So, it arrived, Issy’s eighteenth, on the 17th December.
I forced myself to buy a cake, a Madera sponge, with balloons on.
My usual checkout girl, cheerily comments,
‘Oh, it’s some one’s birthday’,
’Yes my daughters. She’s 18’,
‘Not really’, I say, ‘she’s autistic, and may be taken by the state.They take them all at 18,’
It sounded like the utterance of a mad women, but I felt, I owed it to Issy.
But needn’t have bothered.
Issy, and her fate were ignored.
She showed no reaction.
8 years ago in Tesco, the check out lady, asked after Issy, remembering her regularly, on wrist reign, with dummy, and auburn curls.
I had replied then, she’d been taken away, to make £177,000 per annum, for the National Autistic Society.
And again, had been ignored.
Such, can be the cruelty of social interaction.
And its irrelevance.
The purchase of the cake, and, this blanking, hit me hard.
I found it impossible to even look at birthday cards.
By 9. 30 am, the birthday girl is dressed in a pretty blouse, bought especially for the occasion.
She had put it on back to front, and, curls cascade down her slim, young back.
I run around looking for a camera, that works.
She demands more coffee, but, I am not there.
Her happy mood is dashed.
She returns to her bedroom.
Her PTSD, returns.
She repeats the interminable abuse of a NAS carer,
‘Nobody wants to know you.’ ‘Nobody wants to know you’.
It is on a loop.
Eventually, she comes out.
I am there now.
More coffee is demanded.
And another bath.
Clothes removed, to toilet for a poo.
She closes toilet door.
She attempts to wipe her bum, with the strategically placed toilet paper.
Her routine, now for 7 months, since she heard, her education package, target my bottom wiping, as an issue for removal.
Later, Issy opened her cards and presents, put her new slippers on, blew her candles out, and attacked the cake.
An usual eighteenth,
But not for Issy, she knows she’s loved.
It has been the year from hell, as can be witnessed from this blog.
Issy comes into the living room later, sitting next to me, laughing.
‘Tickle’,she demands, and pulls up her blouse.
I tickle her back.
Love, really can, as Blake wrote,
‘build a Heaven in Hell’s despair’.