Back to work

Yesterday I finished The Tin Drum. I sat on our balcony in the sun, the UV rays adding nicely to my antipodean hue, and sipped at a small glass of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. Things do not get much closer to bliss.  Today I wore a white shirt, emphasising my colouring achievement to my British colleagues.  

Yesterday I finished The Tin Drum. The ending was a little eerie. With no wish to include spoilers for any would be readers, it involves a pivotal moment in Oskar’s life and his thirtieth birthday, although aside from Oskar’s narcissism, that is where our similarities cease. At the end of the book. Shall I start gathering disciples?

Yesterday I finished The Tin Drum. Today Gunter Grass, the author, died. As you are probably well aware I have no belief in fate, omens, religion or the like. Events transpire in life, you learn from them, you move on. Or sometimes you don’t. I have no qualms with individuals who do believe, I am just not one of them. With that aside, it is a bloody freaky coincidence. The aforementioned narcissist tendencies I unfortunately possess do make me wonder if Grass, who of course was an avid follower of my blog, was aware of my current reading selection, and was waiting for me, Liv not Oskar, to complete it so he could pass away peacefully. On all fronts this is a highly unlikely scenario. And I very much doubt that I would have liked Grass had I met him. But then again, I doubt I would have liked Hemingway either or, and I can’t believe I am going to admit this, Orwell.

Why are you writing this?! I hear you ask, please just tell us more about your spleen. Well alas dear readers, the spleen only causes minor discomfort now and then, as does the arm, so in order to keep the hits from Russian bot websites coming, I am going to have to post something a little different. Grass’ untimely death has been bothering me a little, and I suspect both Grass and Oskar will impact on my life in the years to come, so I have included my thoughts here.

Initially I started writing as I found it therapeutic. After my first chemotherapy session I felt I needed to get all my thoughts out; the experience was quite shocking, I needed to vent. During the first half of my treatment, when I was feeling piteously sorry for myself, the blog was a good outlet. Here friends, it said, here is my long, long list of complaints. Read them if you wish, and when I see you I shall attempt to keep the moaning to a minimum. I like this approach. I give you the option and yet I still have an outlet. I confess I probably wouldn’t read my own blog. I am a terrible person.

I have now passed the halfway mark in my treatment regime. While I can no longer sit through a chemotherapy session without regurgitating my stomach contents, my recovery afterwards is improving, and thus too my state of mind. I believe the PICC line deserves the majority of the credit here. An inappropriate desire to show the tubing to everyone I meet is an indication of how attached I am becoming to my appendage. My inability to learn that this is socially unacceptable behaviour may well place me mildly on the spectrum. If the spectrum does indeed exist. The sudden emergence of the sun from a typically dull grey British winter means my protective shooter’s sleeve is now publicly on display for all the prepubescent twelve year old basketball boys to admire. Man I am cool with the kids.

This is a long winded way of saying I feel much better, the sun is shining, the days are getting longer, and I am grateful that I live on the South Coast. Because I was feeling like sunshine, rainbows and lollipops, I decided to attempt getting back to work. I would like to have it on record that my fellow colleagues are totally super awesome, they are amazing, they have been far more supportive than I could ever have imagined, I thank them endlessly. My manager, also, has been thoroughly supportive throughout what has been an entirely frustrating process. Please remember this outburst of affection, as I launch into a rant befitting a Mississippi preacher.

In order to resume my role as, what some believe, a contributing member of society, I required a medical certificate ensuring my workplace I was fit for work. I am not, of course, fit for full time employment, but can manage reduced hours. In fact I need these reduced hours in order to maintain the slight shred of sanity that remains in this mind of mine. The medical certificate could not come from my haematology consultant, oh no, it must come from my GP surgery. I have not seen anyone at my GP surgery aside from the phlebotomist, since December. A quick phone interview with a gentle doctor produced the desired certificate; he asked what I needed and wrote exactly as I dictated.  A copy of this precious document was then sent, hard copy form not digital, to my manager. Subsequently, an occupational health appointment was scheduled, to assess my needs and sign me off as fit to work.

I really cannot be bothered writing a play by play about this long bureaucratic process. I get all tense just recalling it. With impending doom aside, I can now somewhat relate to Josef K. The situation consumed me. I will attempt to paraphrase the predicament here. I have a full time contract, I cannot work full time until my treatment is finished. My brain turns to mush after about five hours of mental activity. I can barely write my name, and my name is only three letters long. I keep adding an ‘e’ on the end. Perhaps a Freudian slip? So I need part time hours. I had assumed that I would be paid for the hours I worked. I assumed incorrectly. Something to do with an ass, you and me. Because my treatment is ongoing I am not classified as part of the ‘phased return to work scheme’. If the phase started now it would take four months to complete. Policy says may only take four weeks. Therefore I am deemed to be fully returning to work. Which I am not. Had they merely paid me for the hours I worked, then the hours I was absent from work would be deemed as sick leave. I think we all agree this is a correct designation, however, each morning I am absent from work would be seen as a new ‘sickness absence period’, therefore my ‘Bradford Score’ would rapidly rise and I would be deemed a problematic illness employee. Formal proceedings would be initiated. Why? Because policy says so. The very policy put in place to prevent people gaming the system was preventing me from going back to work. And the solution? Every hour I am away from work is to be classed as annual leave. No vacation for Liv this year.

My manager and HR are not to blame for this convoluted process. They are merely part of the system, and have put a lot of time and effort in an attempt to bypass it. Anonymous, faceless individuals create these sorts of policies, send bland auditors out to ensure middle management adhere to the guidelines, and congratulate themselves on a job well done. There is to be no deviation from protocol, no unique situation; all employees are a necessary evil and should be treated as such. It was mentioned that I would already be frequenting Job Centre had I worked at our sister site. And the really frustrating part? Three employees have left since my diagnosis, with a fourth currently fulfilling their resignation period. No replacements have yet been hired. Our department is skeletal. My manager was exceptionally keen to get me back, even part time. Yet policy dictates…..

I am back at work now. I am using my annual leave. It is worth it. Although a decrease in available spare time has resulted in a substantial reduction in my writing output, the brain activity and social interaction with my colleagues has made the process worthwhile. And it has allowed me to use a Kafka reference, so now I truly belong in the blogging world.