The egg of trust and the GP

LB had an appointment with the GP after school today. He’d had a liver function test to check out the medication for his newly diagnosed epilepsy.  The doc said that there was a bit of a problem because the blood level showed that the drug was at a level that suggested it wasn’t being effective.  Instead of a level (of something but no idea what) of between 40-80, LB’s blood showed 25.

The options were to up the dose to a level at which it was effective, continue the dose (but it wouldn’t be achieving anything) or stop the dose because, as it wasn’t working and he hadn’t had a seizure for three months, he didn’t need it. It was up to me to decide.

Whoa. Hit me with the first example of non paternalistic decision making I’ve ever experienced when the stakes are so high, why don’t you?!  The potential of tonic clonic seizures or even stronger medication with hideous long term side effects.

I got the doc to talk me through it all again, and once it became clear that upping the medication was only really treating the medication, as opposed to preventing seizures, I decided to keep the dose as it is until we met with the neurologist again.  I’m a bit suspicious of stats at the best time and didn’t really buy the 25/40-80 stuff. So the outcome of my first patient weighted decision making; defer the decision.

So home, kettle on, dig out school diary to find out the latest happenings in the sixth form.

“LB has been brilliant today. He has an egg to look after as part of our work on trust and bring back tomorrow hopefully in one piece”.

“Wow! An egg of trust? LB! Where’s your egg matey?”

“In the bin.”

“What? Whaddaya mean???”

“It’s in the bin, mum.”

And it was. Crushed. Barely retrievable.

“Why did you chuck the egg away, LB?”

“Cos I’m ANGRY WITH THE SCHOOL. They wouldn’t let me do what I wanted to do”, he fumed.

“Yeah, well sometimes you have to do what you’re told, matey”, I said, putting on a pan of water to boil a new egg of trust.  “And sometimes you  wish you were told what to do…”

 

 

The disabled parking police

He he he… Told Rosie I was going to blog about my days as a disabled parking police person this morning.

“I remember those days!” she replied, having a bit of a chuckle into her doughnut (probably as relieved as fuck that she’s about to leave this madhouse for university). “Especially that time with that man outside….”

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Making a statement

Holyfuckingmackeral. It’s Statement of Special Educational Needs time again. The annual misery that is reading through some faux authoritative representation of LB and declaration of his ‘educational needs’.  All bullshit really.

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Different spaces

I got thinking about space today, after another bizarre lift journey where I stood next to a random stranger for two floors up to the office and then left that space without saying a word.

LB has made me think about spaces differently.  He uses space in a way that is out of the ordinary. He uses spaces that other people don’t use. I remember one time when he was a toddler, he disappeared in his bedroom.  I had a few heart-stopping minutes before finding him fast asleep on the second shelf of a Billy bookshelf.

Later, when he started school, he’d come home and climb in the swing bin if it was empty. He’d want the lid on and would stay, tucked up, till tea time.  We sort of got used to it though I sometimes worried that someone would turn up unexpectedly and wonder what the fuck was going on. Continue reading

Literally literal lives

This cartoon made me laugh my socks off because it brings back so many memories.  All those early pitfalls and unanticipated problems that spiralled from the tiniest bit of communication bijiggery*.

Like when Richy Rich took LB camping for a long weekend with some of the other kids. He was about five. Richy called from the beach on the Friday evening; all eating fish and chips, everyone having a fab time. So, so cool.  First thing in the morning LB got up and said “Home”. He’d camped. Job done. Continue reading

A crazy-dude free world

Vince and Howard from the Mighty Boosh

Ok, here’s the rub. You’ve bought tickets to see a show in London (a costa-del-armandleg jobby).  Three rows in front, a young geezer does impressions of the gorilla, Bolo, from the Mighty Boosh in a very loud voice every few minutes*.  The person next to him makes a show of saying “Shhhhhhhhh”, but this is more to appease the increasingly irritated people around them, than any expectation that he’ll watch the show quietly.

So, should they leave so that everyone else rest can watch the show in peace?

Or should the audience relax their expectations? Continue reading

The grind of music

LB loves music.  One kind at a time.  He started with Peter and the Wolf as a pup. Moved briefly to Gary Gilmour’s eyes, the Beatles and then to Keane. Keane were a keeper. We had a good three years with a constant Keane backdrop.  It will be many years before I can hear a Keane track without sobbing. Thinking about the opening bars of Walnut Tree brings me out in a cold sweat.

But then it was over for Keane. Dropped overnight and replaced by drum and bass. Constant tinnitus. Relentless, tiny, teeny, tuneless noise. All the time. All.the.fucking.time.

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Taliban telecon

LB had a friend at school for a few years. Joe H. Joe H was outrageous in the best and worst senses of the word. He was a very funny guy. LB found him hilarious and talked a lot about shooting up in the playground and smoking weed with Joe H.  He left school last year and wanted to give LB his phone number but rules forbade this. Instead I had to write in the school diary to ask Joe’s mum to give me the number.

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“Any minute now mum?”

We expected a BT engineer this afternoon as our phone and internet is broken. This had particular significance for Laughing boy because of his love of watching Eddie Stobart lorries, bus and cross channel ferry videos on youtube. I felt like shite and spent the day in bed but at 1pm LB came in and asked what time the engineer was coming. “Ah”, I replied, “Anytime now. They said between 1 and 6pm, so any minute now”. “Any minute now mum?” repeated LB, bouncing off happily.

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An Appointment to Act

Laughing boy got a letter, out of the blue, towards the end of the last year. It was very official and obviously some government type letter, but it wasn’t clear who it was from. Anyway, it stated that some woman would be visiting him the following Monday morning at 10am to assess his capacity to manage his own finances once he turned 16. Well. What can I say? “What the shitfucktosswank is going on?” sprung to my mind.

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