Service disruption

The trip to London today. Sad, odd, uncomfortable and surreal. We were tired and anxious.

I kind of wanted to tell everyone around us what we were doing. What had happened. On the platform at Haddenham Parkway. On the tube. But that would be seriously weird. It’s as though we’re looking at the everyday through a different lens, wondering at the people lucky enough to be going about their daily life, brightly clothed, heading places, doing stuff. Most people seemed to be rushing somewhere. Well, apart from those people who were struggling. Or dealing with life in different ways.

Bit of a mix up on the address (I got the office number wrong in about three different ways which created a strenuous, stressy, hot hike) before we arrived late at the oasis that is our solicitor. I’m going to call her C here. She listened, she thought, she was sensible, kind, informed and she acted. She was realistic. This was comforting.

The journey home was, again, odd and disjointed. And then it was a crawl into bed for a deep kip. And waking to the constant ache; if only this wasn’t happening.



The unit records

Sadness has reached new depths (how is that possible?) with the arrival of the unit records through a superhuman effort from my mum, and eventual delivery of these records via several emails from the NHS trust regional director and her PA. The back story is now available. And what a distressing and harrowing tale it is.

These records provide the most devastating account of LB’s time at the unit. I haven’t opened all the emails. The ones I’ve read detail LB’s confusion at being at the unit, his consistent expectation (hope?) that his mum would come and get him. His desire to come home. The hours and hours and hours spent watching DVDs.

Nonsense care plans/risk assessments. Yawning pointlessness. Shifting choices, non action, destruction.  They even gave him a maths test with equations. The dude couldn’t count to 10. What a fucking waste of everything.

I should have gone and got him.