Wednesday, 22 April 2009


So I'm watching Boston Legal and it's the season one episode where the great Denny Crane, consumed with worry over possible Alzheimer's, is taking a kind of amphetamine, as prescribed by his psychiatrist. His psychiatrist. Really?

Cos I'm thinking places in the UK just tell you that you have a cold and send you home. So what if you have actual dementia that they can help prevent? So what if you have a dedicated, soul-mate of a husband and four kids who need you? So what if they can spare all of your family - including extended members - the pain, misery, heartbreak, anguish, hurt, torture, need for therapy, and, lest we forget - YOUR OWN MENTAL HEALTH AND SENSE OF WHO YOU FUCKING ARE - by getting a proper diagnosis and therefore, treatment? Who cares when they can spare the national health service of the UK (which you paid into until you could no longer work) a couple of quid by getting shot of your case file?

I don't know whether to be angry or raging. I'm going to go with raging. Not for me, or members of my family who have been through this. Oh no.

But for people who are about to go through this, when they shouldn't have to.

I am sorry. Really. Cos I know how it turns out.

This is not about the show that is Boston Legal, or the fact that they missed out that, if Denny Crane stops taking this prescription - and if in fact, he had actual Alzheimer's - he would not have the wit, the humour, the personality that Alan Shore himself bemoaned losing. Let's not go there. Let's watch the next episode, with a little vodka, so we can sleep and forget that nasty, deep-dark hole we leapt over, Indiana Jones style. 

Yes, let's.


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