Homeless

Physio began on 20 January 2010 and I was medically ready for discharge on 12 April 2010.  The problem was I’d nowhere to go.

I’ve already mentioned that my previous apartment was unsuitable for my needs. I’d been made homeless.  But during my stay in the first hospital, on 24 July 2009 I received a phone call that would change that.  Or so I thought.

The housing association that owned my flat called me to tell me that a bungalow had become available just around the corner from where I’d been living.  That they knew they’d have to make some adaptations but that if I wanted it, it was mine.  I was over the moon!

Over the next couple of months the OT went out carried out a survey and made recommendations on what needed to be done.  A lot of the actual figures couldn’t be confirmed until I was up and in a chair but she’d based much of the recommendations on worst case scenarios.

I was told repeatedly that everything that could be done would be done by the manager of the housing association.  My family were told the same thing.  By December 2009 work hadn’t even begun on the property.  I chased it every now and then.  My family chased it and all we were ever told was that ‘these things take time’, that ‘it’s a long process’, that ‘although it looks as though nothing has happened, it has, paper work is going through’.  In December 2009 we had, however, verbal confirmation that the plans for the adaptations had been submitted to City Hall for consideration and approval.

Time passed, rehab had started and it was apparent that whatever happened the bungalow would not be ready for me leaving hospital.  Alternative arrangements would need to be found for the short term. 

This is where the Social Worker came in.  We’d have many conversations in the weeks and months to come.  Many heated conversations.  Many arguments and many laughs.

She was limited in what she could do.  She would liaise with the Housing Executive with the idea of suitable temporary accommodation.  But there wasn’t any.  Wheelchair accessible properties are few and far between at the best of times.  When there are some they’re not usually offered on short term lets.  She called round the local housing associations with the same results.  There was nothing out there.

Her other solution, which she pressed upon me numerous times over the months was a nursing/residential home.  I’d gone through this whole process to avoid such a place and now it was being suggested as the only place available.  I was going crazy.  I couldn’t go to one.  I wouldn’t go to one.  I’d worked too hard!

Going to a nursing/residential home meant I’d lose any benefits.  I'd be allowed £20 a week living allowance and would not be able to return to work as once I started earning I’d have to pay for the home and my wages wouldn’t go anywhere near paying the monthly rent there.  I’d be trapped in a room, not able to go out or socialise as I’d have no money to do anything.

IT WAS NOT AN OPTION!!!!!!!

It didn’t stop the social worker repeatedly telling me that it looked like the ONLY option.  We even visited a residential home at one point.  The place was nice enough and for the people it homed it was exactly what it needed to be.  But it wasn’t for me.  It wasn’t what I needed.  I needed my own place.  My own space.  My own home.

It was a very stressful time. Even with everything I’d come through knowing that come the 12 April I could be kicked out of the hospital with nowhere to go was daunting.  The nursing staff would tell me not to worry that although the social worker had to be seen to push me and free up the bed I’d be ok.  It didn’t stop me stressing though.  My discharge date came and went.  I was still in the hospital.  At one point one of the doctors, not my doctor, asked me if I planned on living in the hospital, that surely a residential home would be better than a hospital?  It wasn’t. 

The turning point came when the Housing Executive finally contacted the Social Worker to tell her that there was a possibility of two properties coming up.  One in North Queens Street, the other in the Short Strand.  Neither were areas I would have ever chosen to live in.  Neither were areas I’d ever thought about living in.  But it wasn’t a nursing home so I agreed to consider the property in the Short Strand.  It wasn’t so far from home and wasn’t on the news as often as it had been before so the area seemed to have quietened down somewhat.

The clincher here was that it was still being built.  It wouldn’t be ready until the end of May.  The doctors agreed that I could stay until then.  The end of May came and went and the building project was delayed a week here, two weeks there.  When I was finally given the green light that the property was ready it was mid June and I had to go and arrange flooring etc before any of the equipment could arrive.  There were then delays with the equipment.

I finally left hospital on 20 July 2010, three months after my discharge date and 15 months after initially being admitted.