Approaching LB’s birth day

It’s LB’s 20th birthday on Monday. Howl. Howl. Howl. Howl. I love it that the kids have all been thinking and planning around it. Howl.  I’m unable to do much more than appreciate their thinking and planning. That they are thinking and planning. I don’t say much (sorry kids) and scuffle off into a different space at home. Or work.

Thinking of LB’s birthday when I’m out, as I do at the mo, is a Sooty tears situ. I’m pitched straight back to those early baking July days, and earlier. I walk through town or sit on the bus with tears running down my face.

Funnily enough, for all the rules of social interaction I’ve been fascinated with since becoming a sociology student years ago, I’ve learned you can actually have a good old public weep quite privately. Maybe it’s because of the digital focus. We can all be online now and blank out (deliberately or obliviously) the ‘messiness’ of what might be happening next to/around us.

The birth day space is one of such intense pain that I can barely breathe, function or do anything with. How can you have a child and not celebrate their birthday? How does/will this work over coming years. When LB stays 18 and we all grow older. Without him. Howl. What do you do with such an intense longing/missing for a person who is such an integral part of you?

At the moment my mind calendar is pretty much reduced to two dates; death day and birth day. All other ‘celebratory’ dates (birthdays, Christmas, Easter, etc) are irrelevant. I know I have to move beyond this focus (even though I don’t want to). I know our (pretty legendary) kids have and deserve their own space to do and be and shine and be loved for who they are. Nothing should take away from this. But it’s hard. It’s so bloody hard not to be caught up in and devoured by the intense pain of missing and aching for the cub who was picked off, carelessly and callously, by a publicly funded body. A body that exists to ‘care’.

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How the fuck in fucking hellsters is LB not alive?

Memories, grief and ‘old’ social media

Yesterday I was a bit thrown by facebook chucking up a post from December 31 2012. Bloody facebook I thought. That was a curveball.

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First thing this morning, Mark Neary tweeted about his distress at watching a video with Stephen, of him and his classmates doing Bananas in Pyjamas fourteen years ago. Given that half the kids were now in ATUs, miles from home in residential provision or dead [dead?]

I replied to say that Fran had a picture of her son James, LB and another classmate as cheerful chappies in primary school. Not a care in the world. Not a sniff of what lay ahead of them: in various ATUs for over two years (mostly in Newcastle), James’ experiences touched on here and LB. Three classmates. In a class of about ten. Now aged (if still alive) 18/19.

What happens to these kids is simply inhumane and should stop people in their tracks. They are just kids. Like any other kids. And yet their lives seem to close in on them once they reach adolescence and the toxic space called transition. Which involves, sooner or later, a varying combination of the misuse of the Mental Capacity Act, financial stick waving by the local authority or clinical commissioning group, ill health and/or a cutting off/sidelining of family love and care.

I had a scooby back in time on facebook tonight. I’m not a big facebook fan but am a sucker for any LB snippet. Trying to hold on to him. Trying to keep him ‘alive’ in whatever space possible.

This was a bittersweet experience. Lovely to be reminded of happier times. But also dates leaping out at me. The happy hippy wedding was almost three years to the day to the day he died. And reminder of context I’d completely forgotten about. Anna Chapman. (Who?)

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The interactional context was also warming.Throwaway comments at the time. Chat. Or banter as Tom calls it. The grounding of LB’s life, and our lives, in a space in which family and friends commented in the moment, later, or returned to photos after LB’s death.

And then there were just posts.

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I’ve only been able to dip into, and quickly out of, old blog posts so far. But I’m glad I captured those moments of everyday life. I’m glad I used to be forever snapping happenings/’non’ happenings with my camera. Capturing the life of a young dude whose life was worth nothing within NHS/social care spaces of ‘care’.

LB’s shortened (howl.howl.howl) life enriched, added colour, illuminated, made human what was seen to be less than human, and just was.

He was delighted to win the prize for achievement and endeavour in July 2010.

Seasons, death, puddings and earth

Bit of a stark title but I wanted to head off any sunshine seekers/death or misery avoiders.

[Er, close tab now if you are any, either or all of these].

A definite turn in the weather today. Late autumn sunshine to complete shite. I spent the day at a symposium. Held a bit closer to the cemetery than our office. I grumbled and mumbled about foul bus journeys in the Oxford rush hour. Delay, crowds, dripping water, condensation, sniffing and a coughing.

All the while I thought about LB. And wondered about the rain and the gound/earth. A mile or so away. The cemetery staff have topped up LB’s grave with earth and sown grass seed. Carefully re-arranging the collection of buses and other stuff. Bloody love em. Another stark reminder of simple acts of care so absent from LB’s life in the last few months.

I was further reminded of seasons with the latest vimeo (sigh) from Sloven, in which the CEO carefully explains to staff the timeframe for the findings of the CQC inspection that took place last week. Trying to ease potential staff concern/worry. Drawing on changing seasons. January is the expected time of findings. A short four months from kick off.

LB was hugely patient in many ways. And so ordered. He was renowned for his love of puddings and cakes. Sitting at parties/BBQs to finish his nth pud. When everyone else had moved on to other party type stuff.

Complete concentration, absorption and  contentedness. And a joyous lack of concern about what anyone else thought or expected of him.

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Given that LB lost his life and we’re left struggling to hold on to some semblance of normality in the wake of his death (and the complete crap chucked at us since) it would be good to get some sort of  resolution before the slow wheels of reviews/police investigations. Some answers about staff disciplinary actions or surveillance-gate.

We’re now beyond the four month mark. Nudging six season changes.

I don’t know how much I need to describe the experience of having a child buried when it rains. But the Trust and other others responsible for, or connected to, LB’s death could do a fucking shedload more to make it less painful and, as an absolute minimum, not make it worse.

Diminished societies and donations

The charity shop (can’t remember which one) collected LB’s belongings (the outer layer) this morning. A close encounters type mound of black bin bags and boxes of stuff heaped up in the front garden.

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It was more painful than I thought it would be, given this ‘stuff’ had all been in bags for pretty much 15 months now. Pulling his well worn camouflage jacket out of one gaping bin bag, I went back inside and let Rich deal with the social niceties with Shane and his white van.

“Thanks for the donation! Much appreciated!” I heard the cheery call and slam of the van door a short while later.

My brain kind of bounced round in some kind of indescribable space while the bits left of my heart took a further pounding. Dust swirls. The pain almost too familiar now.

Within moments of Rich shutting the front door, the post arrived. A letter from Knoxville, Tennessee.

A copy of the approved resolution around what happened to LB submitted by Mark Sherry. And a letter that says it all really.

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“As societies we are diminished if a tragedy like this does not spur us to do better.”

Yep. Couldn’t agree more.

When I was a kid…

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..we lived by the sea in Southend. High tide, the pier, cockle sheds, pen pals, taking photographs with a kodak camera, and a background soundtrack of the Carpenters, Simon and Garfunkel. And Jacques Loussier, or Jack Brewscheeya as Rich called him, years later when we saw him perform with my mum and dad.

I can remember thinking about growing up a lot as a kid. There was a kind of sky’s the limit type framing to this. And a reasonable grasp of my limitations. I tossed out ‘tennis champ’ (sob) after a couple of humiliating wipe outs at a local summer competition. Artist went when I was disappointedly mediocre in art lessons. Writing? Hmmm. My diary excerpts speak for themselves. But I still had a big old world to dabble in. And mess around with.

I don’t know what LB thought about his future. Other than it featured a beautiful girlfriend and world domination on the ConnorCo front. We never found a way of talking about this properly. Partly because there was no apparent time limit on it. Just banter type stuff. Constrained by the consistent fight/concern about and experience of micro, nonsensical support over the years. Four hours ‘respite’ a month for about ten years. A focus that pushed what mattered to the nether regions. The lack of effective support offered by services a dominating and wearing part of everyday life.

LB didn’t have the luxury I had of options at his age. Of anything really. His ‘adult life’ (all six months of it) was firmly and fiercely mapped and inscribed in terms of indicative budgets, resources and allocations. His potential – artist, entrepreneur, litter picker, caretaker, comedian, model, whatever – was never acknowledged, recognised or even thought about (except by us). And once he kicked out at this non life, it was game over really. The flimsy, poorly resourced, beyond rigid and ignorant world of ‘support’ laid bare.

imageThat he died (he died?) is so raw, so extreme, so I don’t know how to make sense of it. But, at the same time, it focuses attention and underlines how completely shite things for young dudes like him. In 1971, the government published Better Services for the Mentally Handicapped. 43 years later, we are still getting it so wrong for so many.

Astonishing. Heartbreaking. And so fucking unnecessary. Those ‘better services’ have continued to erase all humanity, thought, celebration, aspiration, recognition of skills, abilities, talents and strengths off the board. Leaving a deficit based metal box of jargon, tick boxes and cost cutting. With no real choice or control. Classy.

The Leavers’ prom

It was LB’s Leavers’ prom when I was in Japan. All those years of waiting for the limo to turn up with the Leavers in it. Proud as punch. Some anxious at what lay ahead. The last prom LB went to was in July 2012, pretty much a year to the day he died. He was rocking cool as always. Pictured here with Maeve, the deputy head. ryan5-756

Charlie’s Angels weren’t going to stop him having his moment however. They invited us to come along to enjoy a celebration with them. Here’s the email Rich sent me later that evening;

It was a tough one but glad I went – really cool to see all the dudes having such fun and enjoying themselves. Really powerful when the limo arrived.
     Connor was so clearly absent and missed. But the Angels had put out (new) pictures of Connor and written comments from class mates and stuff on the benches in the car park – so he was there in spirit and ‘arrived’ with his peers.
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     We all went into a lovely little paddock adjacent to the hall and gathered round in a big circle (around the pictures and his classmates words) and then released two big bags full of balloons (in Eddie Stobbart colours). I cried. It was really moving and very sad. But also so full of love,  so much genuine love and feeling – so much more real than the worlds we often have to be in now. The balloons all went off high and close together – fantastically mixed in all sorts of colour formations until they went out of sight. None were caught in trees or any other obstacle.
    I stayed for about an hour, met the head teacher and made sure he knew how special, dedicated and wonderful his staff are and how much they have helped and supported us.
     I spoke to lots of people, some I knew, some I didn’t. Some remembered when Will and Owen came to the prom with Connor – which was cool – I have that great picture of Will, Connor and Matthew on my desk. Connor was in everyone’s hearts but in that special way that only he could be – light, fun and loving. He was the centre of the night but in such a great and positive way – just as he would have been if he could have been there in person.
     He is still shining so bright. It felt like his smile was just there for everyone. I know it’s not much but that smile is becoming more and more the way I remember him, the vision I hold of him – I loved that smile.

 

And a couple of the comments from his classmates:

Connor you were always a good friend to me. I have always enjoyed my time with you, we have been through a lot together over the years from archaeology club to Yenworthy. I learned a lot of interesting facts about buses and Eddie Stobart lorries from you. You were very funny with all the jokes you told me. I would always laugh at them because they were all so good! I miss you so much Connor. It is really different and sad without you here. Morgan.

I miss you Connor. Hope you had a good time. Liam

Thank you, as always, to the Angels. xxx

What a fucking shambles

Jane Cummings has responded to Bubbgate today. Turns out the Plan isn’t a Plan after all. Well not one that says ‘We’re going to do a, b, c and d’. Eh? She rapidly counteracts Bubb’s posturings. One by one. Awkwardness on awkwardness. Has someone hacked the world?

So continuing with the complete failure of anything Winterbourne, we’ve now had the wastefulness of Bubb’s play breakfast meeting in which fuck all was achieved other than capturing in the headlights the CEOs of the big charities who should know better.

How could you sit round that table?

How could you?

Meanwhile Jan Tregelles is working the room, trying to pick off various vocal tweeters and schmooze them in private. More fucking awkwardness. Or maybe just typical spin action. Just out of interest Jan, where were you when LB died? No sniff of getting in touch then. I despise this action aligned with self interest that completely ignores the pain and suffering of LB and countless others, and their families.

It’s time this mess was brought out from behind closed doors and dealt with openly, transparently, and with learning disabled people and families on an equal footing. In a Bubb free setting.  It’s clear, given we’re three years on now from the Concordat fanfare, you don’t have a bloody clue. None of you. And if you did, LB would be travelling in that limo right now, heading for his leavers prom. Enjoying his turn on the red carpet.

I’ve had enough. I don’t want to feel such utter and abject pain anymore partly because a bunch of overpaid, overly self important and ultimately ignorant people can’t stop performing, prevaricating and spinning such complete bullshit.

You make me sick.

Papering the cracks

It’s 4.07am in Japan and my rubbishy (non) sleep continues. It’s odd dipping in and out of unfolding developments from afar. So what’s happened on the Bubbgate front? Well, the Bubbman has updated his blog and Mencap and the Challenging Behaviour Foundation (CBF) have issued press releases to try and cover their backs. Stephen Bubb’s update is, as I would expect despite having only known of his existence for 48 hours now, an exercise in complete arrogance. Mencap and CBF have clearly been caught with egg on their face (sorry, these breakfast jokes are going to run and run) and are, like the Bubbster, proclaiming their complete conviction that learning disabled people and families must be involved in this new group. Just awkward all round.

I kind of feel despair really that no one round that breakfast table (apparently key players in the provision of learning disability provision) either thought or had the guts to say that a Plan couldn’t possibly be developed by such a narrow group of chosen few. What a clear illustration of talking the talk and not walking the walk. The complete lack of action in changing learning disability provision becomes so understandable in the face of such cosy, myopic and self interested players.

Anyway. It’s LB’s leavers prom tomorrow. He won’t get his chance to ride in the limo. The school invited us to attend and are going to let off some balloons in his memory. Rich is going (sob). As @georgejulian tweeted this morning, ‘how special that school can consistently get it so fecking right’. Yep. It is.

And how beyond depressing that so many others, with power and influence, get it so fucking wrong.

Bill, Bubb and the Plan

A year ago tomorrow (I’m on Japan time so my timing is a teeny bit flakey) it was LB’s do. Today he featured, along with Josh and Chris on the Today programme. I don’t know what I’d have thought about this a year ago. I wasn’t in a fit state to think about anything really. The thought of burying our child was so off the scale of anything I could make sense of (and remains so) – drenched in unfiltered,unmediated horror – that any thoughts of what will, could and should happen were pretty much absent.

The Today programme. Hey ho. Pretty major national coverage. A brief segment aired despite the lack of a no show by Jezza Hunt, Norman Lamb or any government official. The stench of doesn’t count hanging heavy in the air as ever. Thanks to Zoe Conway for running with the story despite this.

I was offline all day and came back to find that NHS England had appointed Stephen Bubb to head a “new group of experts and advisors to develop a guide for how to provide health and care for those with learning disabilities”. Bubb, who has the baffling role of Chief Executive of the Association of Chief Executive Organisations according to his blog biog (hahahahaha) wrote on his blog about this new role which seems to involve some responsibility for the Winterbourne JIP. This isn’t clear because he only reports on the first of three questions apparently asked of him by Simon Stevens, new head of NHS England.

Bubb’s blog made me wonder why the fuck NHS England had given him this gig. But who am I to comment on the Chief Executive of Chief Executives? A mother who wants (deserves) answers and accountability I suppose. So I’ll work through his post that I recommend read in full. [I won’t screengrab it because the sooner it disappears/is edited the better really].

So. From the top. “Inpatients” of ATUs don’t necessarily need “to be cared for by their families”. (And ditch ‘service user’).

It wasn’t “courageous” of Yawnman (sorry Norm, trying to continue to love ya but out of patience with the hands tied response) Lamb to suggest there should be serious consequences for the “Winterbourne abusers”.

“Simon Stevens was clear that only the third sector could deliver the promise and he wanted me to look at a plan for ‘co-commissioning between the NHS and my (?) members.” Eurgh really? Er, what is the promise? Does Simon Stevens know what has been attempted so far by the Winterbourne JIP? And what do you know about learning disabled people Bubbsey? “My members”?

It gets worse.

“I gathered my top provider members in learning disability for a breakfast to discuss our options. They were enthusiastic for the task. […] Mark Winter, my (?) multi-talented Head of Health Commissioning wrote up our Plan on the back of that breakfast.”

Tsk tsk Bill (and predecessors in the long and sorry story of Winterbourne failure). You clearly missed the secret brekkie meeting weapon.  And writing the Plan on the back of it. Foiled by the use of traditional means of note taking. Without hash browns or fresh OJ. Thank fuck for Bubbs and his creative thinking. One breakfast and sorted.

Joking aside. And it really ain’t a laughing matter. This ill (non?) informed man is apparently tasked (why? At what cost?) by the newly appointed head of NHS England to sort out the reduction of the numbers of people in ATUs and improve the lot healthcare of learning disabled people. With no apparent understanding, knowledge or experience of learning disabled people. And no apparent engagement with any learning disabled people or family members.

Have we bounced back a few decades?

“Of course with any such task [I seriously hope there ain’t many tasks like this Bubb] there will be a multitude of views and interests but I’ve been pleased so far [er, 30 seconds and the snaffling of a few croissants?] that we all seem to be on the side of sorting it out, and that means being client centred.”

The astonishing and gut wrenchingly depressing finale:

“We submitted the Plan and it was accepted.”

*tumbleweed*

Tomorrow I’ll be thinking about that long hot day, last summer. When we followed our beautiful boy in a red Routemaster coffin in a red Routemaster bus to the cemetery.

And I’ll try not to think too much about the layers of shite that have happened since.

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I watched a montage of home movies made by LB’s granddad Pat yesterday evening. He put it together from over 9 hours of footage in the weeks after LB’s death. I couldn’t get beyond the first moments till yesterday. When I wanted to re-capture insights/memories … I dunno. What are they? Precious moments that add texture to a shortened life…?

I saw LB as a babe. That beautiful face. Seriously, seriously cute. I mean, seriously cute. That laughter. Pure delight. That bounciness. Waiting and expecting and receiving the spray with the garden hose, the circuit of granddad’s garden on the sun lounger. The infectious laughter. The repeated Christmas rituals, unwrapping a truck/bus or lorry that needed full on package removal. More bouncing. Joseph in the nativity play. Joseph? I’d forgotten that. And what a serious Joseph he was. An exercise in concentration among the typical, noisy, joyful chaos of a John Watson school performance.

I was reminded of LB’s mannerisms, his character, his intense quirkiness. And that ease in lying on the floor, pretty much anywhere. Completely immersed in moving a bus/lorry backwards and forwards. Time and place irrelevant. A completeness of being. Magical and remarkable rule breaching.

Watching him now, on these fading home movies, I’m winded by indescribable loss. And enraged at the vile system that defined him as deficient. That muddied who he was for us for a while. And ultimately killed him.

My beautiful, beautiful dude. One year on, I carry you around in my heart and think of you every moment I step outside and look up at the sky. And with each bus, coach and Eddie Stobart lorry that passes. You were, and always will be, a bloody legend.

xxxx