To say I was furious is an understatement. I wrote to Martin Turner, the CEO of the Hywel Dda NHS Trust, and Edwina Hart. Edwina Hart just fobbed me off as usual, and Martin Turner classed me as a vexatious complainant, and once again I felt like the criminal and not the victim.
I just couldn’t believe the way the truth was being ignored and covered up. I even wrote to Edwina Hart asking her this, ‘do you think that after taking all this medication, that I thought had been keeping me alive for the past twelve years, I just woke up one morning and said to myself; I know what I will do, I will stop taking my medication, give up my beautiful apartment, fly back to the Wales, go on hunger strike on the steps of the Welsh Assembly, and tell everyone a gangster in Malta told me to stop taking it? Because if I did, then I should be locked up for my own safety.’
Of course, I never received any answer to that letter. Once again, I hit rock bottom and just could not understand why I was still carrying on with a fight that seemed impossible to win. People would never believe that the system was as corrupt as it is.
Then on the 19th of June, the tingling numbness that I had been experiencing all the years took a turn for the worse, and I went numb down the whole right hand side of my body, and I was rushed to hospital by ambulance with a suspected mini stroke.
I was treated by a cardiologist called Dr. Morris, and he ordered an MRI brain scan. The scan came back negative, but he wanted me to stay in under supervision until the Monday, but I refused.
He put me on a clot buster, and said he would give me an appointment to see him in my local hospital in Glanamman, and in July I kept that appointment, and because my right hand was still a bit numb he decided to send me for another more intense MRI brain scan, and also that I should be fitted with a forty eight hour heart monitor, and he also took blood tests.
Just after that appointment I decided to go and see Liz Perkin, a journalist for the Evening Post who had run a couple of stories about my protests. I wanted to hand her some paper work, and explain exactly what sort of response I was getting, and how I was just being fobbed off. But after spending almost an hour finding somewhere to park my car, I went into the reception of the paper, only to be told she was on holiday. I was gutted. Was anything ever going to go right?
As I was just about to turn off the road to head back to Ammanford, I decided to call into St Illtyds Catholic church and just talk to a priest, but guess what, it was closed.
I felt sick, and jumped into my car and headed off home, but just as I was about to take the road to Townhill inSwansea, I just turned and decided to call in atSt Joseph’s Cathedral, and that was the first time I met Cannon Michael Flook.
He sat and listened to me for about an hour and although he didn’t know what he could do, he did tell me not to give up, and to pray for guidance. I gave him the documents I had prepared for Liz Perkin, asking him if he would just look at them, then before I left he gave me a blessing and told me he was going toIreland, but to come and see him again when he was back.
That meeting is probably the most important meeting I have ever had in my life because things finally started to happen.