My Story (Part1): The Welfare Fate

Every person on Incapacity Benefit is a cheat, a scrounger and a workshy malingerer.

Or that is what every benefit claimant seems to be if you believe what you read, see or hear in some of our media, particularly the right-wing tabloids.

Or that is what every benefit claimant seems to be if you believe some of the words used by this coalition government in stating that it will, not may, reduce the welfare budget by as much as £10bn per year.

It always seems as if no one stops to think that but for that unknown and unpredictable entity of fate, it could be them incapacitated and claiming benefits.

I know, for I went from being a fit and healthy twenty-eight year old law graduate working for a governmental agency to a thirty-five year old unemployed nobody with a disability.

My problems began four years ago with a meagre infection that three doctors misdiagnosed; it was only when I saw the fourth one (and received a proper examination) that it was diagnosed correctly, a particular type of infection requiring a particular type of treatment.

I took that course of treatment, but still the pain persisted. I was prescribed different medications; some made me feel worse, all were to no avail.

I had a scan and saw a specialist, who found the resolved infection but said that it was nothing to concern me; yet still the pain persisted.

Some nine months after the first twinge of pain, I saw a pain specialist: he said that the nerves had been aggravated and that I needed specialist treatment.

Over the next three years I had five courses of treatment into my spine, botulism toxin and radiofrequency treatment, plus what seemed like an endless variety of medication.

Each treatment was like being tortured by a James Bond villain; I laid there trying to block out the pain, trying to think of beautiful sunny days, on a beach with my family, trying to fight the natural urge to cry and scream as the pain intensified.

After each course of treatment I had brief moments of respite, before that faded and I was back to normal, with differing levels of constant pain.

Two years ago now I saw the pain specialist for the last time: he told me he could not do anymore treatment because it could cause more damage to the nerves, thus do more damage than good.

 

I came to accept pain as part of my life.

I was twenty-nine years old when the pain began, a recent law graduate with good work experience. I felt like I could be something, do anything.

I could go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I could travel; go to the theatre, gigs, the football, the cricket. I felt at my peak, as a man, as a human. I felt strong, mentally, physically, emotionally.

 

I felt free from teenage angst but young enough to not be worn down by life. I felt ready to take the burden of life from my family.

Now I am thirty-five years old, less fit, less agile, less strong, mentally and physically, with a bulging stomach having replaced one that was trim. It may come to all men, and it may have happened in any case, but I feel that it has come too soon, and in a manner beyond my control.

 

Still, I guess that is fate for you.