The phone call

[ring ring…. ring ring….]
“LB! Can you get the phone?!”
[...ring ring…. ring ring….]
“I don’t know where it is Mum.”
[…ring ring…ring ring…]
“LOOK FOR IT! Hurry up!”
[…ring ring…. ring ring….]
“I don’t want to look for it Mum!”
[…ring ring…. ring ring….]
“Just get the phone LB and bring it here.”
[…ring ring…. ring ring….]
Can’t find it Mum! I.can’t.find.it!”
[…ring ring…. ring ring….]
“Look properly. It’s probably on the charger.”
[…ring ring…. ring ring….]
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT ANYWAY????”
[…ring]
“It stopped Mum.”

Scunthorpe

Overnight to Scunthorpe this week, to do some teaching. In a training centre. It was a bit surreal; there were lots of lines, some babies and very few people.





Lorry heaven and teatime

“…. and there’s two! Two Scania’s… Ahhhhh.. lorry heaven. I’m in lorry heaven. Oh my god! It’s got my name on it!!!”
“LB, can we talk about something else at teatime? Something me and Tom are interested in?”
“But I love lorries Mum. I’m in lorry heaven Mum.”
“I know. But just while you eat your tea. Talk about something else to be sociable.”
“Sociable Mum? I don’t want to be sociable Mum.”
“Why not? You were obviously sociable last week on your school trip.”
“I know Mum. But that’s because there were people to talk to Mum. People to be sociable with Mum.”
“Well be sociable with us!”
“Ok Mum. Sorry Mum. I’ll be sociable Mum.”
“Good.”
“Do you like lorries Mum?”

Sick notes and excuses

Had a ‘chuckle’ this morning while reading tweets from mothers about their disabled kids off sick (or not) from school. It reminded me of past experiences. A key task for parents of disabled children is to weigh up your child’s ‘sickness’ status and manage nursery/access because the ‘sick bar’ is lower for disabled kids. LB now has an indefinite sick note (have I mentioned that before?) but he wasn’t any more unwell than most kids when he was a tot.

In those days, he went to the university nursery a couple of days a week while I did my degree. They soon found him a bit of a handful (despite talking the talk in terms of meeting his needs) so staff regularly contacted me to collect him. Fifteen years ago of course, mobile phones were a bit of a rarity so the nursery staff had my lecture/seminar timetable to track me down. It was pretty frustrating to get hauled out of lectures to go and pick him up. Regular heart sink moments.

“He seems a bit under the weather. We think you should take him home for the rest of the day”, they would say, handing over a grumpy little parcel of healthiness.

Halfway through term though it was reading week. Whoo hoo!!! No timetable just uninterrupted study time in the library. Such a treat. One day, after about half an hour of reading, there was a tannoy announcement in the library;

“Would Sarasiobhan please go to the nursery to collect her sick child. Sarasiobhan to the nursery please.”

Unbloodybelievable. Seriously???? You have got to be kidding me??? I sat there, surrounded by books, in my chilly little study carel thing, feeling like I had a massive arrow over my head indicating it was me. Of course, in a university of 16,000 students, no one had a clue who I was but I felt completely exposed. I packed up my stuff and wandered out of the library. Furious and frustrated. I walked about for a bit wondering if I could ignore it. “If only I hadn’t gone straight to the library..” I muttered to myself. I went to get a coffee in a cafe. Standing in the queue, deep in thought about my options, I vaguely noticed an A4 sheet of paper pinned to the noticeboard by the till. In large black font was typed;

“Urgent! Would Sarasiobhan please go to the nursery straight away to collect her sick child.”

Eeek!!!!  Game over. It was clearly serious. I legged it over to the nursery, dropping books and bits of paper, feeling guilty about the wasted ‘fume’ time.

“Ah hello Sarasiobhan.  I’m glad we got hold of you. LB seems a bit under the weather so we thought you ought to take him home for the rest of the day.”

[…]

Thinking about it, I’m not sure that indefinite sick note did start in November 2011.

Signed off sick

Part 3 of the ESA drama kicked off this morning. (Earlier episodes can be found here and here.) As usual, the vile brown DWP envelope arrived on a Saturday when the helpline is shut.

A summary of the story so far;

I accidentally discovered LB was entitled to Education and Support Allowance (ESA), got a sick note (A) from the GP. He wrote ‘indefinite’ for the length of the illness. A second sick note was requested (B) to backdate the first sick note by 3 months. A 20 page questionnaire needed to be completed for some shitbag company called Atos. JobCentrePlus only keyed in the details on B (Nov 11 – Feb 12) and suspended his allowance almost as soon as it was paid.

At this point, I couldn’t disentangle what was incompetence from what is a cynical and deliberately obstructive process, designed to obscure people’s entitlements and make it as complicated as possible to claim. And as for ‘sick notes’? Anyway, it was sorted. I thought.

Until today’s letter stated;

I am writing to tell you that the medical certificate you sent us, which covers the period from 17/2/12 to 10/5/12 is about to run out. Please send us another medical certificate by 11th May if you are still sick and cannot work.

Whaaaa???? You gotta be kidding me?????

After some raging about JCP incompetence and vile, cynical obstructive systems, I googled ‘medical certificates and ESA’. On a handy forum, rightsnet, the relevant regulations were highlighted, stating that two three-month sick notes need to be produced by the GP before an indefinite one can be accepted. Ah. So now I know.

But what do I know? What’s the basis for these time regulations? Why so many hoops? And how much does it cost to administer such a clunky, overly-bureaucratic and obstructive process? A process that is not fit for purpose for learning disabled people.

I don’t want to be part of a society in which dudes like LB are issued with ‘sick notes’ to exempt them from the workplace. He is not sick. He could thrive in a particular environment in which his strengths and abilities were encouraged, developed and valued. Instead his future, his potential and possibilities are constrained before he’s even finished school. By a system in which he’s already signed off sick. Indefinitely.

So to the future..

I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about this, because the future does not look rosy at all. But it’s gotta be done.

The facts:

  • LB is 17.5 years old.
  • He can stay in his sixth form until he’s 19.
  • There is a possibility he can attend a local college for a one year, two day a week, course.
  • After that, nothing.

Considerations:

  1. What is this funny, hugely bright in some very specific ways (but not in any ways that are recognised in the workplace), young man going to do with his life?
  2. Whose is responsible for his care when he’s an adult?

I dread to think what LB is going to do. His current social worker (soon to be replaced by a transition social worker) said that the best we can hope for, is to make personal contact with a local small business/enterprise and organise paid carers to support him in some activity with them. Wow. The provision of support and services for learning disabled people is clearly cracking in the 21st century. I can’t see how this local work activity (if any were available) can be organised without a huge investment of time and goodwill. Whose time and whose goodwill? And with a high level of ongoing management. Alternatively, he may receive enough of a care package so that we can employ someone to do something with him on a daily basis. Something? What? And where?

Caring for someone in this country is, to be blunt, a pile of crapshite. The use of the word ‘care’ muddies things and allows a persistent level of exploitation that is completely unacceptable.  Carers are paid £58.45 per week on the basis of a 35 hour week. How we can possibly distil the work carers’ do, often 7 days a week, on call for 24 hours a day, into a ‘working week’ is plainly wrong. If you earn over £100 a week, you don’t qualify for carer’s allowance. It’s an all or nothing jobby. And as for carer’s assessments (introduced circa 1995) to enable carers’ to say what would make caring easier for them?? I’m still waiting to have one.

Ironically, LB will probably (possibly? who knows with the current cuts in welfare) be given a care package involving direct payments that, in principle, allows him (that is, us) to buy care from external people. These people are currently paid between £7 (daytime) and £10 (evening) per hour. Unlike informal carers, there is a recognition that working in the evenings should involve a higher hourly rate. The rule is that direct payment cannot be paid to anyone living in the same house as the person they work for. Mmmm. Well we wouldn’t want to acknowledge the work informal carers do, would we? Direct payments also involve a lot of bureaucracy, recruiting staff, form filling in, tax, national insurance, and so on.  Employing people involves time, interaction and a blurring of public and private boundaries in the home.

As I work full time, I don’t get carer’s allowance. There is no acknowledgement of the work I/we do, and will continue to do, looking after LB. There is no recognition that, unlike most parents of 17 year old children, one of us still has to be at home every day, ready to let LB in or collect him from after school club. This will continue for the next two years until he leaves school. And then what? He will, if lucky, be occupied two days a week at college for a year. No doubt starting around 9.30am, finished by 3pm with extensive holidays thrown in. He can’t be left home alone, so there are serious implications for maintaining full time employment.

I’m not overly optimistic about the paid carer situation. LB’s recent 12 week stint with a ‘peer buddy’, organised by a local care agency, was filled by a 50 year old man. At this point in time, I refuse to even think about a day centre. Years ago, LB used to say that he’d been to day care with Mr Galpin. It turned out that the social services transport he had at the time (the ill bus), collected a very elderly man after LB and they took him to the day centre before taking LB on to school. The thought of a 19/20 year old young man hanging out in that environment is a beyond dread kind of thought. It ain’t gonna happen.

So what are we left with? Fuck all really. Patchy bits of uncertainty and an unacknowledged expectation that parents will do a hell of a lot of work to make do and mend, on a daily basis. As for what LB will do with his life? That clearly is not an important feature of policy or practice.

Checking the football scores

“….pushed me off the computer. He doesn’t get enough exercise. No he doesn’t. He’s not healthy. He goes for me all the time. And for me it’s horrible. It’s very, very hard for me…”
“Eh, what you talking about LB?”
“Simon, Mum. He got annoyed with me Mum. He pushed me off the computer Mum.”
“Aww. That’s not very nice. What happened? Did he get told off?”
“Yes Mum. He got put in time out Mum.”
“That’s OK then…”
“Because he wants to go on it all the time Mum. All the time, checking the football scores Mum. The football scores Mum. I can’t let him do that, can I Mum?”
“Mmm… Well you could take it in turns to use the computer.”
“He pushed me off it Mum.”
“Did it hurt?”
Maaaaay… beeee…. it hurt Mum. AND HE GETS ON MY NERVES! I might get my legal team if he hurts me Mum.”
“I thought he’d left school a while ago?”
“He has Mum. He’s at college now Mum.”
“So when did all this happen?”
“Dunno Mum.”

French Onion Soup

“Hey LB, how was cookery today?”
“Good Mum.”
“What did you cook?”
“French onion soup Mum.”
“Wow! How did you make that?”
“With onions Mum.”
“Ok, onions. What else?”
“Just onions Mum.”
“What else? There must have been some other ingredients.”
“No Mum.Just onions.”
“So you got the onions. Then what did you do?”
“Made soup Mum.”
“No, you’ve missed out something. What else did you do?”
“Ate it Mum.”

Saturday morning

“Morning LB! How you doing?”
“Good Mum. Very good, Mum.”
“Cool. What did you do last night when I was out?”
“Went to bed Mum. I was tired Mum. I was sooo knackered Mum.”
“Wow! What time was that?”
“9.30 Mum.”
“Did you sleep OK?”
“Yes Mum. After all the girls left.”
“The girls, eh? That’s good. What do you want to do today?”
“Bit of youtube Mum. Bit of DJing.”
“What would you have done before youtube was invented I wonder…”
“Why Mum?”
“Well youtube’s only been around for about five years.”
“Dunno Mum. Be sociable Mum. Talk to people Mum.”
“What sort of people?”
“You Mum. Is Stan fat Mum?”

Suing the dishwasher

“Er Mum! Can you come here? LB won’t help do the dishwasher. He says he’s going to sue it.”
“I.AM.NOT.DOING.THE.DISHWASHER. I HATE DOING THE DISHWASHER. I AM CALLING MY LAWYER. I’M CALLING MY LAWYER RIGHT NOW!!
“Get on with it, LB. Stop behaving like this.”
“Mum, I DONT want to do it, Mum. I NEED my downtime. I HATE doing the dishwasher. I’m not doing it ANYMORE!
“You’ve got to do it. Don’t be silly.”
“Why, Mum? Why do I have to do it, Mum?”
“Because it’s your job. You and Tom empty the dishwasher. It’s good for you to help out. ”
“Why is it good for me, Mum?”
“Because it’s good to do jobs. And help out in the house.”
“I disagree Mum.”
“Eh?! Wha?”
“I disagree Mum. I need my downtime, Mum.”
“Oh. Really? Well what about if I decide I need downtime and stop working?”
“You get made redundant Mum.”
“And what do we live on then? If I haven’t got a job?”
“Benefits, Mum.”