Posted on November 14, 2025

When I was first admitted to the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital in October 2023, I told my wife I would be left like this. It was not a prediction born of panic, but a quiet recognition of how the system treats people who become complex, inconvenient, or costly. I was reassured my fears were unfounded, and that support would be immediately forthcoming. Two years on, those reassurances feel hollow. The reality has unfolded precisely as I expected.

​This whole period of my life began when the situation was still uncertain. Months later, in April 2024, the aneurysm that had first been suspected of leaking and later declared stable eventually ruptured. That rupture led to the surgery that saved my life. Crucially, survival should have marked the beginning of structured recovery. Instead, it marked the point where support completely evaporated. Surviving the operating theatre is one thing; surviving the system afterwards is something else entirely.

​My time dealing with various services followed the same pattern from beginning to end. Every step of my care was pushed further down the line, postponed, redirected, or handed off. It was as if I was an object to be moved from one service to the next, rather than a patient who needed coordinated care. I was told that once I reached the rehabilitation center things would improve. Then I was told outpatient services would pick up everything. When I finally reached them, they took one look at the complexity of my case and decided I was not suitable for their service. They referred me to adult social care, who responded with the same reluctance, the same delays, and the same instinct to avoid responsibility. I ended up with a care plan that exists only on paper. The promised careers have never materialized.

​Through all of this, the Royal British Legion has remained the only organization that has treated me as a person rather than a problem. They have stepped in repeatedly, trying to fill gaps that should never have existed. Even they are met with the same indifference and evasiveness that I face. It is a bizarre and sobering spectacle to watch a respected veterans' charity being stonewalled in the same way I am. It tells you something about how far the system has drifted from its purpose.

​Eventually, I turned to my Member of Parliament, believing that an elected representative might bring some authority to the situation. His office sent letters, only to receive the usual bland replies that said nothing and committed to even less. When I pushed back, I was met with a shrug disguised as politeness. He was only one MP. He had done all he could. When I asked for escalation, I was handed a list of ombudsmen, as if the burden of navigating yet another bureaucratic maze should fall on someone already struggling to manage basic daily function.

​Meanwhile, the public narrative around disability grows more poisonous. Newspapers show images of disabled people supposedly enjoying luxury cars on the Personal Independence Payment (PIP) mobility scheme. Politicians across the spectrum paint us as burdens who cost too much and contribute too little. It is a distortion that seeps into public perception and policy. It shapes the way staff speak to you, the way assessments are conducted, and the way organizations justify doing the bare minimum.

​Right now, exhaustion sits on me like a weight that never lifts. Pain medication provides only a narrow window of relief. The thought of drafting more letters, chasing more departments, and fighting for basic care feels almost impossible some days. I know that living indefinitely in this limbo is not sustainable for anyone. And yet, that is precisely the situation I have been placed in.

​Tonight, the only thing I can do is rest. Tomorrow will bring whatever it brings, and I will face it as best I can. But it is a hard thing to accept that survival was only the beginning of the struggle. The fight that followed has been far longer, far quieter, and far more isolating than anyone ever warned us it would be.