Mrs Dolittle

 I didn't want a cat. I didn't mind them but they weren't my favourite animal to have as a pet. I preferred dogs. Yet somehow I ended up with two that have proved to be my greatest companions.

My late mother loved cats, she loved all animals. A female Doctor Dolittle. She understood animals far better than she did humans. A large part of her life was spent as an adopted mum, nurse, doctor or rescuer of an impressive variety of animals. She had an affinity and communication skills with creatures be they furred, feathered or scaled. From Kangaroos to emus. Cocktails and thorny devils. She rescued them all!

The garden of her last home was lined on all sides by giant conference trees and home or shelter to an amazing number of birds and other creatures. The most common birds were sparrows, blackbirds, robins, bluetits, goldfinch and collared doves. The trees were in access of 20 feet making them perfect nesting places. 

Mum also had three cats. Puck - Named after the mischievous fairy in Shakespeare's ' A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Puck was an impressively big heavy and beautiful gray shorthair cat. He had a distinctly aloft regal attitude and temperament. HE decided who and when anyone could touch him or lift him. It was a huge honour to be accepted as a friend by Puck.

Ching - a ginger tabby, whose full name was I Ching. It was an ancient Philosophical Chinese Culture said to have been written by a mythological king Fu Xi in the third Millennium BC.  Said to have been a teacher of the ancient systems of cosmetology, philosophy and divination. Sadly our Ching has Epilepsy, and watching the poor boy have fits was heartbreaking, He had such a gentle nature. Despite treatment, he died following a severe fit. 

Blaze was a beautiful British short- hair. Black with a touch of white on his chest. He had a magnificent warm, friendly nature and an inquisitive nature that constantly got him into trouble. He loved to explore and ended up trapped for days on end in garages and sheds all over the place. we were forced to launch several frantic searches and appeals for help finding him. He also loved cheese, He could detect the smell of cheese from a good distance. He taught himself to open the fridge door. locate the cheese and gobble the lot.

As well as feeding the birds and the three cats, Mum and Dad also had a dog. An apricot poodle who could do a variety of tricks, including all the usual dog ones and playing dead, counting etc. His name was 'Peppe'. That dog - had its own human dinner plate. his OWN CHINA cup for tea and a separate own for water. He'd tap the table with his paw to indicate he wanted tea. Mum would make it for him, or instruct one of us to do so. 

Peppe has STEAK from the butcher for dinner and only the leanest of other meats too. Again he had his own distinctive CHINA plates.

If Peppe was sitting on a chair we were not allowed to move him. He'd snap if we tried. He was always perfectly groomed and pampered. He and the cats generally got on well, but now and then Puck would give him a swipe of an outstretched paw in passing, sending Peppe running to Mum whimpering. I swear I saw Puck grin.

We had a family of hedgehogs in the garden. A mum dad and little ones. Mum and Dad created a giant hedgehog house at the back of the garden. In part built from garden waste with wooden tunnels and pipes running into a safely constructed area in the middle of the hill. They could and did stay safe and happy all year round. Mum often fed them cat food or cat biscuits as well as other meats. 

Incredibly Mum also had a family of red squirrels living happily in the garden - Everyone knows they are a protected species and have been for a long time, so to have them living in the trees was a huge privilege. The local river and woods were only a few hundred yards away so they were in a secure location. Mum fed them a diet of dried and fresh fruits and berries and always had a huge collection of various nuts. She'd leave the food outside on a specially raised table for them. Over time they began to recognise her and trust her in a way they wouldn't do to any of us.

She'd sit inside by the open window making soft encouraging sounds to them and holding nuts out. I still remember the day she called me excitedly and told me to go down to visit her. I kept back from the open window and watched while Mum made her usual noses and held out a few nuts. I watched in amazement as a beautiful squirrel approached the window, stood still then rapidly climbed the frame and took the nuts from my mother's open hand.

It was the start of a fantastic relationship. To save identity issues Mum called the squirrels Dusty 1 2  3 and 4 etc. For some reason, she assumed Dusty 1 was male. Eventually, he'd climb inside the window sit and sit on her still hand while stuffing his cheeks with nuts. Or he'd actually tap on the window to let her know he was there then wait for her to pick the nuts up.

Incredible as it sounds the three cats and Peppe ignored all the other wildlife and the wildlife ignored them in return. Looking back. Although her behaviour as a mother was greatly flawed her ability to connect with other creatures was exceptional. That she loved them and they in return trusted and depended on her was pretty remarkable. Sometimes when thinking of my mum I only recall the rejection and the negatives. Yet, it takes a specific type of human to understand and communicate with a vast range of other creatures. If there is an afterlife then I'm sure my mother's happy place will be sitting amid a group of adoring creatures.

Is It Bah Humbug or not?

 I don't hate Christmas at all. Even though it isn't the actual date or year or even decade that Jesus was born. December 25th midwinter solstice was celebrated by the Romans and other pagans. It made perfect sense for Paul to tell the Romans it was the date of Jesus' birth and they should celebrate it too. It did the trick. What's a few months and decades to a good cause. Over 2,000 years on it's still celebrated as the day a man amongst men was born. I dare not imagine what he'd think if he saw the world today and the massive, massive commercialism his arrival on earth has become.

I hate the commercialism and the fact our hard-earned money is filling the coffers of the billionaires who control everything. What a difference we'd make if everyone in the UK vowed not to buy a single Christmas gift from the big retailers, opting to buy from the smaller localised shops, especially those that sell British-made goods. What a kick in the teeth that would be for the multi-billion commercial market. You know who I'm talking about, the ones who support genocide and mass murder. The ones who laugh down their noses at us because we are so gullible in giving them OUR money to destroy OUR planet and TAKE OVER every nation they want.

There is a cost of living crisis. But this Christmas (2023) the public is on track to spend an averageof  £602 each on Christmas gifts.
The UK is expected to spend a total of £27. BILLION on Christmas gifts. A RISE from £20.1 billion in 2022.   

All that money on some gifts that no one wants. Gifts people will never use, which break almost instantly etc... Gifts for people we don't particularly like but feel obliged to buy for. 

The sheer commercialism is terrifying. As I said the MDs sit in their plush offices or laze on a sundrenched beach reading their emails, drinking champagne, laughing and talking about what new weapons they can buy and which country they'll attack. 

I believe in the right to own our own businesses. The right to climb the ladder if we work hard, and have the brainpower and commitment. It's human nature to crave comfort. But nothing on earth will convince me any single human should have the power to buy armies, buy countries, kill millions and reduce millions of others to poverty and deny it was their doing.

Christmas should be more humble. Based on realistic values. Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, Birthdays...Good gracious how those billionaires must be laughing. 

Teach youths the value of money and work.  Teach them love, care and attention are the greatest gifts they can give or receive. Lest we forget. All that money we splash out on the children and teens at Christmas could pay for a place at University or a business start-up for them in the future. 

Cochlear Implants

 I came across something I'd written on my Facebook page in 2015 (at the bottom of this post). I can't believe it's only been 8 years. since the Cochlear transplants, which have given me the gift of hearing again for the first time in over 20 years. Most people have one transplant, I received two simultaneously.

The dual operation was carried out by two comparatively new surgeons and overseen by the consultant. The 3-hour procedure entailed cutting behind the ears and peeling back the hair and skin before drilling a hole and attaching an electrode fitted with a magnet behind each ear. Records show the youngest person to have a cochlear implant was a 6-month-old baby girl in 2014. Today in Scotland, the youngest person to have a Cochlear implant was a 6-week-old baby girl. The oldest person was a man aged 103! The surgeons who performed my miraculous surgery were a young man and a woman. I've often wondered who did which ear. There's no outward sign of the electrode and magnet on the left side of my head above the ear, the right side is positioned higher on my head and sticks out. they both work perfectly but one is better handwork. Until comparatively recently my 'party trick' was to attach forks or dessert spoons to my head, but the magnets attached to the exterior cochlear were causing pressure pains. Now my party trick has been reduced to attaching teaspoons instead.

                         -------------

Written in 2015

Dear World,

I've waited so long to hear you again. To hear laughter and join in. To dance in rhythm to music. I've yearned to sit with family and friends and converse freely, not feign comprehension and interest when the reality was I heard nothing nor could I see to read lips, I was there but unintentionally excluded., I existed but did not live.

The indescribable joy of listening to my grandchildren talk and laugh, voices I'd never heard before. The peace and happiness of sitting by the window and listening to rain splattering against the panes. To wake to the sound of birds chirping and calling to one another.

Please I beg. Don't make the sounds I hear negative, full of sadness or prejudice or hate, nor let the voices of News Reporters drone on about how many more innocents have been slaughtered through mindless greed and power-obsessed demons.

How I yearned for 'normality' and re-engagement with the world outside. Yet, I would willingly choose to be permanently deaf and blind again if it would make a difference in this beautiful world tainted with screams and blood, negativity unfairness cruelty and injustice.

Dear world, I pray to make the sounds that echo around this hearing world positive and good and of happiness peace and love. In truth painful as it would be. I would happily live enclosed in a world without vision and hearing than in a world of hate.

All reaction

The Simple Things

I've often wondered what my life would've been like if I hadn't sat under that eucalyptus tree all those years ago. It felt like I'd become a curiosity of science as doctors and specialists speculated and exchanged theories about the actual source of my unexplained dual sensory loss. It's easier for me to put it down to the spider bite, although that theory shocks some people. It could easily have been a combination of things. Travelling abroad used to entail vaccines for everything, we'll never know the exact cause, but I've spent a massive part of my life living with the consequences. 

I married had my children and worked hard to be a good mum, wife and business partner, but pretending to see and hear sufficiently in a world that didn't make allowance and inclusion for those things was soul-destroying. It's unintentional but extremely common for people with any degree of hearing loss to be 'left out' in general social interaction and within the family structures. 

I struggled on. I Studied Social work for a couple of years but had to drop out because of a lack of inclusion. The same happened with a Psychology course. I even completed a full computer programming course but didn't sit the exam. I was convinced I'd fail it because I hadn't had enough assistance. 

 I decided to join a Political Party not long before an election. It took courage to walk into the local constituency office and explain my desire to help and about my sensory issues. I was horrified when the man I spoke to told me coldly that they didn't need my help. I almost burst out crying with embarrassment and turned to leave, then I spotted another man in the room. He had red hair and a beard and looked kind and friendly. I tried to lip-read when he turned and spoke to the first man. "What the hell did you say that for Jim? Everyone is welcome in this office, and we appreciate everyone's help". He turned to me and smiled. "I'm Robin Cook. Glad you've come to join us. When you're on the biscuit run remember I eat Turnocks Caramel Wafers". He laughed.

Robin Cook MP later became British Foreign Secretary. He always spoke clearly and directly to me and, included me. He became my hero for his goodness, honesty, and fairness. I loved it when he brought his sons to my house and introduced me to them and had a cup of tea. The man who'd made me feel unwelcome was called Jim Devine. He became an MP after Robin's death and was later jailed for corruption.

Robin Cook transformed my life in several ways. He made me feel valued and appreciated. He taught me about politics, and he encouraged me to do things, he didn't look at me as deafblind, he saw the person. I became a campaigner and crusader. Thanks to him I made a brief appearance on News at Ten. Nine o'clock News and a political program. I secured a massive number of signatures to prevent the local construction of a massive waste incinerator.  

Everything changes. Life is simply a collection of phases - Frustrating times. Heartbreaking times. Loving romantic times. Times when everything is a struggle. Times of grief and heartache. Times of excitement. Nothing stays the same... I learned that the hard way...

   

Reflections

There was nothing complicated about my father. His parentless childhood and unhappy life in the foster home could have made him bitter, but they didn't. A truly handsome man with a personality and presence that drew people in meant he was loved and respected everywhere he went. He was also an adventurer. His time in the Royal Navy made him restless, we were always on the move. He'd start up a business, grow bored and off we'd go to try our luck elsewhere. It was a never-ending pattern.

The one positive thing was that we would always return home for a while. 'Home' was a large house in Surrey with a small orchard and outdoor swimming pool, we had some well-known celebrity neighbours Sir Harry Secombe lived next door.  Eric Sykes, Roy Castle, Tony Hancock, and others lived close by. I loved Surrey, especially in summer. My father was a member of the Gander Green Cricket Club as was Harry and a variety of other celebs. At the interval, Harry usually took a bucket around the spectators collecting money for charity. I loved when he'd take my hand so I could accompany him. He was an incredibly kind generous man.

Being in the UK for Christmas was always special. To travel across the Globe from scorching countries such as Africa, Australia etc. Then arrive at Heathrow Airport to find snow drifts and freezing temperatures was magical. 

 I was 8 years old. It was Christmas Eve and unbeknown to me, it was my parents' turn to host the traditional Christmas Eve Party. Anyone who saw my parents in their heyday assumed they were celebrities. They had taste, style carriage and amazing, good looks. Mum didn't relate to women, but Dad related well with everyone. They were the story of Richard Burton-Elizabeth Taylor without alcohol. Burton and Taylor married twice. My parents divorced and remarried three times!  Though not celebrities themselves, they often caught the attention of magazines and papers and were asked to model expensive brand-name clothing. They happily obliged. 
 

My bedroom was at the rear of the house out of earshot of the noisy party. I loved my bedroom. with its large sash window and pink walls. The window was too high for me to see anything other than the sky. My bed was close to the window.  As usual my father tucked me into bed and kissed me goodnight. I lay still looking up to the window smiling to myself and imagining the wonderful surprises Father Christmas would bring it didn't take long to drift off to sleep. 

I woke with a start. The full moon shone brightly through a gap in the curtains, and I smiled to myself. I turned away from the light and saw her. She was kneeling beside my bed smiling at me. A real-life fairy. I rubbed my eyes I thought I was dreaming. She had long silky curled blonde hair with a shiny tiara on her head. I thought I was dreaming. The fairy was wearing a long pale blue dress with puffed shoulders. I gasped when I saw her wings, large soft, fluffy white feathers stretched out across her back and shoulders. She leaned close I gasped again, she had bright blue eyes, shiny pink lips and smelled of roses and other flowers I couldn't name. She put a finger to her lips "Shh close your eyes and go to sleep beautiful girl. When you wake all your dreams will have come true". She kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes. I still recall the sense of warmth and happiness I felt that evening. She was right. I had a wonderful, wonderful Christmas.

A couple of years later we returned to the UK to attend a wedding. I was invited to be a Flower Girl even though I'd never met the bride-to-be. Mum took me to collect my beautiful white lacy dress with hoop petticoats and a beautiful silver tiara. When I finally met the bride-to-be, she gave me a huge cuddle. I caught a whiff of her perfume. It smelled the same as the one my beautiful blue fairy had worn.    

                                _______________

  

Life

I wrote a post on Facebook about my late father and his devoted cat. Within an instant, I found myself looking back on my life and the things that left a lasting impact on me making me who I am today. 

My father was my hero and my best friend. Brought up in foster care by an old Middle-Class couple, with strict Victorian attitudes and values. He attended the best schools and wore the best clothes, but his life was a misery without affection and little contact with the people who'd taken him into their home. In turn, my father adopted a strict approach with my brothers and I.
"The three-second rule". An instruction had to be started within three seconds of being told to follow it, my brothers and I never failed to obey that command. My father never raised his voice at us. He didn't need to. His voice was one of authority. He was dashingly handsome, educated, and had a wonderful sense of humour, I loved him dearly and never doubted his love for me.

My parents were an attractive, well-dressed, well-spoken couple. who turned heads everywhere. They often received requests to model clothing for magazines and Newspapers. It wasn't a career. they simply had style and looked glamorous. Occasionally my two brothers were invited to pose along with our parents, but I never was. 

 Mother was a narcissist who didn't like women. I knew she loved me, yet there was something always missing. People would say what a lovely daughter she had. Mum would shake her head. "No, she isn't. However, my sons are both so handsome..." She said these things without thinking, but the damage was done. We travelled the world. I was a shy child. Everywhere we went was different. Education, attitudes, behaviour, expectations. I was always the outsider and stood apart from the crowd.

I was a loner who made friends with ants. astounding little insects with incredible brains. When I first approached a nest, the entire army of soldier ants would swarm over me, each biting to warn me off, yet not leaving any sensation behind. I'd sit perfectly still beside the same nest for hours letting them explore my arms and legs showing them I wasn't a threat. Sometimes, I'd pick up live insects and offer them to my darling ants. These wonderful insects are in the Bible -Proverbs 6.6. The Greek God Adonis mentioned them too and there's an ancient story of a grasshopper and an ant. Brains the size of pinheads yet with the ability to make independent decisions and still decide to live and work in perfect unison.

The Greeks understood about ants, modern man is only just starting to pay attention. There's no rivalry amongst ants, each has its place, and every ant knows its individual value.  If an ant is in danger the entire army defends it.  They rescue injured comrades and carry them to safety.  Every ant is equal.

Mum had stunning long jet-black hair. Beautiful deep brown eyes and had an amazing exotic-looking olive skin. A sort of Sophie Loren or Elizabeth Taylor. Dad was a blonde bronzed blue-eyed Adonis, an absolute gentleman women fell at his feet, but he adored my mother. They were opposite, Mum was extremely challenging and demanding of him and the rest of us. She was incredibly self-focused, yet he tolerated her sometimes oppressive behaviour.

Both my brothers were handsome. Mum tried everything to control my older brother and make him into what she needed. As the oldest child, she did everything to brainwash and control him into being hers alone. My brother also carries many scars. Deep down I think she loved me, but also resented me. She didn't include me and struggled to disguise her disappointment in me, a short, freaked redhead. Sometimes I felt an outsider in my own skin. 

As I entered my teens my father began to communicate more. At times I suspected it was me and him against mum and my brothers, it wasn't their fault, she took obvious pride in curtailing their interaction with our father.
Dad and I shared a ridiculous sense of humour  I'd sit at his feet and we'd put the world to rights. Sometimes I'd forget that neither parent expressed their love and pride with me as they did with my brothers. I loved it when Dad called me his "sugar plum fairy" I didn't know what it meant. I didn't find out till much later.

I was in my early teens. One day Dad offered me money to go out for a few hours. "An old friend from the theatre is popping in darling. I haven't seen him for years. It was of me I know, but, I told him my darling daughter is gorgeously tall and blonde". He gave me one of his endearing smiles. I silently took the money and went out.

I took an overdose not long after, not enough to harm me, just a cry for help that went unnoticed. I just wanted to be SEEN.

I refute any suggestion that my father was cruel or deliberately trying to hurt me. He had no concept of what sort of impact his unthoughtful words would have. A short while later we had another surprising conversation. This time we spoke of my dreams and aspirations. I dreamed of being a Myrmecologist a psychologist or some other worthy career (I could never have imagined I'd lose my precious vision and hearing in such a cruel way). The loss was gradual at first. I sensed my parents were hugely disappointed with me. No one understood. My isolation and loneliness replicated.
Sensory loss has added to the level of things you'll never be able to do or achieve and you can't depend on your looks to help you gain attention. Some people are fortunate some are not. 
One day my father sat me down and said "Focus darling. There are a lot more things you won't be able to do now. You can't depend on looks 
My father told me "Focus darling. Look you can't depend on your looks to get anywhere in life. Some people have good looks, some don't. Use every other ability you have and be realistic about what options you have left". 

I took a second overdose a brief time later. 

My "daddy" remained my hero. He loved me regardless of how I looked. He proved his love by doing whatever I asked of him. by being there. By defending me against my mum's unfair treatment. I knew he found comfort in me as I did in him. I wonder. Is it possible to absolutely love someone yet look at them and not see them as physically beautiful? I believe so. 

My father and I had so much in common. Mum hated it. When my father and I were together we weren't focusing on her. She'd stomp around talking aloud to herself cursing us both.

I married the first boy to kiss me. I don't regret it in respect of the fact I have the most wonderful children. I was young and without expectations from any man. I'd never spoken to anyone about my self-loathing, insecurities, fears, and intense feelings of loneliness. 
My then-to-be husband and I were walking down the road arguing about something inconsequential when he suddenly lashed out hitting me in the face. I yelled and burst out crying. He stood watching before coming close to me and speaking firmly but quietly. "Look if you stop crying right now, I'll even marry you". It was the theme of the next 20-plus years. 

Insecurities are usually the result of deliberate or sometimes ill-thought words or actions of others. It's extremely difficult to cure worthlessness and rebuild confidence. Some never succeed in doing so. People who've experienced inequality, heartache, and mental and or emotional and physical abuse, who go on to become the most empathic of people. Who strive to help others and who are true survivors.

My beloved father had seven heart attacks. He was told he's heart wouldn't last much longer.  My oldest daughter was pregnant. The baby wasn't due for another six months. I begged my father not to die and leave me, begged him to stay and see his Great Grandchild.
This man with all his failings, with thoughtless insensitivity had in turn survived rejection and the insecurity it breeds. A man with a great heart, but a weak one. Who knew heartache but didn't learn to recognise those things in others. Who didn't know how to relate as a parent and yet, somehow managed to draw people in, retain an incredible kindness and generousness and make people want to love and know him regardless of his failings.

I lay on the bed beside my wonderful father, stroking his hand, kissing his cheek, reminding HIM how wonderful, loveable good and handsome he was. I watched him waste away, growing weaker and weaker. He'd been given the terminal diagnosis in early December. It was now June approaching my youngest daughter's birthday, the new baby was due any day. He couldn't eat and already survived two days without water. He tried to mouth something, struggling painfully to get words out. I leaned as close as possible "If I have done anything to hurt you, tell me now, I beg, tell me now". He looked at me pleadingly. He wanted to die in peace, he wanted to give me peace in his death. I kissed my darling father's face and told him what he needed to know. he tried unsuccessfully to mouth thank you. 

My daughter was allowed to bring the baby home for an hour or two as an act of mercy. We placed the baby beside my father's arm, and he tried to smile. He'd suffered without any medication. without food or water. However, that night the doctor decided to give him morphine. Now I know that back then some doctors did this as an act of mercy for the patient and the family. 

Against my wishes my then-husband persuaded me to return home that night, telling my father would rest peacefully for the night.

We received a phone call at 5am I rushed around to my parent's house. Mum stood calmly at the foot of the bed. I threw myself onto my father's still-warm body, kissing his face repeatedly.  My father. Such a beautiful yet damaged human.  A perfect and yet perfectly imperfect father, I finally realised I'd always had a human friend, and that I'd never been quite as alone as I imagined. It hit me that he had also been alone in his own way.  I just hadn't recognised the things in him that were also in me.

My mother remained calm. I knew in her own unique flawed way that she'd loved my father deeply too. She looked at me and smiled sympathetically. "Shall we prepare your dad darling?"
I know many in Western society cringe at the idea of cleaning and dressing a loved one, however, it's a  privilege to do that last deed for the person you love. We dressed him in his favourite suit. 

For all his flaws and imperfections, he was generous, kind, humorous, intelligent, principled, loving, and lovable.  Everyone loved him. 

He loved literature and poetry. Particularly Rudyard Kipling's poem 'If' I asked someone to read out a specific passage as my tribute to the man who forced himself to LIVE long enough to honour a promise to me. Life without my father has been so much harder to endure. But I stand tall for my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. For myself, I have the right to stand tall and believe in myself and for the man who genuinely loved me - My Father. 


Rudyard Kipping IF

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

Challenging the status Quo

 A month or so ago I took the unusual step of making a complaint against my local A&E. It wasn't an easy decision.  I have utter respect and admiration for all medical staff. However, as a public speaker for dual sensory loss, I had an obligation to speak out. 

The A&E department was almost empty when I arrived. I wasn't there for a life-threatening issue but was in considerable pain and had been advised by NHS 24 to attend A&E.
I waited patiently for almost 2 hours before a nurse appeared and checked my pulse, BP and other routine checks. I waited for the doctor. I waited and waited. As far as I was aware, there was only one other patient in A&E at that time. The lifespan of the batteries in each of my Cochlears is approximately 4 hours. I was dismayed when one of the batteries died. At home, I charge the batteries in a USB port on a wall socket. The hospital doesn't have the USB ports fitted. 
My vision isn't sufficient to allow me to lip-read. I'm highly dependent on the Cochlears. I'm aware that the majority of Health Boards in Scotland have no training on how to communicate with hard of hearing, profoundly deaf or deafblind people. 
Back in the cubical, the battery of my other Cochlear beeped in warning it was about to die. It's a terrifying undignified thing being unable to understand people and communicate with them. 
I'd seen the duty Doctor talking with a bunch of nurses so approached him. I explained about the Cochlears and the fact no medical staff would be able to communicate with me. I was genuinely horrified when he suggested I could "Just go home or wait to be seen however long that took". I'm certain an A&E dept has more than one Doctor on duty. I was certain there was only one other patient in A&E at that time too. I went home in tears.

Apart from dual sensory loss, I have several other conditions. One 'Costochondritis' can, at times, mimic a heart attack. I suffer from mild heart failure too; I think it's natural and understandable if I need a bit of reassurance when I have concerning symptoms.
Anyway, I made a complaint to the Scottish Health Board. They were very understanding and asked what outcome I'd like from my complaint.  I advised the pressing need for all medical staff to receive the simple training needed to learn communication techniques for deaf and deafblind people. I was assured this would be noted so dropped the complaint.

I couldn't believe it when a few weeks later I visited an out-of-hours doctor for a painful torn ligament in my right wrist. I'd self-diagnosed correctly but desperately needed something to strap the wrist to keep it from moving. As a precaution, the out-of-hours doctor advised I had an X-ray. 
The A&E waiting room was busy, but the turnaround of patients was quick. There was a drunken chap sitting snoring in a wheelchair, and a scary tough-looking character with a torn knuckle and a bloodied face handcuffed to a policeman. They came and went. A stream of patients came in after me and went out again. I'd been sitting in the waiting room for 4 hours, no one else was in the waiting room other than me. One of my Cochlears beeped a warning. Finally, I was called in and went for a quick X-ray before being shown into a cubical. I waited for the Doctor to come back. All I wanted was something to strap my painful wrist up. 3am. Only one other patient inside A&E. My second battery died. A lovely Porter saw my distress and gestured to ask if I wanted a cup of tea. The Doctor didn't return, instead, a nurse appeared and handed me a wrist strap then turned and walked away without a word. For the second time ever, I left A&E in tears. The wrist strap was for a left hand, not a right one. I felt I'd been victimised. Again I spoke to the health board who claimed the Hospital didn't know my name so any issues the second time were coincidental. I'm not convinced.

Again, I was told they'd 'look into communication training". It's absolutely appalling that medical staff don't have a clue how to communicate with a section of the population. There aren't enough translators available, and not everyone knows or can use sign language. There's also the issue of foreign people, more so elderly ones, who either don't have a good grasp of English and/or are deaf as well. 

I took on the legal system years ago when I discovered (at my personal expense), that people in civil courts in Scotland had to 'pay' for lip readers or sign interpreters. It took me three years of non-stop petitioning the then Scottish law lord (Jim Wallace) and endless cups of tea with him and conversations on every subject before he announced, that my three-year non-stop persistence had paid off. The law was finally changed so NO ONE would ever have to pay to hear in a civil court again. My divorce cost me £4,600 for a lip speaker, but I felt endless joy and pride in knowing I'd saved others from being forced to pay for a basic human right to communicate in court.
I gather my name is in the Scottish Law books.