alaska had never seen Willam so sad. She looked like she had been crying, and Alaska wrapped her arms around her tight and kissed her head like it was the only thing she could possibly offer.

“When did she start displaying symptoms?” Alaska asked, pulling away from Willam and looking up at Trixie. Both of them knew Willam shouldn’t have been there, but neither of them had the heart to make her leave. Alaska was pretty sure Willam was going to kill Magnolia Crawford the second that Courtney was okay, though, especially after Courtney had taken on more shifts in the clinic to help relieve staff.

“At ten? She’s been in since one, but she hasn’t been around patients. Willam drove her here. It looks like she’s got a bad case.” Trixie explained. Alaska frowned, but tried not to look so openly heartbroken. She was lacking her normal protective layer of makeup, and she could only imagine the lengths that they would be going to in order to stop more staff getting the virus. She wanted to cry.

“Willam, you need to go rest. You know her room number, okay? Come down once you’ve slept. Let’s get to work, Trixie,” Alaska sighed.

*

It was nine by the time she returned to her desk, and there were more gifts on her desk. There were fresh strawberries and a bar of chocolate with a bottle of water, and the note read ‘don’t forget to sleep. No caffeine.’ Alaska ignored the note for the most part, eating the strawberries and ignoring the water, and headed back to the lab. She watched Trixie work and hoped for the best, and tried to ignore the fact that Willam hadn’t stopped crying in the staff-room for the past few hours. She had never seen Willam be anything other than unapologetically fearless, and now she was a mess.

When she got back to her office on her way to the clinic, the water was gone and replaced with a cup of Starbucks coffee, and Alaska drank it all before collecting her things and going downstairs. As she went to throw it away, she saw that the cup had ‘идиот’ written on the side in big writing. She didn’t think twice about trying to translate it as she set up camp in one of the rooms, calling in the first patient of the shift.

Once she was out, there wasn’t enough time to clear her thoughts, and two of her consultations ended in her nearly crying over both Sharon and Courtney. They were no closer to the cure, no matter how hard they were trying, and the death rate was rising around her. Alaska was walking with ghosts in the halls.

[gaiatheorist]

Communication.

Welcome to the UK in November 2017. On December 6th, I’ll take a £5 return bus-trip to the city centre, for an ‘open day’ for vacancies within the NHS, specifically for people with disabilities. I’d say I’m being over-analytical in assuming that the event is to back-fill the low-end vacancies that will be left as overseas workers return to their countries of origin in the midst of this EU-uncertainty, but that’s what it is. I’ll ‘lose’ a chunk of a day I should spend seeking suitable employment, explaining the things I can’t-do-now. I can do a lot of things, just not for a whole day any more, and the NHS pay-rates are awful, for the menial work that will be on offer. Yes, somebody needs to change the sheets, and push the tea-trolley, but I have brain injuries that make fluorescent lights unbearable, and only one of my hands works properly. I can’t even apply for the higher-paid audio typing roles, because my accuracy wouldn’t pass the speed-test, I have to correct so many red-underlines these days that my previously-phenomenal typing speed is now only average.

The irony, that I’ll have to explain my deficits to the NHS, who are the one agency that already hold that information, and just choose not to share it. Of course the staff at the recruitment day won’t have access to my medical records, my work-coach patiently explained ‘neurological condition’ to the person on the other end of the phone several times, and had to spell my name out three times. She was red in the face, and very angry when she had to repeat “No, absolutely not domestic or porterage service!” Box-ticking and back-filling. I’ll comb my hair, and smile politely, and explain what I can do, to ‘pass’ the sanctions-bar, there’s a possibility that I’ll be sanctioned anyway, for being ‘unsuitable’ for the roles that will be on offer. I bet the system is fast enough to take the ‘sanction’ from my December payment. Merry Christmas, DWP, I’m already trying to decide whether I can afford the £3 Morrisons ‘wonky’ veg box in my next grocery delivery, or whether I should take it out, and just buy the potatoes, carrots, and onions. 

That’ll be a new communication, phoning various companies to say I’ve had to cancel my direct debits because I won’t have enough money to cover them, the  contents insurance is extortionate at £26 per month, but there’s a chance my water cylinder might fall through the ceiling due to years of leaking. Oh, and the side-line that, as more people in the village are rolled onto Universal Credit, there will be an increase in burglaries. 

This all started with the lack of communication after the brain haemorrhage that ‘luckily’ didn’t kill me. Pretty much everything I know about the surgery, and the side-effects came from the internet, the hospital told me nothing. Absolutely nothing. Oh, wait, I’m exaggerating, the OT who assessed me on the ward, 10 days after traumatic-invasive brain surgery told me “Most people can go back to work within about 8-12 weeks.”, that was it, no questions about what I did for a living, no information on the crippling fatigue, or the host of physical and neurological side-effects of major brain surgery. She gave me a booklet, ‘Memory Strategies for Patients and Carers.’, that was it. 

I went back to work, initially mornings-only, after six weeks, because I couldn’t stand to think of other, less competent colleagues screwing up my caseload. I also went back quickly to get away from the ex and his parents, with their suffocating way of caring. I didn’t want to be ‘cared for’ by the in-laws dropping in unannounced several times a week, and tutting because I’d been in the house all day, and not picked up the ever-increasing pile of socks the ex insisted on leaving at the side of the sofa. I went back to full-time hours as much to spite the ex as because I was working from home in the afternoons anyway. He would have been far happier with me staying part-time, and being dependent on him, spending all afternoon cooking a dinner that he’d look at, and say “I’m sorry, love, I can’t eat that, is there anything else?” There wasn’t any communication from the hospital, there’s a line in one report from the Consultant Neuro-surgeon. “Having tolerated mornings, she has returned to work full-time as a teacher.” I said I worked in a school, not that I was a teacher. 

I wasn’t coping. I was trying to ‘get better’, and it was exhausting me, trying to prove that I could do everything I did before. Being me, I thought that was my fault, that I was weak, and just not trying hard enough, the rehab clinic discharged me after two appointments, because I’d already gone back to work, and wasn’t amenable to the smiley-nurse’s suggestions that I colour code timetables of household chores for different family members. My fault there, because I knew that the ex would ‘in a minute’ any task I set him, and not-do it, and that the kid would take so long, and ask so many questions, that I’d be as well doing any task I’d set him myself. Should there have been a flag-of-concern, back to the hospital, or out to Occupational Health? Probably. Was there? No, because all of these various departments work in isolation.  

My fault. I mis-managed myself horrendously in that initial denial/anger phase, superficially ‘accepting’ that a lot of things were now much more difficult, but doing them anyway, to stop other people seeing me as vulnerable, or less-than. I’m very much less-than, I’m a shade of what I was, but I didn’t want to acknowledge the enfeeblement, so I tried to work around, or through it. My resilience and tenacity did me no favours, I projected-coping, and that’s what people saw. I burned myself out, trying not to ‘let’ other people do things ‘for’ me. 

My first assessment under the PIP disability benefit programme suggested that I ‘could’ complete all of the arbitrary descriptor-activities, some with ‘aids or assistance’. I contested, and then the communication went completely out of the window, because I had my second round of brain surgery, so didn’t appeal the Mandatory Reconsideration  decision that I was fully fit for work. The additional paperwork that I’ve seen now, from the decision-maker’s report details some of the nature of my job. Should there have been a flag-of-concern within DWP, about the potential risks of continuing in that line of work, full-time, with brain injuries? Absolutely. Was there? Guess. 

Communication-wise, the next mistake was mine. I’d kicked out the ex, so I could concentrate on supporting the kid through his A-levels, without having to expend emotional energy on a petulant man-baby. There had been some changes at work, and I threw myself back into proving-myself again, I was, at the age of 39, going to turn my life around. Didn’t quite go according to plan, and, when I returned to work after the second surgery, some people genuinely did ask me if the procedure had been cancelled, because I was full-time straight away. I knuckled down, and got on with things, not wanting to complain about the pain from the noise, or the lights, because nobody likes a moaner. I did ask my manager if there were any less-noisy offices available, he said not, so I stopped asking.   

(There’s a side-thread I’m not including, but, again, known-information was not shared between various parties, on multiple occasions.) 

The hospital didn’t even bother re-calling me after my 6-month post surgery brain scan, the ‘outcome’ is 3 lines of text on my GP’s computer screen. ‘Good occlusion, recall September 2018.’ My optician ‘wrote a letter’ for me to present to my GP, to ask for an urgent referral to neuro-ophthalmology. The GP shook his head, and said he’d send the ‘letter’ to general ophthalmology, then took all three copies of the triplicate-carbon form. (One of the ‘poor quality original’ stamps on the latest batch of PIP-paperwork is because I’d taken a photograph of the form on my phone, and printed it out at home, this PIP-process is costing me a fortune in printing information that already exists, because PIP is utterly divorced from the NHS,) I tried to send the photographed form to my neuro-consultant via email. The woman in Patient Liaison replied that she didn’t have access to his email address, and I blew up in anger at her, because that’s bullshit, even if I do have brain damage. (It’ll be firstname,lastname@hospitalabbreviationcode.nhs.uk I have brain injuries, I’m not a moron.) I emailed the form to his secretary, and found myself with an appointment at the city hospital, to have the same test the optician had already done, and the same test my GP was referring me to the town hospital for. (Nothing abnormal detected, because that’s not the test the optician had asked for, there’s some obscure funding reason why he can’t raise the referral himself, and it has to go through neuro, and I appear to be speaking Chinese, all the while, my eyes are becoming steadily less reliable.) 

Communication. ‘Workplace Well-being’, formerly ‘Occupational Health’, despite being part of the NHS, and despite me giving my informed, written consent for any-direction data-sharing, didn’t have access to my NHS patient files. (WHY?) I ended up photocopying the whole bundle at home again. WW requested a formal functional assessment of my cognitive abilities in October 2016. I still haven’t had it. I’ve had to chase it multiple times myself, and recently found out that my GP saying he’d make the re-referral I was asking for on 13/10/17 was delayed. He didn’t send it until 10/11/17, and then it was m chasing the surgery to fax a copy to neuro-psych, because the NHS computer systems are so outdated that they won’t send identifiable personal information via email.   

The bit of DWP that deals with PIP doesn’t communicate with the NHS, or the bit of DWP that deals with Universal Credit. (The bit of DWP that deals with PIP does, however, send letters to the tribunal panel, copied to the applicant, stating that the tribunal should not consider the case. Sneaky semantics there, DWP, some people will see that as “Don’t even bother.”, I’m not ‘some people.’) That’s going to be the next communication issue, articulating to an independent panel that some detached computer-monkey somewhere within DWP copy-pasting “You said you had difficulties with... I have decided that you can...” is in no way reflective of the difficulties I do have on a daily basis, and that the potential for the UC systems to compel me into unsuitable any/all employment places myself, or others at risk of harm, due to my disability. I have 25 pages of that ready to go, the ‘issue’, the ‘impact’ of that issue, and the ‘adaptations’ I have to make to work around it. Very clear, very coherent, and evidence-based, rather than the opinion-based statements DWP have pulled out of the atrocious nurse-report from my last ‘assessment.’

The PIP system is awful, it’s not in the least bit fit-for-purpose, the ‘assessment’ is heavily skewed towards physical activities, and there’s no pain-scoring involved. If I did say “That hurts.” every time an action caused me discomfort, I’d lose my voice, and, over a period of years of having other people either panic-flap, or roll their eyes when I did disclose discomfort, I just stopped mentioning it. (While the shrieky one blethered on for months about her lump, and being scared to go for her blood-test results without her Mum.) I can raise both arms above my head, it hurts my right shoulder. I can ‘stand on either leg’, but I feel incredibly unsteady doing so. I can read some of the letters on a chart a defector nurse is holding 2m away, with my glasses on, but it was physically uncomfortable to focus, because she’d decided to stand in the window, and the light was behind her. The way she recorded the results was appalling, it wouldn’t have been very hard for the ‘decision maker’ to cherry-pick the ‘can’ conclusions, and ignore the pile of medical evidence. 

Now, I’m waiting for a date for the tribunal, to communicate that the data held on me across various agencies and departments is not being shared appropriately, that I desperately need to work, because sitting at home being unproductive is a waste of me, but that I can’t commit to working full-time, due to my disability. I need the ‘buffer’ of the PIP payments because in-some-ways-brilliant as I am, I’ve been out of work for so long, I’m only likely to be considered for low-end, entry-level positions. The WW doctor’s report states that I ‘should be able to return to work, after counselling, and with a phased and supported re-integration.’ I’ve been having counselling for six months now, the general focus of the sessions is how unwell the PIP-process is making me. 

What the PIP and UC systems are doing to me is making me consider throwing myself into any sort of job that would pay my bills. Without the functional assessment, that’s exceptionally risky, because I’d effectively be declaring myself ‘fully fit’, and I know that I’m not. The ‘failure to disclose pre-existing’ isn’t the way I work, it’s dishonest, and ultimately presents a risk of harm. I can’t/won’t do that. Despite all of my careful juggling, very soon, my outgoings will be higher than my income, and I’ll be on the Helter-Skelter of bank charges for bounced payments. I’m spending more time ruminating on the PIP tribunal than I am on seeking employment, and I’m spending even more time wondering what else I can cut back on, so I can still feed the kid when he’s back with me for his Christmas break. 

Shouting into the void, I know, this is me practicing my case for PIP, and hoping that the way I communicate the massive holes in what should be a safety net comes across clearly. There’s the potential that the way I cross-reference and communicate will only make the panel see my hyper-functional side, and dismiss the case anyway, when I’m on-form, I AM phenomenal, I just can’t do that all of the time any more.