-Will you talk about the work you did?
-Would you be available to chat to any journalists that turn up?
None turned up.
6 weeks later…
-Are you still ok to talk to a journalist?
-Yes, of course.
-She’s from the regional Sunday tabloid.
-Oh, um, well, ok. That’s grand.
panic, panic, panic
The interview happened by phone last week. I was in pjs, despite having hardly slept with anxiety. I’d written pages of notes of what I wanted to say (what good things can happen when the system listens to patients and works with us). The journalist knew what sort of a story she wanted (ill woman with young family and her tragic, doomed, mother). We proceeded to the dance.
The article will appear eventually. The nonsense is over. The journalist and editor will do what they need to do to sell their paper. My input is over and all I can do is wait for it all to appear, and vanish.
It turns out there is always more.
The photograph they had wasn’t ‘good enough’ (we may have different criteria for that). A photographer is on the way. The house is tidy. I am dressed. My face has been drawn on. I’m hunting out the extra anti mad tablets.
How did I end up here? I’m so much more comfy being anonymous in pjs.