An Odd Mog Blog

There's something about Mog that is fine, fine, fine.

When we went to Florida in 2006, the Disney Parade was disrupted as Characters broke out of their dance and hopped over to rub Mog's nose or squeeze her knees. It wasn't a disability thing (or not only), they ignored Goldy sitting beside her, they ignored the ocean of other children in wheelchairs just around the corner. But at least 20 of them found their way over to acknowledge Mog's presence at the roadside.

This happens a lot. Today we had an appointment for Little Fish. We had our obligatory hour's wait, followed by a meeting with the surgeon's registrar. The reg called us in, misprounouncing Little Fish's name (they all do that), then got distracted watching me push Mog, and forgot to wait for Little Fish, beetling her way up the corridor in her powerchair. He then began to take our history, but was interrupted by the consultant, who bounced in, said a brief hello to me, and asked a stack of questions about Mog, wanting to know how she was doing 3 years post op, why we no longer saw him for follow up, and whether she was well and happy. He glanced across at Little Fish, just six weeks post-op, and said "doing ok is she?" then walked out of the room without waiting for a reply. His whole energy was taken up with Mog.

A few months ago the three of us were in hospital for something else. We passed a consultant in the corridor. He looked at Mog, looked at me, and suggested that we knew him. We did; he had been one of Goldy's consultants, and had met Mog at precisely one of Goldy's appointments, 3 years previously. He remembered Mog, wanted to know how she was doing, was very sorry to hear about Goldy, and wanted to be sure that Mog didn't need a referral to him herself. It wasn't until he walked away from all three of us that I realised Little Fish was also one of his patients - and yet he hadn't acknowledged her at all!

Mog has a kind of magic. She has a wicked grin and a great sense of humour, but that's when she's awake and alert. At other times she appears to be sleeping, and can be completely unresponsive, tongue out, shooting dribble, head lolling on one side, all limbs apparently lifeless. And yet even when she appears to be asleep or comatose, she attracts pats on the head, shoulder squeezes, praise and admiration from strangers in the street.

True, some of these people are adamant that Mog is their neighbour, and reluctant to believe me when I suggest their neighbour is actually a completely different child. There are two older girls in Mog's school who both have long brown curly hair. They all three have different disabilities, different personalities, different wheelchairs (Mog's is charcoal grey, one girl has a bright red one and the other has a bright blue one, all different designed). I suppose "they all look the same to me" goes for disabled children too. Disabled, brown hair, must be that girl who lives next door. I feel as though I need to carry Mog's passport around at times, just to prove she has a different name!

Others though are strangers, drawn to Mog by some kind of magnetism I can't explain. I feel that magnetism myself, but then, I have loved Mog from the moment she was first placed in my arms. That precious little bundle of confusion. I wonder what it is she exudes, that strangers feel it so.

A slightly different oddness now. I picked up Mog early from school this afternoon. Her home/school communication book had a note in it, giving me details about how much she had enjoyed the last lesson of the day (the one she had missed because I collected her early). I find this slightly disconcerting.

Jophie still needs your prayers. Trina does now have internet access, which is great. But Jophie still has a lot of problems. Trina is having to make a decision about whether he should have a tracheostomy at the moment, and also struggling to teach the medical staff what they need to know about Jophie. They're great at medicine, but she is the expert in reading her son's distress. Tia