A blog about ‘stuff’ your grandmother could, or would never tell you!
Old Hermy’s … Supporting ‘Slut Walks’ Around The world
A Warning To Intersex Patients With A Sigmoid Colon (Colon Resection)
It is no more than a ten or fifteen minute procedure known as a ‘z’ and ‘e’ plasty, which would make such a difference to my life and allow me to have sexual intercourse again. Having now recovered from becoming frigid due to the consequences of ‘post traumatic stress’, systematic harassment, and bullying.
Only to discover it was impossible to get a penis past the point where two pieces had been joined together. In fact for the past four years I had been unable to get anything past this join without causing bleeding and considerable discomfort.
If you are an intersex patient who had what decades ago, the surgeons called a colon resection and are now known as a Sigmoid Colon. Rather than be forced to suffer the extensive scaring from ‘skin grafts’ because of insufficient penile tissue and not having the balls for sex change surgery.
My advice to you is do not end up being driven frigid, or stop dilating for any long period of time. Assuming that because you have been sexually active for decades, things will still be in working order after years of abstinence and personal neglect – IT WILL NOT!
Especially if the surgeons used what penile tissue there was for re-constructive surgery and to form the first two or three inches of the vagina, onto which was then joined the missing section of colon. Where these sections are joined you get what is called ‘scare tissue’ and the major problem with ‘scare tissue’ is the fact that it does not stretch.
Unless you regularly keep this join open, it will start to constrict until it becomes impossible to get anything larger than a pencil past it. Go frigid and neglect regular dilation at your peril!
Especially if, like me you have lived with forty-five years of systematic medical misdiagnosis and a singular lack of treatment from your local health authority. Having become increasingly depressed and sexually frustrated at not been able to get relatively minor surgery on the National Health Service and currently not being able to afford to pay privately.
I had to get a sphignomitor [?] (used for internal examinations), made from plastic and shaped like the jaws of a crocodile. Push it past the join and physically force it open, causing considerable discomfort and bleeding. This I did not once but every evening, usually for as long as I could stand the pain, despite having taken dihydrocodeine for the discomfort and diazapam as a muscle relaxant.
Until eventually the thing actually snapped in two and for a few bewildering seconds, when I could not find all the pieces, I imagined what it would be like trying to explain to a Doctor what I had been doing and why. Fortunately I did not need to explain why and by the time it broke, I was able to get a small dilator past the join for the first time in four years. You may have heard the cheer!
The amount of ‘gung’ that came out surprised even me, remembering that the browny discharge you live with does actually lessen over decades. Especially if like me you have used a vaginal cream as your main source of hormone replacement therapy. Make sure that the upper end does not become blocked and infected with ‘gung’ (vaginal cream, blood, lubricants, mucus secretions and our frolicking fishy friend, sperm).
Wash out thoroughly on a regular basis, especially the section beyond the ‘fuck point’ (where your current partner penetrates to). Use a large syringe with a tube and warm water, neglect this task and over a period of time you risk ‘gunging’ up and possible infections.
SCSG – Sigmoid Colon Support Group
Is there a peer support group for hermaphrodites or other intersex patients who have had, or are about to have what was known as a colon resection, now called a Sigmoid Colon? Giving advice, information and peer support to patients and their relatives. Anyone else out there interested in starting such a group?
Does anyone know how many people have had this procedure and how successful it was, or what percentage of the population are hermaphrodites? Is anyone else with the closed or hidden form of hermaphrodism going through a medical nightmare without end because of repeated misdiagnosis and treatment, or am I just really, really unlucky?
Conservative Pakistan To Introduce A Third Sex On Identity Cards
Conservative Pakistan is to introduce a third sex on identity cards, following lobbying from transsexual activists. The bill introducing a third sex went through the country's parliament without objection and criticism. Though whether this further stigmatises intersex patients, especially those pre-operative, or has any real social and personal advantages remains to be seen
Homosexual Men Suffer Higher Rates Of Cancer Than Heterosexual Men
A recent American report found that homosexual males suffer higher rates of cancer than heterosexual men. Not as the religious right of all faiths would have you believe, because God damned them in this world and the next. But no doubt due to the high levels of bullying, discrimination, depravation and stress that most intersex patients experience from childhood, which for many is as much a religious and personal duty as rising the national flag on their manicured, hissing lawn in a morning.
Injustice and intolerance kills as surely as putting a gun to someone’s head and pulling the trigger. Justified and condoned from the pulpits and altars by the Priests of hate, these shameful practices and systematic injustices must be exposed for what they are – unacceptable ‘hate crimes’ in a modern, civilised society. Before they are allowed to blight and destroy yet more innocent lives with bigotry and intolerance.
Medical Nightmares And The Clinical Cunning Of Alligators
The medical nightmare seemingly without end, into which I was cast, a confused, frightened, fifteen year old hermaphrodite by arrogant, bigoted Doctors who professionally could never be wrong, never doubted or questioned, whose pronouncements and diagnosis like those of a God, were set on stone for all eternity.
Unalterable, untouchable, their incompetence and misdiagnosis as strong as a Voodoo curse from which there could be no escape, no hope other than fatalistic acceptance of the inevitable consequences of their delusions and personal damnation in this world and the next.
Continues to stretch onwards, ever onwards through what yet remains of my faulted life, if life it be at the hands of NHS Hull, its ‘concentration camp’ recruited Doctors and management. Trained by the SS federation of inhuman penny pinchers and their profitable privatisation of the British Health Service by the back door. Their bing, bang, bung, bonus doorbell constantly charming worms from the shit-heap they conspired within and for.
A parallel reality, a vaguely familiar yet completely different existence in which the normal rules, rights and responsibilities do not apply to those considered lebensunwertes leben (life unworthy of life). Those unfortunate enough to be born different, a pick and mix of sexual characteristics that beyond the normality of male and female, becomes a ‘third sex’, a blaring of distinctions between the sexes. Often in complete contradiction of chromosomal structure and observable, external genitalia, when an individual can be both male and female, physically or psychologically, yet wholly neither.
Made all the more distant and unreal by four months of acute pain and bleeding, due to the ‘Catch 22’ of medical misdiagnosis and being unable to get any treatment, other than repeated misdiagnosis, or even be examined by a Doctor. Because forty-five years ago the Hull NHS (Nazi Health Service) diagnosed me as schizophrenic, just for saying that I did not feel happy as a boy and would prefer to be a girl.
Forty-five years during which I received no treatment for the hermaphrodism I actually suffered from, when not a single Doctor noticed my undeveloped penis. As I now know, one of the classic symptoms of the hidden or closed form of hermaphrodism. Or even tried to find out what was wrong with my genitalia and why it never developed, as it should.
BORN TO BE BULLIED
Just growing up with the hidden/closed form of hermaphrodism, or any intersex condition is a complete and utter nightmare, especially when you do not understand what is happening physically and why. Born to be different, inadequate and a victim of every brutal bully between then and now was traumatic enough, without having the local Health Authority’s most senior psychiatrist diagnosing me as suffering from schizophrenia.
Then treating me for years based upon this initial misdiagnosis, when even I knew that I was not a schizophrenic. Forcing you to take anti-psychotic and anti-depressant drugs, steroids (they just made me fat, hairy, and even more depressed, but did nothing to make my penis grow) attend group and individual therapy.
While in their eagerness to cure me of something I was not suffering from, wanting to zap my brain with electric shocks, known as ‘electro convulsion therapy’ (ECT). Even though any half honest psychiatrist, not completely obsessed with the life-long benefits of pre-frontal lobotomy will tell you they, in fact no one actually knows why frying the brain appeared to work and how.
Having seen people who have just experienced ECT, I personally would not recommend it to a rabid dog, let alone another human being but I am not a member of the medical profession, who trained in one of the top teaching ‘concentration camps’. With a predilection for lampshades made from human skin and the industrialised mass murder of all considered ‘lebensunwerts leben’ (life unworthy of life), which included sexual deviants (hermaphrodites, transsexuals, transvestites, homosexuals) and people with psychological and physical disabilities.
Four months of pain and bleeding, one year and eight months since I first tried to explain what was happening and the treatment I probably needed to cure it, during which not a single Doctor examined me because as one said: ‘It is outside my comfort zone.’
After forty-five years of repeated misdiagnosis and absolutely no medical help or support from NHS Hull, I do not expect them to start treating me now. So what is the point in going to see Doctor’s who do not even know what is actually wrong and the treatment I need.
Or if they do because I try to tell them, chose instead to close the medical Mafia’s ranks upon the truth. By continuing to misdiagnose, mistreat, and believe without question my medical notes, in order to protect the Teflon coated reputations of Doctor’s who can never be wrong.
Whose diagnosis like the ten commandments is written in stone by flawed human beings, with the power of tarnished God’s and a code of silence that would shame the Cosa Nostra. Who eagerly cover over each others mistakes, crimes and incompetence to the detriment of the health service and patients alike, which is why the most prolific serial killer the Britain ever produced was a Doctor, a GP.
As for relatively minor surgery, I give up all hope of receiving that from a local health authority, which long ago started a dishonourable tradition of systematic misdiagnosis. Protected, encouraged by a hypercritic oath and endemic conspiracy of silence through professional self-policing, complete unaccountability to anyone but other Doctors.
A complaints procedure about as useful to the patients, as a toothless guard-dog whose bark is worse than its bit, and medical records that can never be questioned, altered - or if not worth the paper that they are written on - shredded along with the other rubbish.
This is the stuff of a life long medical nightmare in an Alice in Wonderland world of multinational drug company free-bee’s and related bing, bang, bung, bonuses, free holidays and the purks of purchase that come with the mystical, mythical standing of Doctors in contemporary western society.
Medical Nightmares And Clinical Cunning
Diagnosed first as a schizophrenic, then a transsexual, not a transsexual according to the UK’s leading authority. Then a hermaphrodite and throughout this medical nightmare seemingly without end, a transsexual according to NHS Hull. Despite Doctor Randall’s refusal to treat me because he did not think that I was actually a transsexual, and this was the Doctor who ran the UK’s first gender identity unit at Charring Cross Hospital.
Or the incontrovertible evidence and outcomes of surgery performed decades ago at Saint James University Hospital by Derek Eastwood. Because I am the only transsexual I have come across that did not have a large enough penis for a successful sex change operation, did not need breast implants and had other physical abnormalities and anomalies – unless of course, you know different?
Derek Eastwood and the staff at Saint James University Hospital remain to date, the only medical staff who treat me for what I was and had my best interest at heart. For which I am eternally grateful, they were the only ray of hope and help in an otherwise inescapable medical nightmare, seemingly without end thanks to four Doctors giving four different diagnosis and treatments.
Logic would dictate that only one could actually be right, while only two (Bickford and Church) could control the incontrovertible, unalterable reality of my medical records with NHS Hull – my money is on Derek and NHS Leeds being right, if it comes to a court case.
Hormonal Dreams And Physical Damnation’s
Without the developments in modern medicine we, intersex patients, would be condemned for life by our particular dreams and physical abnormalities. Because treatment, in particular the sex hormones we take like sweeties hoping for a miracle, a concession of hopes and dreams to the harsh, unforgiving realties of life, if life it be! Before surgical intervention and correction pulled us from the mangled car wreck of our faulted, or conflicting existences.
It usually means taking hormones for the rest of our lives, fail to do so and you will inevitably pay a heavy price physically in later life. Like many people taking hormones, I always felt uncomfortable about the way pharmaceutical company’s mass-produced oestrogen, using pregnant mares that are housed in pens so small they are unable to turn or pull out the catheters, which constantly take the piss.
Though like most individuals I started to dutifully take my daily dose of oestrogen, which I always imagined to be fluffy and soft, compared to testosterone, this being metallic and hard – or is that just main-stream sexual stereotyping on my part?
Following surgery, the Doctors recommended that rather than taking oestrogen in tablet form I switch to a vaginal cream. At first it appeared to help with lubrication during intercourse, though since I became frigid and stopped having sex. As the join started to close it actually became a major problem.
I was inserting the cream and because the join was so tight, it was like capillary action, with things going up but not coming down. In retrospect I realised that the dosage was to low, or I was not able to absorb sufficient oestrogen this way and began to have physical difficulties. It also contributed to the subsequent lose of libido, combined with the posttraumatic shock and systematic harassment.
How many intersex patients there are, currently living with a sigmoid colon in the world I do not know, does anyone have any idea? Though I would be interested to discover if there are any others who had problems with the join, either immediately following surgery or in later years.
Hopefully being the first intersex patient to undergo this procedure in the UK, they will have modified and improved the technique in the following decades. Still, someone, somewhere, had to be the first and play for broke not knowing if it would succeed.
I would rather have had a Sigmoid Colon than the inevitable scarring from the extensive ‘skin grafts’ needed to create a working vagina. At the time it was a no brainer, I heard that this technique was not particularly successful, or personally satisfactory. Is there anyone out there who had this procedure and were you happy with it?
Because of the subsequent blockage and what I call ‘gung’, I have now switched to oestrogen patches. At least until I can have regular intercourse again, still some weeks away even after four months of nightly self-harm, fortunately things are slowly improving otherwise I would be completely fucked; given that it is impossible to get relatively minor surgery through the local health authority.
Having long ago fallen through the growing spaces between four different diagnosis from four different Doctors, into a medical nightmare where in float Doctors like God’s. Who can never be wrong, never be questioned or doubted. Especially if they are the senior psychiatrists in the health authority, physician superintendent of the largest Victorian lunatic asylum in the area and his number two.
Another Freudian empiricist with all the humanity of a squashed hedgehog, men that because of incompetence and/or ignorance took whatever life I might have had from me, with their repeated misdiagnosis and inappropriate treatment. A misdiagnosis which the health authority continued for thirty six years after I was refused treatment because according to Doctor Randall, I was not a transsexual – what did he think that I was, the Easter Bunny?
Thirty years after surgery, when according to the medical teams at Saint James University Hospital. The reason I did not have a large enough penis for a successful sex change, or need breast implants, was because of being what they called a hermaphrodite.
Like reinforced concrete setting all around my fractured life, there is to be no escaping the medical nightmare into which I was long ago cast. No escaping the potentially fatal consequences of repeated misdiagnosis, inconsistency of treatment, and the eternal damnation of medical records that can never be removed. Altered or even questioned in a ‘Catch 22’, where the lunatics have taken over the asylum and after forty-five years I expect no treatment, help or support from a medical profession more interested in protecting each others tarnished reputations and privatising the British National Health Service by the back-door.
Turning the UK into a third world country, with a medical system like the one they have in America. Where greed and money replaced free health care for all at the point of delivery; giving further opportunity’s for Doctors with pound signs in their cold, glassy eyes, to make loads and loads of money – shame on you!
Lord Von Munchhousen (By Proxy Syndrome)
Of course there are realities within realities, truths within truths, lies within lies and if we are to believe some scientists, worlds within worlds. All inexorably bound together by thin threads of time and space, into a shimmering web of infinite possibility and potential; delicately balanced by conflicting gravity’s somewhere between past and future, light and dark, good and evil, life and death. Only the name’s and places have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty.
Born to be bullied from cradle to grave because of circumstances over which, I had no choice or control. But if I thought that life was hell during my school years. Nothing but nothing could prepare me for the systematic harassment, intimidation and bullying from Nazi lying Labour, the party of hermaphobic, transphobic religious delusional and brutal street fighting criminals, masquerading as responsible, caring politicians and human beings.
When in truth the only people that they cared about, were themselves and the co-conspirators of the spinning men, the hollow men, changelings and tricksters with Cheshire Cat smiles and a bing, bang, bung, bonus handshake, which made good men and women instinctively count their fingers and gold fillings.
Who made politics and politicians into nothing but legitimised criminality, in a vaguely familiar parallel reality created for and by men that like reptiles, could never sweat before the camera’s unobtrusive lens, with the bathroom habits of Sloth’s and all the personality of a rusty ball-bearing.
The then Prime Minister Margaret Hatcher and Cardinal Ratsinger, destined to become Pope Adolph the Persecutor, paedophile Priest and baby snatching, swapping and selling Nun (with the beguiling smiles of innocent angels and a devil-may-care attitude to truth and honesty) protector.
Asked the Chancellor of a local university, if they could find a way to stop certain unusual abilities I had from working, without having to resort to killing me – detain, discredit and destroy. The psychology department already funded by the military and working with a little device they developed and called the ‘black box’. Soon to become known as a piozoric sound generator – yes, the very same device used against IRA prisoners being subject to sleep deprivation and interrogation. Were researching into the effects of sleep deprivation and the selective blocking of specific brain-wave activity.
Who came up with what in polite circles became known as ‘targeting’, though in the real world, away from the closed doors and complex webs of lies they spun frantically about everything. It was just another name for torture, bullying, harassment, religious persecution and every other dirty trick in the book. Along with a few not yet documented, their sick, transphobic, homophobic, hermaphobic, misogynistic, deluded, demented and dangerous minds could come up with and get away with.
Hatcher believed in keeping torture in the community and making extra-judicial killings appear like suicide, accident or natural causes. Following a fact-finding mission to Chile by her closest, most trusted ministers and political aides. While their man on the ground, as it were, was a long standing Labour politician and Catholic fundamentalist called Kevin McNamana.
Whose major contribution to ‘targeting’ and religious persecution, was to recruit a newly elected member of parliament for Hull east, a man with a brain the size of that of a ‘horse-shoe’ bat and the stagnant mouth of the Humber, John Presscoat.
For his unfailing contribution to religious persecution, inquisition, torture, covering over the truth and unhindered criminal activity, Kevin McNamana would receive a Papal Knighthood and a promised eternity in the white man’s, white God’s heaven.
Leaving Presscoat, his son and the more extreme element in the criminal fraternity that is the local Labour party, to turn what was by comparison a cottage industry, into a global multinational whose best customers were the deluded, delusional rag-bag of religious fundamentalists and commitable snake kissers around the world.
Because until Tony Bear’s New Labour Nazi storm-troopers, steamroller their way into fortress Downing Street. Starting the unprecedented disdain and destruction of cabinet government, the rule of law, open, accountable politics and all who did not believe the semi-mystical spin of congenital liars, habitual criminals and the steaming sleaze-balls seen being pushed around the gold paved streets of Westminster by giant, shinning Bung Beetles.
Free to make it up as they went along, especially after I as an elected officer of a Law Centre. Informed the Local Government Audit Commission of their alleged crimes, along with a dramatic increase in the bullying of Council employees questionable/corrupt contracts and increasingly dubious politics of men skilled at lining their own pockets.
While sweeping the mess, muddle, mistake, truth, conspiracy and carefully crafted lies under a convenient heavy carpet or Harry Porter ‘cloak of invisibility’. Failing that, there was always the elected dictator’s favourite legal gag upon those with loose lips, a sense of honour, integrity and justice. Belief in the rule of law and democratic government – the ‘D’ Notice - daddy of today’s super-injunctions and the shameful attempts to block freedom of speech and inconvenient personal truths, especially by those with more money than sense.
Because not until Nazi lying Labour were elected for the first time, did I experience wall to wall neighbours from Hell, drugging, physical assaults, people screaming threats and abuse outside my home. Or as they drove past me in the street, blocking off taxi’s to threaten and abuse me, criminal damage and systematic harassment.
That to this day means I do not have a television because person or persons unknown keep cutting my telephone line and aerial cable. Nor can I grow anything in my garden without person or persons unknown poisoning, smashing or trampling anything I plant.
Thanks to Lord Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Sons (the one who purchased a local hospital and its extensive grounds from the local health authority under questionable circumstances and for a once in a life-time bargain basement price – bing, bang, bung, bonus) Poisoners Paradise.
Now laughing all the way to the numbered Swiss bank account, where they keep the incriminating evidence, which binds criminal to criminal like Siamese twins. Along with the members of the local political Mafia, who corrupted anything that moved around the growing ‘heart of darkness’ that was Presscoat’s political constituency.
‘What do John Presscoat and an Ikea ‘flat pack’ have in common? One screw in the wrong place and everything falls apart.’
Letters go missing or arrived already opened, and am I unable to get medical treatment due to the endemic corruption’s of men who all ‘piss in the same pot’ and are trained from birth to talk out of their arses? Who three decades ago, following surgery used upon an intersex patient for the first time at Jimmy’s, should have acknowledged what was wrong with me but appeared in the years that followed, to be more interested in protecting their own professional reputations.
One misdiagnosis is unfortunate but two, well that is pure incompetence and another case of that enduring medical conundrum ‘the operation was a complete success, unfortunately the patient died’.
In the years following surgery it was in Tony Bear and John Presscoat’s best interest that they managed to keep me as a transsexual. It made the harassment, bullying, torture, physical assaults and criminal damage easier to justify. In fact, they made it into a sacred duty of all religious fundamentalists; Jewish, Christian, Muslim and Hindi’s to target me both personally and professionally.
Because the playground bullies who long ago blighted my life and drove me to the edge of suicide aged fourteen, had grown into triple ‘AAA’ rated monsters, who believed themselves above the law and far beyond the constraints of common human decency.
After all, gas chambers were not considered a crime but a national duty by the Nazi’s, a final solution to the genetic mixing, imperfections, or abnormalities of the Master Race and a Third Reich. That would survive for a thousand years to rule an ethnically cleansed world, with its intolerance, injustice and indifference to others suffering, now freed of all ‘life unworthy of life’ (lebensunwerts leben).
Nor do Nazi lying Labour and its former Minister for bullying, persecution, harassment and torture, consider it a crime to ‘target’ someone for being something that they are not, in my case a transsexual, based upon nothing but a pack of lies and delusion from beginning to end. But that is what happens if you allow elected politicians to become judge, jury and executioner. When the truth is I did not even have the balls for a successful sex change.
Because from what I understand of the situation, anywhere but in the NHS Hull Authority, people like me are called hermaphrodites, not schizophrenics or transsexuals – shame upon you all! Taking whatever chance of a life I might have had with repeated misdiagnosis, incompetence and cold-blooded lies. All it ever takes for evil to prosper is that good men and women remain silent.
Same old, same old for something rotten in the woodpile hides. Having just won back control of the Hull City Council from the Liberal Democrats, Lord Von Munchhousen (by proxy syndrome) of Presscoat & Son’s Poisoners Paradise, along with the majority of the local Labour party are again free to harass. Bully and persecute to their cold blooded reptilian hearts content, without undue hindrance and let from political opponents and a rule of law that they long ago abandoned, in pursuit of elected dictatorship and technological totalitarianism.
Opening again their Pandora’s Box of corruption, lies, dark secrets and endemic crimes for their closest political allies, the Clintin’s, O’Barmy, Badun, Gadoffhe, Nastyandhow, Pope Adolph the Persecutor and Baraboss. Those who talk openly, loudly of freedom and democracy but behind closed doors, far from the obtrusive lenses of the media and anything remotely true, torture, murder, harass and persecute based upon nothing but self-delusion and a pack of lies.
Having been elected during the early hours of Friday morning, I was woken at six by the neighbours from Hell, harassed twice on the street when I went out, drugged and subjected to around the clock white noise. Same old, same old crimes and criminals getting away with the same old lies, because nothing changes, ever really changes in the west’s lands of limited democracy and partial freedom, for something very rotten in the woodpile hides.
When I write a book about the who, what, where, when and why of this systematic criminal behaviour, endemic love of torture, persecution and so-called ‘targeting’ they make sure it never gets into print. While discrediting me still further with their lies, crimes, dodge dossiers, unsubstantiated allegations and warped delusions about being able to make me work, or not work.
But that is what happens when you put criminals and religious delusional in power, allowing them to believe that they are doing God’s work and are legally untouchable, forever beyond the rule of law and inevitable consequences of their own actions.
No wonder it feels like having been sentenced to another four years in an ‘open prison’ at the ‘heart of darkness’. Where crime not only pays it is a religion, a way of life for the bing, bang, bung, bonus politicians. Stealing sleazeballs all and the corruption, the greed and self-interest that drives the military and industrial complexes twenty-four-seven production lines. The button pushers and lever puller's, who believe without question religion's delusions and lies.
While like the Borg, plugging themselves nightly into their flat screen, flat head televisions. To become part of a collective consciousness, selling the empty materialistic dreams that come shiny and new from ‘Big Brother’ and his growing mercenary armies. Before being absorbed into the next ‘pretext war’ with its increasingly hollow justifications.
A Medical Nightmare, seemingly without end – the struggle continues
As for my personal medical nightmare, seemingly without end, it goes on and on. Following my letter of complaint to the local health authority (printed in the previous blog) on the 23rd March 2011.
I eventually received a reply from the authority’s ‘Chief Operating Officer’ dated the 19th April 2011. When I was involved with a Law Centre we had a technical term for such letters – BULLSHIT!
According to this little Hitler: ‘Whilst I appreciate that you were explaining the treatment you have received prior to raising this concern, the NHS Complaints Procedure is only able to investigate matters that have happened in the last twelve months. Therefore we will not be able to investigate further than this.’
My reply sent on 26th April 2011, was as follows:
‘Many thanks for your letter dated 19th April 2011.
Might I draw your attention to the fact that I only became aware of a problem regarding NHS Hull’s repeated misdiagnosis and treatment of my condition, or lack of it, on the 25th February 2011. Which is well within the one-year time scale for complaints as specified in your complaint's procedure.
I should therefore like to request that you reconsider your discussion not to investigate further based upon the evidence provided, not a questionable interpretation of the authority’s policy and attempt to block a justifiable complaint made within the specified period of time.Unfortunately your letter did not explain the situation to me, in fact it appeared to intentionally ignore all of the points I raised in my initial complaint.
Regarding your advice concerning further action, it might be helpful rather than completely obstructive, if you gave people the correct address for ICAS in Hull, had you have taken the time to check, you would realise they have recently moved.
Should you require any further information, please do not hesitate to contact me.’
If they ever even review or investigate my complaint, their defence will obviously revolve around proving that I am a transsexual and the second health authority psychiatrist was correct. Given the way my medical records locally have been conveniently biased in order to cover over repeated misdiagnosis by the local authority’s Consultants. Who for the past forty-five years have done nothing, absolutely nothing to help or treat me for what I am.
I do not expect them to start now, any more than I expect to receive relatively minor surgery that would make such a difference to my life, if life it be in this septic isle, this realm of steaming, corrupt political sleazeballs, this cesspool of spin and lies, this England.
To read more mad blogs about conspiracy, the military and industrial complex, corruption, lying politicians and criminal profiling go to:
http://ser101.wordpress.com/
http://nemesis-serx.blogspot.com/
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