Tuesday 28 April 2009

Tweedledee and Tweedledum

Last week, the social worker phoned - henceforth, Tweedledee. It's an apt name. Fat (and getting fatter every time we see her) and not very bright - one of the new social work graduates (so-called) from a new university. Shortly before Christmas, she was caught lying after telling us she'd submitted evidence for a Review when she evidently had not. She is not a very good liar and her attitude consistently betrays a veneer of genuine concern and professional commitment.

Tweedledum, the social services key worker, wanted a meeting, she said. He/they wanted to "reassure" us about our son's failing placement. "Reassurance would be information that indicates his placement isn't failing." I said bluntly. "No, no we want to reassure you about how you feel about the placement." She explained. "I don't need my feelings reassuring, thank you." I replied, bemused and rather offended by her patronising manner. "I'm a grown up. I can look after myself, thanks. I'd happy to have any meeting, providing the focus is on my son's needs."

Later that morning, my partner (a busy health professional) telephoned Tweedledee (from her work) to arrange a time for the meeting that would fit in with her days off. She offered two possible days this week which would be convenient, explaining changing a day off would require her to amend the rota and a reasonable period of notice would be required to ensure adequate staff cover. Tweedledee told her she would be get back to my partner "in a few days". The few days have become a week, and my partner has heard nothing. It appears there is to be no meeting. But then we strongly suspect that this meeting had nothing to do with reassuring us.

A few weeks ago, Tweedledum discovered we had told S's school about our search for an alternative placement. He also found out we had told the school that his recent visit there to see our son - and the associated flurry of activity within social services in respect of his respite placement - was probably motivated less by professional concern, and more by a need to look like they were doing something positive, in the event of our compelling social services to fund any new placement through legal action. Shortly after Tweedledum's visit to the school, we had a 3 hour meeting with him (plus one) that concluded with almost nothing new and nothing of any value towards making the placement a success, although Tweedledum did proffer his own "theory of autism." I very much doubt you'll be hearing about his theory in any peer reviewed journal. Tweedledum is a care worker with no professional qualifications and he talks bollocks.

Of course, all their busy-beeing might have been motivated by good will, but when it comes it issues of funding, our experience is: act as if everyone is acting in S's best interest, but assume they are really acting in their own. Being palpably conceited and ignorant, Tweedledum sees our attitude as an affront, as if we are implying his provision isn't good enough. In fact, it's simply not suitable. I'm sure fools like Tweedledum are capable of working with children with less complex needs. In reality, I suspect desperate parents - until recently faced with no local alternatives - simply tolerate a poor service as long as their children are physically safe. We will be the first to take on this authority under the new funding arrangements. They fear the floodgates will open.

Monday 27 April 2009

Le Weekend - and an Intro

Hello, and welcome to "S is for..". This is my first post on this blog. I'm not going to bother with a long winded intro or life history, not about me or S - my autistic son. I want anybody to be able to drop in and pick up on where I'm at, so with every post, I'll just assume you know nothing more than what is detailed in the margins. 

On Saturdays and Sundays, S attends a special needs youth club. It's run by a private company, but paid for by 'direct payments' (the taxpayer). He has one-to-one support because the doors work on (easily kicked-open) magnetic locks and S has a history of 'doing a runner'. He loves his youth club (OA). They love him. And we have no complaints, other than they lose his shit, but then I don't know a service which hasn't. The main thing is, they know how to interact with him and they are not scared of him. This contrasts with his weekly social services respite, where they are shit scared of him and haven't the faintest idea how to relate to him. One of my non-disabled progeny - who works in special needs herself these days - simply refers to the social services lot as "wankers". There are a number of reasons why we can't give up this respite. Our ongoing battle to get him moved will be the topic of future blogs, I assure you.

You might think we get quite a lot of respite, but follow this blog for a while, and you'll understand. My son is lovely. My son is great fun to be around. My son is a human being. But he is also exhausting and, not infrequently, a royal pain in the proverbials. In fact, looking after him drove me to the brink of insanity. I wouldn't say I was back to normal yet - like Plath post-ECT, I'm patched up but still basically fucked up. 

Or should I say fucked over?

Speaking of fucking... despite all this time S spends galavanting off to less boring places, my partner CJ and me struggle to find time together. CJ has an ultra-responsible job working in health, plus a mum who needs help with the weekend shopping. On top of that, S is an early riser and late to-bedder. We also have one other child still malingering at home, older than S, but this weekend she was out partying. CJ and I thus took full advantage of this short period of peace and quiet to bonk one another senseless. Most people find having children inhibits their sex-life due to night feeding, and illness, and their offspring's innocent oblivion to adult needs and privacy. But having a child with severe autism is sometimes like sharing your life with an eternal toddler.

Funny, re-reading this, I suppose I have provided quite a bit of background. Let me summarise, and fill in some of the gaps. Me = married. Partner is health professional. Three kids, one with severe autism referred to herein as 'S'. Said child goes to a youth club and weekends and a shitty social services respite thing mid-week. I'll finish by mentioning that S is a day pupil at a not-for-profit special school, run by a charity but paid for (along with daily transport to and from) by our education authority. His present teacher is gifted, but our battle with social services is turning our relationship with him into something like a wierd love triangle. Incidentally, there used to be a unit for children with severe autism nearby, managed by the education authority. But it was so crap, they closed it. S never went there, but did used to attend a local special school which was equally dire. The fight to get him moved to his current gaff is yet another tale for another time.