Showing posts with label disability. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disability. Show all posts

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Eye of the storm

Faith's a funny thing. Faith let me treat Mog's big seizure last week, then leave her at school to go swimming. And then enabled me to leave her at the hospice for a long weekend, as I went off for a weekend a couple of hours away. That couple of hours is significant - thirty minutes is my comfort zone, my ability to get back to her bedside to give her the second dose of emergency medication, my chance to be with her before it's all too late. Helen House is the only place I can leave her when I'm more than thirty minutes away, and even then I rarely do.

Logically, I know that Mog is just as safe in God's hands whether I'm sitting right beside her or on an island with a lengthy walk and then a ferry and then a too long drive home to get to her. But whilst my head says "God's in charge", my heart says "My beloved child; what if she needs me?"

Which makes Sunday all the more precious.

Saturday was a beautiful day. It was a day with 1477 other women (and a few brave men in the band!), an appointment with God which we'd booked up in the middle of a different storm, in January. Make a date with God and He tends to show up. And there was worship, and there were tears, and there was teaching, and because it was my friend and I, there was a certain amount of inappropriate laughing too. But God made us, and God gave us both a shared sense of humour, and I think He might have been laughing too.

A message delivered so fast that I'm finding different sentences floating up now; sentences I'd somehow filed away to think about later whilst trying to keep up with the next thing Christy Whimber was saying. And a message I didn't entirely agree with, but like an apple; plenty of sweetness, a hint of sharpness, lots to chew on, and some pips to be spat out.

And a beautiful sunny afternoon, a walk along the rocks, and as bonus light relief from some of the heaviness of the day, a big black lab bouncing along the waves, exuberantly retrieving the most revolting tennis ball ever from the black salty water.

And then another lovely meal at our hotel, and then tears and honesty and openness and a ridiculously late night (Sorry my friend!), followed by a good night's sleep.

Sunday was supposed to be cloudy and cold and somewhat grotty; we had gone to bed knowing that we'd had the best of the weekend on Saturday. But instead we woke to streams of sunshine forcing their way through the gaps in the curtains; a perfect day for our trip to the island.

And not once did I stop to think about how far away from Mog I'd be. After a wobble on Saturday night, I woke up without any of the "what-if she needs me"s on Sunday. Just knowing she was safe in God's hands, and in the hands of the hospice staff, and not even thinking very much about either girl, except to be thankful for them.

And the day was a gift. I think God likes to give us things, and on Sunday He just kept on giving. We had a slow start, but still managed to catch the first ferry of the morning. And the sun blazed down on us, and the water danced, and we landed on beautiful Brownsea Island. We walked through Scouting history, and we were surrounded by outstanding beauty, and the sun shone down on us. The ground was soft beneath our feet; moss carpets and bouncy clay; the ultimate in easy walking. I had forgotten how good it is to walk without either pushing a heavy chair or carrying a heavy backpack. And my friend carried our water and money, so I had nothing but my coat to hold me down.

It was a day for singing, a day for tree climbing, a day for dipping toes into icy cold water. A day for discovering that my friend's geocaching habit can actually be quite fun (Yes - I apologise to all of you for being rude about it in the past). A day for nearly being savaged by an angry peacock, a real "Taste and see that the Lord is good" kind of a day. A red squirrel. Birds. Scouts camping where Baden Powell held the first ever Scout camp. Bell ringers in a tiny church. Pink trees, blue skies, steep paths climbed gently. Laughing and smiling and talking and standing together in silence.

Finally time to start thinking about coming home. And so we meandered down to the ferries again, and, the icing on the cake, our own private upper deck (OK - the wind was up and no one else was silly enough to want to freeze) and so our own private tour around the other islands in the harbour. Sitting freezing feeling the force of the wind, and realising that what we'd expected to be the first step towards home was in fact the icing on the cake, an extra portion running over. God is good.

A clear run home, and a slow walk back to normality. The chance to get to an evening service (happens once or twice a decade), a peaceful night, and then a different kind of busy day on Monday.

And then back to reality with a bump and a bang and a whole lot of twitching. A Mog with a long long seizure - record long for her - and a Mog struggling either with whatever new breathing thing caused the seizure in the first place, or with whatever breathing thing the huge dose of diazepam has left her with. Hopefully temporarily. But a night full of alarms and beeps, and now a morning where she has woken up as I write this, but is unable to cope without her CPAP.

A morning where I'm back to "Help me, God, I don't know if I can do this", and a morning where the reality of the possibility of losing her (not immediately - I assure you I wouldn't be blogging if that were the case!) feels far too close. The sea is so wide and my boat is so small, protect me O Lord.

Is my faith any less than it was when I left here on Friday? No. Am I scared? Yes. But Sunday is a precious jewel of a memory, a bright shining reminder of how much God loves me, and how He is so much more immeasurably immensely everything than I can ever possibly begin to imagine. And tears and worship come hand in hand. This weekend we stepped briefly into the eye of the storm, and there was peace and beauty and perfection - and we were sheltered from the winds of life around us. And now I've stepped back into the storm again, and I'm breathless. Breathe on me.

Jesus, be the centre.
Tia

Thursday, 21 March 2013

Policy.

We have two empty oxygen cylinders. It happens from time to time; I can predict when, because I can't predict when Mog will need to use them.

Anyway, we had one empty one, but, well, we have the concentrator, one big one and four full small ones, so swapping it wasn't top priority. And then we had two, and it seemed to be worth making the phone call and arranging to be in all day.

I phoned on Friday, and delivery was arranged for Monday. A little bit of confusion; they thought we only had one cylinder, I explained we have five, and end of call.

On Saturday the oxygen man turned up. With one cylinder. Can't swap two - policy. Frustrating but fine; we swap one cylinder and I plan to phone again on Monday.

On Monday a different tech phones as he needs to do an audit. He turns up, replaces the other cylinder, counts all the bottles, and inspects the concentrator.

The concentrator works fine, but fails the test, as it does not have a shiny sticker on the front with the supply company logo on. It must be exchanged.

I ask whether we can simply put a sticker on the concentrator, but apparently that is against policy. These concentrators are not kept in stock; one will be ordered and then an appointment made to swap them over.

On Wednesday the tech rings back; he will bring the shiny new concentrator "about 1ish".

At 3pm the oxygen van pulls up outside, and shiny new concentrator is brought inside. It needs charging but checks out fine otherwise. Usually we charge it for a couple of hours, it can then run off battery for a good few hours, or slowly and silently discharge itself until we charge it up again. Charging is not silent.

The tech leaves, we carry on with life as usual, ignoring the irritating whine from the charger. Finally it reaches 100% and I unplug it.

As I get the girls to bed, I am plagued by an intermittent beep. Smoke alarms all fully functional, ventilators and monitors all charged; I track it down to the concentrator. Every 43 seconds, pip. Silence, 43 seconds, pip. Repeat until I plug it back in. Whine.

Fair enough, perhaps, despite reading 100% it actually needs a full day on charge?

I leave it alone overnight and check again in the morning. Pip. 43 seconds, pip. Etc. I turn it on; it runs fine when plugged in but immediately switches itself off when unplugged. Not actually that transportable then.

So I phone the oxygen company, and explain that they have removed a fully functional bit of kit, replacing it with one which does not work. The person at the other end of the phone appears to be having difficulty with this concept, but eventually concedes that we do, in fact, require a concentrator which works properly. She goes away to consult the tech chappie.

Tech chap rings again, and makes arrangements to return with fully functional concentrator later today.

He returns with our old concentrator, still minus the magic sticker. I dig out the manual, I demonstrate the issue. He plugs in the previously fully functional concentrator. Which immediately displays an error message and refuses to charge.

I may have muttered rude things at this point.

Two concentrators dismantled, batteries checked, new charger exchanged for old, known to be functional charger. Old concentrator decides to start charging.

I suggest removing sticker from new concentrator and pasting it onto front of old one. Can't do that - policy.

It is the battery in the new one which is not working. I suggest swapping batteries. Can't do that - policy.

So, after four phone calls and four visits, we do have a full set of cylinders, and a fully functional but against policy concentrator. Oxygen tech will now have to order new transportable concentrator, and will phone when it is in, to arrange delivery.

I explain that Mog - and therefore her concentrator - will be in respite for a couple of days next week. That's ok - he will phone first to check we are home. But - and if the rest hasn't had you wandering cross-eyed in circles yet, then you haven't been walking in our world long enough - if Mog is not here, he will have to visit anyway, in order to drop a card through our door. Because if a visit has been scheduled, then a missed visit must be "carded", whether or not the tech knows it is an unsuitable visit time. Policy.

Tia

Thursday, 27 December 2012

Letter to a newer mother: what I wish I'd known earlier.

A new mum has introduced herself to a mailing list I follow. She has a newish baby, who probably has cerebral palsy, following a pretty rough introduction to this world. She seems pretty set in some ways - paediatrician, early intervention, therapies and referrals all happening or being chased. But she's asked for advice from more experienced parents, wanting, of course, to have some kind of glimpse into this strange new future, some idea of what more she could or should be doing, and especially, what we parents wish we had been told sooner.

So that got me thinking. My answer will of course be different to yours, and ours will be different to hers, once she's in a position to look back. And mine as an adoptive parent will inevitably feel different to anyone struggling with the whole birth/genes/gestation/whatever bits. But here's my list.

I wish I'd known

  • that time passes so quickly. And that tiny babies become toddlers, and toddlers become big school girls in the twinkling of an eye. 
  • And that infancy and childhood are really important, and should not be allowed to get lost in the endless rounds of medical appointments and therapies. 
  • That I am the expert in my child; I am the only person who gets to see the whole child. And that therefore I can and should advocate for the whole child, rather than allowing them to be swallowed up in any one particular form of therapy. 
  • That friendships will change. Some people will fall away, others will deepen. And that I will have a group of wonderful women who I wouldn't know at all, of it weren't for us all having our own special children. 
  • That it is ok to need help, and ok to accept help. And that it is useful at times to be able to be very specific about the help I need. And that it is also ok to turn down unsuitable help. 
  • That what I may find helpful may be completely different to what someone else in the same position would find helpful, and that neither of us are wrong. 
  • That my life would become so immeasurably richer and deeper as a result of sharing it with Miss Mog. 
  • That celebrating inchstones can become so much more satisfying than celebrating milestones; that every tiny step of progress made becomes something to share with the world. 
  • And that true friends will be right there cheering for you and your child when that happens. 
  • That you can get used to anything - seizures, stopping breathing, giving multiple medications, tubes and lines and holes in parts of the body which didn't ought to have them. 
  • Everyone has a poo story. But not everyone needs to hear it. 
  • The world won't fall apart if you reschedule a doctor's appointment to do something really important, like feeding the ducks. 
  • One wonky smile can say more than the longest speech in history. 
  • A largely immobile child really can "accidentally" clear tables with a well-timed spasm. 
  • Problems which seem insurmountable now will disappear, and will be replaced by new problems. Which will also either disappear or be absorbed into the new normal. 
  • Competitive parents really can be thick-skinned enough to brag about their marvellously advanced child whilst dripping with fake sympathy as your precious gem lies twitching in your lap. 
  • Conversely, you can be a great comfort to parents who have also been stung by the competitive  Mum, because your child is still lying across your lap, not crawling off needing to be chased across the room. 
  • People will feel compelled to tell you their own stories, including abortions, or relatives sent away and locked up, or how their pet dog had to be put down. You don't have to listen. And it's ok too to play special child bingo, giving points for "I couldn't do what you do." "You're such a saint." "Innit a shame?" and whatever phrase drives you up your own wall. 
  • Lack of sleep will destroy your memory. Everyone knows how tired new parents get; doing the waking night thing for a decade or more brings whole new layers of exhaustion. Write things down. And get used to being late. 
  • It's ok not to be perfect. It's also ok to go all out to present the perfect image, if that's what's important to you, and it gives you strength. 
  • Guilt lurks everywhere. Beat it down. 
  • People will always question your judgement. And give you titbits of advice which will make you want to strangle them slowly. Don't. 
  • Equipment takes up space. A lot of space. If you're thinking of moving, factor that in. My girls currently have seven wheelchairs plus two wheelchair sized shower/toilet chairs between them. 
  • You probably can do just about anything and everything you would have done if your child weren't disabled. But some of it may simply be toouch like hard work. So sort put what's important to you, and what's not. 
  • Abuse and neglect aside, there is no wrong here. Your choices will be different from mine, and that doesn't matter. What matters is that we work as a family. 
  • The future won't happen all at once, but one day at a time. So don't lose sleep over how you will manage years into the future but concentrate on finding the right balance for today. 
  • Wheelchairs are great inventions, and the right chair for the child can be life changing. 
  • Seizures suck. 
  • I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. 
  • Love is completely overwhelming. 
  • You can do this. 
So that's my list. How about you? 
Tia

Tuesday, 18 December 2012

Geoff Clark, UKIP, and my little girl.

I don't as a general rule bring politics to this blog. I'm not a party member; I do vote, and I haven't entirely lost confidence in the hope that somewhere under the spin there may well be some MPs with integrity. In all parties. However much or little I may agree with their world views.

But I can't ignore this.

Geoff Clark, a UKIP candidate, has suggested that abortion be made compulsory for foetuses found to have Down's Syndrome, Spina Bifida, and other syndromes which "would make them a burden on the state as well as on the family."

And according to the article linked above, a UKIP spokesman has defended his right  to hold these views (and other fairly unpleasant but not disability specific views), and suggested that he would make an excellent candidate.

Mr Clark has now, apparently, apologised.  If you can call it an apology. He "meant no offence" and he wishes us parents well. It seems writing something quickly, whilst being unaware of the views of the political party you represent is an acceptable excuse for advocating something one step beyond the eugenics of the Nazi party.

UKIP have now distanced themselves from his views and suspended his membership.

But I can't help wondering, do they really genuinely distance themselves from his views, or were they surprised by the outcry his manifesto has produced, and have they had to move on swiftly from backing him as an excellent candidate despite his rather unfortunate views?

And, in case you're thinking he might have a point regarding out of control budgets, answer me this. Is my daughter a burden? Or a blessing? 


True, she's one expensive chick. She's pretty high-maintenance. She's just spent the morning in hospital, having a minor procedure under general anaesthetic, and I don't like to think about how much that might have cost.

It's also true that when she was born, and when the full extent of her disabilities became apparent, the doctors around her didn't think she would survive. She left hospital, not because she was better, but in order that she might experience love, ordinary things like the wind on her face and raindrops against a window, rather than spend her remaining days in SCBU's basement broom cupboardlike side rooms.

But those doctors were wrong, and Geoff Clark is wrong - how can you see her as just a bundle of debt?

Whatever your opinion on abortion as a woman's choice, compulsory abortion can surely never be acceptable? And if it is, I don't want to live on this planet any more.

Tia

Saturday, 15 December 2012

Mary

As tLP went back to school and prepared herself for the Big Event yesterday, Miss Mog had her own excitement. A reprisal of an earlier role, but then she does look rather dashing in blue, I think.
 
She was in respite the night before, and much consultation had happened between the various authorities as to the necessity of having her in school by 9.30 rather than her usual 10AM. Despite this, her transport did not turn up at respite until 9.26. The show started at 10 as planned, and those of us aware of her absence scanned the programme anxiously, willing other classes to move slowly, hoping the comperes would drop notes and slow things down.

They didn't. The school choir made a joyful noise (and will be featured on local radio on Saturday morning. The sixth form narrators read with enthusiasm, and the classes paraded on and off stage to sing and dance and play their instruments and wave to parents. Beautiful.

Despite the lack of hiccups, Mog did just squeak into the hall in time to join her class, who were singing the Calypso Carol. Phew! I think that's what they sang last time she was Mary, back in the nursery. The wise man that time has since transferred schools, as has the angel. The shepherd is no longer in Mog's class, so she had a new backing group (their parents may choose to see their roles slightly differently) this time. I made Mog's costume from a pillowcase last time; can she ever have been that small?



This time, as the grand finale, nearly all the pupils were able to crowd onto the stage to sing their final song and wave their last "Hello Mummy" waves. So nice to see everyone together, from the tiniest wobbly dot in the nursery to the very elegant and sophisticated sixth formers (who then served tea and coffee and fleeced us sold us the fruits of their labour over at the Propeller Project.

It takes a lot of work to put on a school performance. It takes even more work to put on a performance which is meaningful to all the pupils involved, including those who don't manage well with crowds, who cannot sit still, or who can do very little other than sit very still. To create a show where every single pupil's input was valued and appreciated was very very special. Some pupils had recorded their input earlier to reduce the overstimulation, some had clearly practiced very hard, and others brought some beautiful inprovisation. All clearly enjoyed themselves, as did the audience. Well done!

Tia

Monday, 19 November 2012

New Chair

 So back in May, Mog had a wheelchair appointment at school. We discussed the fact that we aren't going to go for spinal surgery, agreed that probably three monthly reviews would be a good idea, and made an appointment to be seen at the wheelchair clinic in June, with a view to sorting out a more comfortable chair.

And we turned up in June, and discussed the options, and agreed that she didn't need some of the features her current chair had, which would free up space for some other features which she could do with.

We agreed on a model of wheelchair, made plans to come back to have the seat cushions moulded, possibly before the end of term but more likely August, and went away, dreaming dreams of this amazingly comfy new chair.

And then the appointment came through for the start of September, and I was annoyed, but not really surprised.

And then the appointment in September was cancelled, two days beforehand, and we were given not one but three separate appointments in October, and told we must attend all three or else none of them.

And I was not amused.

So I phoned the wheelchair clinic and got stuck in the system, and finally spoke to someone who insisted that if we couldn't make the third date in October, we would have to have three entirely new dates in November and December. So I complained.

We then finally managed to achieve what I'd been trying to do in the first place, and had direct conversation with someone who actually had the power to sort things out for us. She explained why the September appointment had been cancelled (and it was for genuinely understandable and entirely unavoidable reasons - had this been mentioned or had the cancellation letter at least begun with an apology, I would have been significantly less annoyed about this), and promised faithfully that Mog would not have to wait until December for her new wheelchair.

Further communication followed, and we were able to keep the first two appointments in October, without being expected to commute back from Florida for the third. Still not ideal, considering the fact that the need for a new chair had been agreed back in May, but best we could get at this point. So hurrah. Ish.

We came to the first appointment, and discovered we wouldn't be getting the original model of chair discussed, but instead a new version of the Chunc.Now the Chunc is to my mind the Marmite of wheelchairs; you either love it or you hate it. It most closely resembles a bit of Meccano; bolts and slidy bits and, well, to my blinkered vision it just looks like the kind of chair particularly suited to twelve year old boys. I know friends love it, and they're not all weird, so there must be something in it. But I don't. I liked Mog's Discovery, and I'd become used to the look of the chair I thought we were getting. However, there were excellent reasons why they were now recommending this chair (Chunc Recline with custom seating for the wheelchair techies out there), so  we went along with it.

Meanwhile, thanks to the delay, not only were we getting a different base, but Mog's Botox appointment had come through, so we were getting a slightly different body posture, with the possibility of bringing her arm down. So perhaps the delay wasn't a dreadful thing after all. We were also able to go to Florida with the old chair and not worry too much if it met with a dreadful accident midair.

Finally, last week, the chair itself turned up. Excuse the black headrest; I'm told a navy one is on its way.


 Note extended sweep to stop her arm from falling off and upwards. Ignore the shape of the back; we're all good at that round here.
 Rejoice with us over a) a sensible suction pump tray with clips to hold it all in place. And b) the bag which came with it, which is large enough to hold all the stuff we had in three separate bags previously, without feeling crammed. And kindly ignore the slight design flaw which has the brake controls inside the wheels, neatly blocked by the suction pump. Who needs brakes anyway?
 It tips back. A long way back, and the design means it doesn't foul the suction pump tray, and the handles aren't too low to push, even when fully tilted.
 It also reclines. A long way.
 We'll ignore the fact that if I recline it more than this, with everything we have on the back, it falls over. And concentrate on the fact that there are anti tip levers, should I wish to use them.

It bounces. Friends tell me this is gentler on their children than non bouncing, and I have no reason to disbelieve them. I just hope it doesn't make her seasick. And I do have to eat my words; it is supremely easy to push, very easy to turn around, despite being longer than her previous chair. Oh, and her switch can now mount in such a way that it moves with the angle of the chair, remaining within reach no matter what, rather than having to  be readjusted every time we tweak her position.
And she just looks comfortable in it. What's that you say? Wrong child? Yes; sorry; I keep forgetting to take the photos, and tLP was getting cross because I was wasting important cuddling time by photographing an empty wheelchair.

The footrest is padded and easily adjustable. The cats have adopted it as their overnight bed. The clamping points at the front are almost big enough to compensate for the awkwardness of the clamping points at the back - it is at least easier to scrabble around at the back of a chair to get things fixed rather than at the front. And it does, just, fit in our bus.

I can see that it is well designed. It does the job it's supposed to do, and I think it probably does it well. I still think it's an ugly beast; but I'm sure I'll grow to love it the more I see Miss Mog inside it.

Tia

Sunday, 18 November 2012

The cute, and the not so cute.


First, Grolly. Those of a sensitive nature, or perhaps unused to the less pretty parts of complex medical needs may perhaps wish to focus on Grolly and then move on swiftly, without reading the rest of this post. Don't say she didn't warn you.
Next, weirdness. Mog's had a gastrostomy for about eight years, and I worked with children who had them for a good five years before that. That's a lot of feeds and meds, a lot of plunging syringes, making connections, blocking and unblocking. But I've never had this happen before.

 For those not sure what they are seeing, I am pushing some feed into Mog's tummy via her gastrostomy. The yellowish tube is connected to a syringe (out of shot, ran out of hands!), and I am pushing stuff through it. It runs through the button (white and clear plastic bit) and directly into her stomach. 

So far, so normal. 

What's definitely not normal is the purplish goo (her food) dripping out of the side of the button. That hole should have no direct connection to her stomach; it goes into a little balloon which we fill with water. The balloon holds the button against the side of the stomach and stops it falling out, like an earring stopper. 

So I'm pushing food in, it is somehow going into that water-filled balloon and then forcing its way out of the balloon port valve. Every day a new adventure. 

And then finally the gross post.Don't say I didn't warn you.


Here's what happens if you use mepitel on a burst blister, and the skin decides to go mad with healing itself, and grows through the mesh in the twelve hours the dressing is on. It's looking much better today, I'm pleased to say, although somehow the toenail has peeled off. How did I not notice the loss of a toenail? 

Both girls are falling apart a little. Mog's gastrostomy is still nastily sore, and she has another patch of soreness which isn't healing up. And the roof of her mouth appears to be leaking yellow goo, as of this evening. tLP is now toenail-less, whilst both her buttons are leaking, and her Mitrofanoff (artificial thingy whereby her bladder is linked to her tummy button via her appendix) is a little shocked too, after she attempted to insert a pencil into it to stop it from leaking. It's a good job we've got respite this week!

Tia

Sunday, 11 November 2012

Perception.

We took tLP's powerchair to Florida. And I'm forever thankful that we did. Freedom and independence, and the ability to help rather than hinder (doorway hovering aside). How much better to be able to push a wheeled suitcase yourself rather than having to be pushed alongside the suitcases? We would have struggled without her assistance.

And when the choices are powered chair, standard issue NHS manual chair, or buggy, the powered chair suggest a child who is in control, able to make their own decisions, and who is used to wheeled mobility.

The NHS chair seems to suggest child with a broken leg, child with a temporary disability. And for tLP, it suggests child incapable of doing anything for herself, who should have everything brought to her rather than making the effort to propel herself. I'll ignore the super whizzy manual option, because we don't currently have one which does everything she needs it to do properly.

Put tLP in a buggy and she pulls her sleeve over her hand, sucks her thumb through it, and reverts to babyhood. And the general public ignore her size and see an overlarge toddler, occasionally suggesting she is lazy and should get up and walk.

Happily, with functional arms, decent vision, and a reasonably symmetrical(ish) body, lots of options are available to her, and she and we can choose according to the needs of the moment or the day.

Being a little afraid of personal liability issues, we went for the smaller slightly lighterweight chair rather than the tank; a good decision as space might otherwise have been a little tight in both taxi and hotel rooms. And the inevitable foot-squashing is only very painful, not land-you-in-hospital-and-limp-for-weeks painful. But still, she had her little yellow zippy thing, and we had a happy girl.

We have fewer choices for Mog. Whilst I know there are technologies out there that would enable her to drive a powered chair, even with minimal vision and maximal seizures, it's not something we've pursued since she outgrew her BIME buggy. Her energy is limited; she tends to doze as we push her around and then wake up when we stop moving, to check whether what's happening is interesting or not.


So we have supportive, comfortable, wheelchair, slightly outgrown (new one hopefully coming next week!). Infinitely repositionable buggy. Or three wheeler. Not expecting much snow in Florida, we went for the wheelchair option. It's a biggish beast for a not-that-big-really girl. She's ten, she wears clothes a couple of sizes larger, mainly to accommodate stiff limbs and extra padding. The chair though is just ever so slightly too wide to fit through standard doorways with ease, once her switch has been added. And it's long and tall and deep, and if she's cold then she needs a full-sized blanket (or three) to snuggle in.

One small child in small yellow wheelchair; it's too small for her really but we'll hang onto it as a back up for as long as we can. And one leggy girl in long black wheelchair; no longer a feed pump but with communication switch and various bits of kit hanging off every possible hanging point.

People respond to tLP. She's a very chatty person; she likes to know the ins and outs of everything, and assumes everyone wants to know all about whatever it is we might have been doing. We're working on a filter. It hasn't worked yet. And people are drawn to small child zipping along in a chair which at first glance looks like a junior mobility scooter, until she demonstrates the rise and fall and extreme maneuverability. Mostly, they smile, make a positive comment (or one they think is positive), and then get to listen as she pours out whatever's currently on her mind. She's very keen to include Mog in all this, will draw people over to her sister, make sure they know Mog's on holiday too, talk about how unfair it is that Mog got to go on Thunder Mountain and she had to watch; we try to get her not to tell people all about Mog's latest poo, but, as I said, no filter and a big assumption that everyone things things are as interesting as she does.

Still, I wasn't quite prepared for the comment from the lady behind the desk. A nice chat; tLP demonstrating the chair's finer points. "And how old are you, honey?" "Seven." "And how old is your baby?"

Rewind... Yes, Mog's sleeping, she's reclined in her chair, and she's all snuggled up because the air conditioning makes her feel all cold. But side by side, how can you really think Mog's the younger of the two, let alone a baby?

Tia

Sunday, 30 September 2012

Mog's memory Verse

I'm not sure how I'd feel about losing my voice. I know how frustrated I get when people hear without listening, when I am talked over or ignored, or when I have to shout before a certain little princess hears me telling her she's on my foot and needs to move her chair RIGHT NOW.

Mog's never been able to talk. Not with words she has chosen, shaped by lips and tongue, and given voice through controlled use of her vocal chords. That doesn't mean she doesn't have anything to say; it's amazing what you can convey with a yes and a no and a carefully timed kick or roll of the eyes. She's never indicated that this lack of chattability bothers her though. We've tried scanning communication devices, and she has settled for the simplicity of a yes/no response and her "talking book", an auditory scanning file which is read out by myself (or anyone nearby and literate), and which she uses her yes/no response to scan through until she finds the thing she wants to say. It's limited to what those of us who have written it think she might want to say though; and nowhere in it is there anything close to "you're a smelly poo face" - although perhaps we should add an insults page. "This is boring" only goes so far. She finds a well timed clout around the ears with her boot-clad feet works wonders though, so we've not worried too much.

But still, even though she doesn't ever complain (and she does complain about some things; this is not a question of me not allowing her the opportunity to moan. Which is, sadly, all to easy to do when she can't just shout it all out), I'm sure there are times when she must feel set aside. It can't possibly be pleasant to overhear small children tell their parents they think you are dead, apart from anything else.

But, one of the things you might get if you don't have your own voice, is a switch connected to a LittleMac, and a LittleMac, for those who don't know, is a clever little switch which can work toys, plug into switch adapted anythings, and also carry a recording. Mog usually uses hers to say "Hello" or "Oi, pay attention to me!" But it does get used to share in other things too. Record Brownie Bells and she can sing along with the others. Record the holiday club chant and she can shout with the rest of them for the whole of the following week until someone at school is finally brave enough to record over it. And, when challenged to repeat correctly the morning's memory verse, it's awesomely easy to have it absolutely one hundred percent word perfect!

Tia

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

Extreme Parenting

 Families of children and young adults with disabilities were asked what they might have told themselves on the day their child was diagnosed. This is what they said.




I was sent this link and it's just too good not to share.
Tia

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

Shrinking, changing, and generally improving.


 No this isn't about losing weight! Things here be changing. A new oxygen supplier, means that concentrator A (left) has been replaced with concentrator B (right), and if my photography skills were rather less rubbish, you'd immediately see that it is both half the size and capable of delivering nearly twice the litres per minute. It's also a fraction of the noise level. Hurrah! Although we won't get too excited about that bit, since it will shortly be replaced by a concentrator which is a third the size again, back to the original maximum delivery, and slightly noisier. But working on batteries and car batteries and with a very cool wheely handle thingy, so no more working out how many hours we have left in the tank before we need to go home. Excellent! (Linky here as don't actually have it yet to photograph.
  Our cylinders are not shrinking, not in quantity nor in size. But they are definitely changing. If you were a little girl with a rather beautiful mural on your bedroom wall, would you prefer the cool and dudy green and white, or boring brown and grey? Plus, the bigger green one has a handle which is actually comfortable to hold and easy to lift. We likey.


And meanwhile, another solution. What do you do when you have an identical button placed in your caecostomy and your gastrostomy, when you use identical extension tubes for feeding and pooing, and when you use identical syringes for bladder and bowel washouts?

Yes, we keep them in separate places and different boxes, but it's still too easy to confuse the issue. I'm thinking these new stickers ought to at least make it harder to get it wrong. Now, how unethical would it be to tattoo the small child in matching colours to really reinforce the point?

Tia

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

What's in a word?

Or, when is an ACE not an ACE?

An ACE - Antegrade Continence Enema, is a clever little thing. You take the appendix, bring it to the surface, and hey presto! you have a little hole you can insert a catheter into, you can pour water into that, and flush everything in the large bowel out into the wider world (or, preferably, into the bowl of the toilet you are sitting on at the time). No more leaking (once you get the flush right), no more constipation, just a daily bowel washout and go on your way - no pads, no nappies, no worries.

Or, an ACE - Antegrade Continence Enema, is the act of performing a bowel washout from the top down, through an artificially created opening into the top of the large bowel.

Spot the difference?

The first is a very specific, somewhat complex surgical procedure which will leave you with a small but ideally self-sealing hole in your side. This is what was described to us in our pre-op appointments; this is what tLP's surgeon has been mentioning for years, and what we have been waiting for her to be big enough to do.

The second merely requires a surgical opening into the bowel, when may be held open by a variety of different things. A Cecostomy, for example, which, as it has no formed track will probably need some kind of a button holding it into place. This is the procedure the surgeon who actually carried out the operation chose to perform.

Note for the future: always meet the operating surgeon before surgery, even if you are sure the three hour visit with the nurse was an adequate preparation. Or wait for the return of your more familiar surgeon.

Is it going to be a problem? Honestly, right now, I don't know. The alternative surgeon chose to use the appendix to create the Mitrofanoff (an equally clever bit of surgery which joins the tummy button to the bladder so an individual can intermittently catheterise themselves whilst remaining seated in a wheelchair). Our original surgeon would have used a small segment of bowel. Replacement surgeon claims using the appendix makes for a better channel and a more reliable Mitrofanoff. It had better.

In the meantime, we are now faced with the prospect of having two identical buttons, one either side of a small child's stomach. One will be for gastrostomy feeds; the other for bowel washouts. It bothers me that there will be the potential for mixing them up, especially by unfamiliar carers. The surgeon claims the worst that can happen is that the child will get bad diarrhoea. It bothers me that we will now have another button which will need changing every few months, potentially not as often as the gastrostomy, but still a traumatic experience for a child who dislikes medical interventions. And, since the skin around the gastrostomy has never properly healed but continues to weep and ooze and occasionally overgranulate, it bothers me big time that the same will happen to the cecostomy button, and that she will leak faeces on one side of her stomach whilst leaking gastric juices on the other. I suppose that will at least make it easier to see which is which, but it's not exactly the most pleasant of options.

We are investigating options. It is possible that a revision may be possible, at some point in the future, creating some kind of tract which will hold itself open. It is possible that we could use some other kind of button, one which would a) hopefully not irritate her skin as much as the gastrostomy tube does, and b) be incompatible with the extension tubes for the button she has to avoid error. It's also possible that the mild leakage she is already experiencing will get worse, and that she will need to be re-operated on in order to fix it. Oh, or that it will need moving as and when her scoliosis worsens. Which it will, since there is no way she will be fit for spinal surgery for a long time now. The wound she has, whilst thankfully clean and healing nicely, will need daily packing and careful watching. It "may" be healed in time for her to start swimming lessons with school in June. It may require further surgery at a later date.

Today we went back to the hospital for a sedated ultrasound, to check out those pockets of fluid under the skin. It didn't happen - my fault entirely this time. I let her have breakfast. It didn't occur to me that midazolam must be given on an empty stomach; I've given it to Miss Mog many times without even pausing her continuous feed, and tLP had it twice last week without skipping a meal. Of course, she wasn't eating last week, so it wasn't quite as relevant...

Still, we got to lose one of the catheters, leaving just the two holding the Mitrofanoff and the Not-An-ACE open stitched in place. We have a detailed timetable for our next few weeks; when we can start building up time off free drainage, what to do in a different kind of emergency, and dates for further tube removal, taking out the stent which got left behind in surgery, more checking up on the wound healing, and other bits and pieces. And I got my ancient but much loved cardigan back from Tom's Ward; always good.

And, we got to meet the surgeon. I can't say I'm happy with what's happened - she shouldn't have to go back and have a stent removed at a later date, she shouldn't have a great gaping wound in her abdomen, and the difference between what each surgeon was planning to do should have been made clearer. But I do believe he's committed to making it right for tLP now, he is as upset as we are over the complications she has had, and I think he understands why I am unhappy.

And at the very bottom line, the cecostomy is working. A few minor issues (mainly due to being on strong antibiotics for considerably longer than expected) which we expect to be self resolving. But she is already free-er than she was before, with a slimmer profile, and has swapped some extremely undignified and time consuming grotty nightly programmes for twenty minutes in the morning. Which, handily, coincides with Benjamin Kitten's need for half an hour of someone bouncing his toys for him to chase. We'll work on the whole privacy thing at a later date.

Tia

Monday, 19 December 2011

Cuts to support for Children with Disabilities

This is one for those of us living in the UK. You might not have a disabled child yourself, but I urge you to respond anyway, please. According to Every Disabled Child Matters and Mencap, the government is proposing that the premium added to Child Tax Credits for a disabled child (currently £53.62 per week) should be halved to just £26.75 as a part of the new Universal Credit. That's a cut of £1400 per year, or £22,000 over a disabled child's childhood.

The Joseph Rowntree Foundation calculate that a disabled child can cost between 3 and 10 times as much as a non-disabled child over the course of their childhood. Disability Living Allowance covers some of these extra costs, and for families on lower incomes, disability premiums on Child Tax Credits help with some others.

£26.75 a week doesn't sound like much perhaps. For us, that's slightly less than the cost for one session for one child at the only local playscheme which will take both my girls occasionally in the holidays. For a friend, that's the cost of replacing her son's coat because he's chewed through the sleeves on the school bus yet again. For some local families, that's the cost of the additional incontinence pads they are now forced to buy, the PCT having decided to ration children to just 4 "products" per day. For another friend, that's the cost of having someone meet her daughter after school occasionally, in order that she can give attention to other children - her Local Authority having decided their need is only severe, not critical. It's the cost of being able to keep the heating on and high enough to keep a fragile child out of hospital. It's out of season soft fruit, high fibre brown rice instead of Tesco Value, all the dietary supplements needed to keep immobile bowels moving and avoid the complications of constipation. It's taking that duvet to the launderette again, or replacing the washing machine when it dies, yet again.

The recent decision that the mobility component of DLA should be removed for people living in care homes has been overturned, the government apparently not having realised (really?) that people living in care do actually still need to get out and about and lead meaningful lives, and that yes they do in fact need vehicles in order to do that. Full credit to them for deciding not to implement that; please now help to encourage them to think again about the impacts of this decision.

Here's a link to the Every Disabled Child Matters form for emailing David Cameron and asking him to rethink this decision. Personally, we'll be alright here. But that's because we have adoption allowances, and by definition, birth families don't have that luxury. And nor do every adoptive family. And I know too many families who are turning every penny twice before they spend it. Cutting their income like this, whilst food and fuel and everything else continues to go up in price could well be the difference between coping and not coping. And not coping is going to cost the gov't an awful lot more than £26.75 per week, if that child ends up in hospital or foster care.

Tia

Friday, 11 November 2011

Costing Care

I wrote this a few years ago, a friend asked me to find it and so I'm posting it here so I don't lose it again.

I got up this morning, left my bed (£150), and walked down one flight of stairs. Had a shower (£100)and went in to my daughter.

I hoisted (£1000) my daughter out of her her bed (£800) using a sling (£100)into her wheelchair (£2000), then used the overhead hoist in the bathroom (£2000) to put her on the shower bench (£600) to give her a shower.She then sat on the toilet seat (£200). Put her in the lift (£3000) to go down to the sitting room. Most of these costs were borne by social services.

I had a bowl (49p) of cereal which I ate with a spoon (inherited). My daughter had a bowl (£8.95) of cereal which she ate with a spoon (£4.95), She wore a bib (£12) and used a special mat (£4). Added to her cereal were dietary supplements to increase fibre content (£2). These costs all come back to me.

Later on today I will get into the car and drive to school. For my daughter to sit in the car, I either need a £6000 conversion, a £20,000 new vehicle, a £2000 hoist for her and a £1000 hoist for the wheelchair, or as at present, I use my own back (free but longterm costs probably very high). Oh, I also use a special wheelchair (£500) as hers is too heavy. All costs met by me.

I am writing this at my computer using a keyboard (£8ish). I am sitting on a chair (£50). When my daughter uses the computer she needs a touchscreen (£300 minimum), and her specialist comfy armchair (£800). Special word processor with symbols and speech, (£200).

I might go for a bike ride later. My bike, value nothing, but for a decent bike, £200-£400?. My daughter's trike with additional straps and supports, £1000.

I will finish writing this and then stand up. For my daughter to stand up requires a standing frame, £3000. I might go for a walk. A walking frame for my daughter? £1000. We don't have one yet.

Fancy a ball game? Plastic ball, presently £1.29 at the corner shop. £12.95 for a musical ball so my daughter can hear where you are throwing it to.

Go to the cinema? Local one's inaccessible so that'll be an 80 mile round trip, thanks. Or go by myself, finding a specialist babysitter. Cheaper to wait and buy it on DVD.

A swim? That'll be entrance money for my daughter and 2 carers to lift her. Or £17.50 to hire the local hydrotherapy pool, provided no one else has already booked it.

Fly a kite? That'll be another £800 for the off-road wheelchair. Yes, she does have 3 wheelchairs, all for different purposes. If the baby stays she'll be getting a fourth; one to seat both of them. And the government only pays for one of those chairs. None of these chairs give her independent mobility; she'd need a powerchair (£2000) for that and we don't have it yet.

Put up a swingset in the garden? £60-200 in the catalogue. Wheelchair accessible? multiply that by ten. And forget about trying the ones in the local park instead...

Go on holiday? Can't fly cheapair; they (illegally) won't take the wheelchair. Regular air will charge more for the excess baggage.Wheelchair accessible cabins on ferry only sleep 2, so need
2 cabins for 4 of us, twice the price. Wheelchair accessible TravelInn only sleeps 2 (regular rooms up to 4) so need 2 rooms for 4 of us, twice the price. Wheelchair accessible accomodation in many hotels not available at lowest room rate, more cost. So we mainly camp instead.
Remember to allow costs for extra staff.

Public transport? Buses are inaccessible. Trains better (if you don't mind other passengers using wheelchair slot to store baggage) but local train station inaccessible so have to drive further away first and pay to park all day. Underground? Forget it. So realistically when car unavailable taxis are the only option. Providing you can find accessible ones that is. And are willing to educate the drivers on the importance of bothering with all the ties and clamps. And pay the waiting charge whilst they clamp the chair down.

Clothing. With 2 disabled children (even though one is a baby) I average 4 loads of washing per day for the 3 of us. So clothes wear out faster, as do sheets. as do the washing machine and the drier. 6 sets of school uniform to allow for accidents. Clothing gets stained faster, night splints tear holes in pyjamas. If baby has proposed op, she will need specially made/adapted clothing afterwards. Goldie chews sleeves and collars so they need replacing regularly. Shoes don't wear out at the bottom but splints wear holes at the back, and shoes built to accommodate splints are very hard to find and very expensive when you do find them. Goldie has 2 sets of clothing - one to accommodate her brace, one for wearing without it.

The NHS supply 5 pads (nappies) per day for my teenager. I have to pay for any extra (£1.20 per nappy) and also for the liners she uses to increase absorbency (5 per day at 20p each).

Food. Both kids on special diets meaning additional grocery bills. High Fibre diet for one of them, so brown rice 87p not tesco value rice 12p. Healthy eating baked beans 67p not value beans 7p. The other one dairy free so soya baby milk £8.30 not standard £5.20.

The baby can't cope with pram or buggy very well so special mini wheelchair being applied for. She's already collected 2 special seats, both secondhand on loan but eventually she'll be having
similar expenses to the older one in that respect.

Both girls have visual impairments. Lighting and other equipment to stimulate vision gets very costly, even if you go for the Argos version rather than the disability equipment catalogues.Toys need to stand up to having a teenager chew on them, and to being thrown around. Specialist play equipment (for stimulating the senses, fine motor control, switching, cause and effect, etc., is VERY expensive, baby toys are cheaper but less appropriate for a teenager (although since her favourite toy at present is the baby's teething ring I am not complaining).

Household equipment. Washing machine and drier as mentioned previously. I have worn out 4 hoovers (including one Dyson) in the last 4 years. I also have a steam cleaner and have had to replace most carpets with hard flooring. My daughter chews her way through cables regularly, so averages a new walkman every month (once a week in holidays), she dribbles in the mouthpiece of the telephone which then also needs regular replacements. Televisions and videos have been pulled to the floor; she smashed a £1000 touch monitor before we ever got to use it. She is not wantonly destructive, just sees things and tries to reach for them. Her bedroom needs regular redecoration as she picks the wallpaper off the walls (amongst other reasons).

Other costs? to make it possible for Goldie to enter our kitchen (and so learn about where food comes from and why I disappear regularly to fetch it) would mean completely rebuilding it I think - £5-10K. Not going to happen. Similarly finding storage space for all Y's equipment would mean building a garage somewhere (no space) - realistically to meet both girls' needs, we need to move house. As it is, for 12 weeks each year (school holidays) we lose any reasonable breathing space downstairs and thread our way through a minefield of equipment.

Costs to me - for specialist training not covered by the LA, £3000 per year. For wrist splints £50 per year. To pay various staff for non childcare related tasks freeing me to do the childcare, variable but can be up to £75 per week. Both girls have frequent medical appointments and hospital trips; I need to find and fund staff to care for the girl not in hospital. Entertainment expenses as we nearly always have to be the hosts - far too many houses are inaccessible.

My phones aren't coded; I don't have malicious teenagers hacking them. I do have many hours of daytime calls to specialists, to birth family living overseas, and to my own friends when trapped at home by sick children. And, it has been known for fosterchild to make phonecalls accidentally when I fail to notice them playing with the keys (friend had a 4 hour call to sweden courtesy of her disabled 4 year old).

My daughters can't say where they've left things, and between home and school many things are dropped, lost, broken, mislaid, munched by other pupils, chewed by Goldie, etc., I'd suggest that lost equipment is at least as costly. Goldie hasn't damaged neighbours' property but she defaces ours regularly, and wear and tear on paint and wood from angular wheelchair mounts up. And neighbouring children take delight in damaging our own property; ok so usually only destroying the washing line, throwing bottles if we go to the playground and stealing the odd bike, but again, it all adds up.

That's just the costs for us. They are relatively low at the moment; they will mount as baby I gets older and starts outgrowing baby supplies. They will mount again as her disability develops, and she will need carers with nursing skills.


I wrote that when miss Mog was a baby. I hadn't seen it for a few years; it is interesting to see what has and has not changed. Clearly, the biggest difference is that we no longer have Goldie chewing and finger painting her way through toys and walls and bedding. I'm not sure her absence is anything to be happy about though. We never did get her a walking frame.

Mog, no longer a baby, is no longer eating orally. Not that she ever did, really. She now has a special medical formula at £18 a tin, 4 tins a week. Not at my cost, thankfully. However, an increasing number of my friends are moving over to providing their tube fed children with a blended diet - real food whizzed finely enough to pass through the gastrostomy tubing. And I'm considering it. However, the blender most families say is necessary in order to guarantee no lumps and bumps is £410. Which, compared to the £10 stick blender I use to make soup is a fairly hefty investment.

When I wrote that, Mog must have been very new. No wheelchair, so she was less than a year old (in fact, WySoy infant milk, so she was much less than a year old - she switched to a specialist formula fairly shortly after that). She now has three wheelchairs. One fabulous NHS wheelchair service provided one (several thousand pounds) which tilts, reclines, bounces with her spasm and is moulded to her body to be an exact and comfortable fit. One private buggy which lies flat for when she can't sit up(£1,000, plus £500 for the mouldable liner), and as a back up for times when her wheelchair is in the workshop. And one offroad wheelchair for beaches, mudslides and snow (£700). She has also had, and discarded, a starter type power chair BIME Buggy (£400 from Ebay very secondhand), a Trike (£1000), and a whole collection of different double buggies either to sit with Goldie or to try and work with Little Princess.

She's had a Leckey Advance chair, a Jenx Bee, a Special Tomato MPS, and a Spa armchair. The first three from Social Services, reissued to other children once she had outgrown them. The last a private purchase from a friend whose child had outgrown it. A Monkey Standing frame on loan from the physios, and various assorted sleep systems designed to keep her body vaguely symmetrical overnight (they didn't work).

We did move house a year or so after I wrote the piece above. These days, instead of walking down the stairs (with Mog on my shoulder), I walk around the corner in my ground floor flat. I've upgraded my bed and now have the world's comfiest memory foam mattress. It still cost a fraction of the £3000 Mog's enclosed, ultra safe, profiling bed with super soft and comfy pressure relieving mattress . Thankfully not a cost to me directly, but we all pay for the NHS. I switch off her SATs monitor (£Lots, don't want to think about it, except it's vastly superior to the £800 I spent on our back up more portable one so I'm thinking it's probably vastly more expensive too), and switch off her CPAP (again, no idea of cost except it can't be cheap because we've now been waiting two years for her to have her own machine rather than an old one on loan which we pray never breaks down because no one will be responsible for repairing it).

I now hoist (£1000) Mog from her bed to her wheelchair, making use of the wider folding doors courtesy of our latest Disabled Facilities Grant (total grant £8,000 I think, including a new wider driveway and more functional ramp to the front door).

We have carers every morning but Saturdays, and if they are hoisting Mog into her chair then I am hoisting the Little Princess (or should be, and do some days, I promise) out of her bed (which is the same £800 bed Goldie used to sleep in) and into her £10,400 wheelchair (private purchase topping up a £2,700 voucher from the Wheelchair Service). Having first switched off her ventilator, humidifier and feed pump, and detached her from various tubes and drainage bags. More costs for the NHS.

The heating is set at a cosy 23 degrees C. Partly that's due to the fact that the boiler switches off when I turn it down, partly it's due to the fact that Mog now has difficulty regulating her own body temperature and so it is important that the temperature of the house stays consistently warm. Either way, it's expensive with rising costs of gas. And electricity costs with both girls' medical equipment running day and night aren't the cheapest either.

Mog no longer gets her pad changed first thing in the morning as a matter of course; if she has been dry overnight then the overnight pad gets put back on - our generous allocation of five per day has recently been cut to four. That's just about manageable for Mog but hopeless for the Little Princess who was receiving more than the standard allocation of five before the cuts.

Our car was replaced with a £6,000 minibus, with just about enough tracking to clamp down two wheelchairs. We've since outgrown that minibus and now drive a Mercedes Sprinter with tracking for three chairs, or enough space for both girls and all the equipment we need whenever we go away overnight. £10,000, six years old. Reasonably efficient fuel costs but still significantly more expensive to run than the small family car (or the Little Princess' longed for Mini) which would be all we needed if we three came without the equipment.

The Little Princess has her own private collection of wheelchairs. She shares Mog's offroader; if it's too snowy for tLP's powerchair it's too snowy for Mog to be outside. The Wheelchair Service provide her with a basic folding manual wheelchair. She's just outgrown her £3,000 ultra lightweight Minny wheelchair; we're now looking around to see what might be the next best model for her. But will hold off until she's had all her surgeries and see what mobility she has left once her spine has been fused. Then there's the wheeled shower chair, and her wheeled standing frame (£3,000, private purchase).

On through the day, and most things haven't changed. tLP now has similar nutritional needs to Goldie, for similar reasons, and so please adjust the food prices to reflect today's figures.

Improvements to public transport - our buses are now all wheelchair accessible. Which is excellent, except they only have space for one wheelchair on each bus. So I can't take both girls on public transport unless I'm prepared to have tLP on my shoulders all day. Curiously enough, I'm not. Cheapair do now take wheelchairs; however they charge every passenger a wheelchair tax thus making actual wheelchair users even more unpopular with the average passenger than they were before.

Goldie's not here to paint the walls and pick at the wallpaper. But tLP's tank powerchair does an excellent job of carrying on her good works. Walls, doorframes and radiators have all taken a serious beating in the past few months. We have an iPAd with a broken screen (dropped onto the hard floor we have in place of carpets to cope with muddy wheels) and an iPhone with a broken screen (run over by a wheelchair once too often), and anything left on the floor will be flattened or shattered, depending on flexibility.

We do still go camping; we don't now camp without carers. We do still holiday with friends and family rather than always taking hired staff with us, but the time is coming when we won't be able to do that.

I see I predicted that Mog would need staff with nursing skills - considering I wrote that before she had her first surgery even, I'm impressed with my ability to see into our future.

I'm not writing this because we need money. We don't. I have adoption allowances, the girls receive Disability Living Allowances and I get a Carer's Allowance on top. These are all costs we can meet. But, there are many many families who have these costs and don't have the adoption allowances to meet them. There are families who have adopted and fostered children since infancy who are now discovering that adult care costs even more and that their income will be halved. And this despite knowing how many thousands of pounds residential care would cost, and how much the families are saving the NHS and SS by continuing to provide the bulk of the care themselves. And there are people under the impression that in hard times, the welfare state should shrink and we should all tighten our belts. I'll tighten my belt if I have to, of course I will. But the additional costs of living with disabilities don't just disappear, however hard we try. At the moment, I can cover it. But friends can't, and that's scary. And as resources (e.g. pads) provided by statutory authorities get scarce, the families are forced to provide more themselves. Without actually having any more ability to do so.

As I was updating this list, a friend was sending me suggestions for other increased costs. I think I've included some, I know I've forgotten more. So, friend (and other friends, and anyone else), do please feel free to add in extras in the comments.

Tia

Thursday, 14 July 2011

Walkabout.

It all seemed like a good plan at the time. The bus needed a new back door, thanks to losing an altercation with a gate post. The diary was actually empty for two days, so sending it to the garage wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience.

It started well. Despite having no carer, the girls and I were up and dressed in time for Mog's school bus. The Little Princess and I loaded ourselves into our bus, after a brief pause to empty it of tent, camping equipment, oxygen, McDonald's Happy Meal boxes, etc. We drove to the garage, waving to Mog as her school is opposite the garage, and dropped the bus off. One very happy Little Princess and I walked into town to see if her new chair would fit onto the local buses, riding two stops before reversing off the bus to a chorus of cheers from thankfully good-natured passengers and driver. Hurrah.

We walk the rest of the way home, have a brief pause before setting off to walk to school. I hand tLP over to her TA, And my phone rings. It is Mog's school; Mog isn't well, will I go and take a look please? I walk back past our house and over to Mog's school, where one very happy grinny Mog is waiting to be taken home. We stay for a quick harness change at the wheelchair clinic, then grab her gear and I walk her home.

As I leave Mog's school, the phone rings. tLP is not well, will I come and take a look?

One brisk walk later, we are home, and thankfully tLP's TA agrees to walk her home to meet us.

And now I have at home one ridiculously well Mog, but a Mog whose suction pump is now plugged into the charger I had forgotten to send to school. Bad mother alert. And I have one Little Princess who is sweating buckets, in a lot of pain, and who just wants to lie on my lap and not move at all.

Lots of pain relief, we spend a couple of hours sorting out possible constipation issues, and as I try to work out the logistics of how to get both girls to hospital without our bus (which boils down to whose wheelchair should we leave behind and can I cram them both into a buggy somehow?), she settles a little and I decide it can wait for a while.

One horrible night, which she doesn't appear to remember, and one girl waking this morning alert and bright eyed, not needing any of the pain meds she has been living on for the past few days, and drawing a beautiful picture. And finding some scissors and cutting chunks out of her hair, but I'm trying to forget that bit.

But what has been happening just at night has now happened during the day (i.e. too much pain to cope with), so time to phone the hospital. Who, as expected, say to bring her in for a review. A quick warning call to Mog's school with an advance apology that any emergencies will mean calling an ambulance as I can't get there. A quick run down the list of people who might be able to meet Mog after school if necessary (note to self: list entirely too short, must cultivate non-working friends). And a long bus trip with a very happy Little Princess.

One happy and pain free LP up on the ward, examined and appears fine, but let's do a quick CT scan just in case. One fine CT scan and we are back to no problem showing. Which is not unexpected, since she is currently demonstrating handbrake turns in the corridor and building lego cities in the playroom. One prescription for slightly stronger pain relief, but only to be given as a one off, as it will mask potential problems. And then run for the bus, cancel the care and race Mog home.

So, we are home. Which is good news. Except that it's not, not really. Our current theory is that this is not to do with the operation, but is instead a sign that her VP Shunt is now working intermittently. It's still working too well to need changing, which is good. And it might sort itself out, which would be great. But it might very well not. And so we watch and wait and see. And have to bring her in next time the pain gets unbearable. Which sounds sensible, except that this seems to happen at 2AM. And whilst the garage have just returned the bus, I still don't relish the idea of getting both girls up in the middle of the night and transporting they and all their equipment, possibly repeatedly, until she has an episode which lasts long enough to be checked properly.

Oh, and did I mention that we got off the bus and she started crying, and has been complaining ever since that her head is sore. Until I say we'll have to go back to hospital, at which point she insists it is all better. And now I genuinely have no idea whether it is really sore, but she is able to hide it completely from the doctors, or whether it is all a big ploy for sympathy and to keep me by her side, and isn't anything like as bad as she is making out. Both are possibilities. I am tired.

Tia

Friday, 17 June 2011

Skwirrelling about

When the spinal surgeon said that the Little Princess would probably stay very short, he dismissed our concerns over this by mentioning the possibility of a powered chair with a seat raiser.

When the next surgeon mentioned that tLP's arms might get weaker, and that she might have more difficulty propelling her manual chair, we decided to look for a chair which had the ability to go down low and fit properly under primary school sized tables.

And we found three options. The K450 MX from Permobil, the SnapDragon from Dragon Mobility, and the Skwirrel, supplied in this country by Joncare. All slightly different, with very different price tags. Having taken a good look, we decided the Skwirrel was our best beastie; apart from anything else, Joncare are very local to us (so close, in fact, that the rep turns out to live at the house where our cats run off to when they have had enough of the food I offer them). There's a definite advantage to local suppliers. Apart from when they steal your cats. Oh, and, they promised us that the chair could be with us just 4 weeks after placing the order.

So, four weeks ago, we signed on the dotted line, had a very important consultation as to colour (it is supposed to look like a friend's Mini, but unfortunately Ice Blue wasn't on the RAL chart), did some measurements, and handed over a large wodge of cash for a deposit.

I then spoke to Wheelchair Services, who had offered a pretty generous voucher towards it. They sent out the paperwork, giving me accidental kittens when the amount on the letter was for a manual rather than a powerchair, but correcting it quickly and paying Joncare their share by return of post. Hurrah for efficient practice.

And today was The Day. tLP woke up on top form and even consented to eat something for breakfast, in order to have enough energy for the Big Event. We drove round to Joncare, and were greeted with a large cardboard box, decorated with bows, ribbons, a special message to the Little Princess, and of course the signature Skwirrel.

Inside the box:

One rather stunning new wheelchair. The Little Princess decided to try to climb into it herself,

but was defeated, mainly through many of us telling her it wasn't quite ready yet, so took a brief break
before finally being lifted in and handed over ownership.



Note luggage rack for her sister's suction pump Very Important Things.

Most adjustments and tweaks and the inevitable sawing a couple of inches off the foot plates, and then we were free to head outside.
where tLP found herself temporarily interrupted again, as extra tweaks were made to the rather intelligent controller.

Finally, we handed over another large wodge of cash (well, a cheque, but it was a substantial cheque for all that), and were free to try to work out how to fit it into the van. Anyone know if Unwin make longer than standard front straps?

We cannibalised the spare rear straps and were off.

This afternoon, the Little Princess decided to take it for a walk.
I think it's going to take a little while for us to get used to front wheel drive (it's a bit like reversing whilst towing a trailer - turn left to go right, etc.), and a little while for her to get used to using her left hand rather than her right (the theory being this will free up her dominant hand to do all sorts of other things). And I know it'll take me a while to get used to walking the other side of her to hold hands.

But, she loves it. And, if at any time over the past two months, you had asked her why she needed a chair that goes up and down, she would tell you it was so that she could do this:
And now I can retire!

Tia

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