Where is the Cavalry ?

I post on Monday the 13th October .

Issy still in bed.

She was up most of the night.

Yesterday, she arose late, with bloody footprints all over the hall.

We felt relieved that her anguish over the past few days, had a natural cause.

It is now 9 days, since the agency staff walked out.

And, still no sign of support.

My poor husband, has to work all day on little sleep.

I am a little fearful, as these times of the month, and, so far Issy has refused her ibuferon.

The autistic mute, who wrote,‘Through The Eyes of Aliens’, describes how horrific periods were for her, all her nerve endings felt, as if, on fire.

I mention this to the social services etc, but gain little reaction,

medical help, is not part of their ‘remit’.

And GPs are many, itinerant, illusive, work by computer.

And, support is an encagement policy, for which, it would appear, my health, and, Issy’s neglect and self- harm, are the only boxes to be ticked.

The long awaited meeting with the genteel education package manager, and Measured Lady,was held last Thursday.

A funding LA manager also attended.

As usual, little of substance was said.

And, as usual, I was left wondering, why we needed yet another meeting.

The LA funding/service manager introduced herself, and, then persisted in asking why agency had withdrawn their support.

We persisted in telling her, we didn’t know.

But  omitted to ask, why, as the service manager, she didn’t know.

She explained personal services funding twice.

‘We will give you a pot of money, which you can use to support Isabel’.

I explained, I knew the mechanics, thought it preferable, to itinerant, unaccountable to us, agency support, but on going on the internet, had only managed to find, one wheelchair bound man, seeking a carer for the LA’s maximum payment of 7.50 per hour, and worried how I could find workers per se.

I  asked, why, the LA had paid our ex agency, more than 4 times this hourly rate.

But she just replied ‘I know’.

The genteel education package man, explained that he, and Measured Lady, were putting a package together, for our consideration, and, would let us have their proposals.

I  thought that was the purpose of this meeting, but thought there little  point in saying so.

It was now 3 months, since he, and the Measured lady, had become involved in Issy’s life.

And 6 months, since Issy had effectively stopped engaging with the previous, agency care package,

The Measured lady said, she had, ‘just the right person’.

I asked if she was fit, and liked walking, she replied yes, as she was a dancer.

No one asked about Issy.

Issy was up dressed, hair washed, and, wandered into the kitchen for juice, so I introduced her by name, to each of the circled throng.

She stared at them all intently, probably worried at her fate,

but, said nothing except ‘juice’.

The funding lady, must have been social worker trained, as she then asked, how Isabel had got the scratches on her arms.

I explained, we had been unable to cut her very sharp nails, due to her recent distress, and like me, she has rather dry skin, and also like me, liked nothing better than a good scratch.

But, I knew she would have been trained to note them, as self- harm, or, abuse.

I hoped for the former.

She asked no more about Issy’s eating, sleeping, or, distress.

My husband had to work away from home, and worried he may be called back, asked if some support could be put in place for Monday.

The funding lady seemed reluctant to find different agency workers, so the Measured Lady, said she would be able to get someone to come on Monday, but didn’t.

The funding lady, again described the mechanics of personalised services,  even using exactly the same words.

I replied, that in any event, the money would  be paid to the Measured lady, as it is her company, who employed the future support, and she agreed.

An hour had been spent in the kitchen, and they left.

Issy, was particularly agitated.

She was probably wondering why these, official looking people, were in the kitchen, and, so were we.

Creating a Safeguarding Issue, Patronage and ignoring Issy.

mopFriday 3rd October

It is 10 am. The now qualified social worker and regular,since April,male worker arrive.

Each worker, on arrival  asks,

’How are you?’

And, they did not disappoint.

Two such enquiries,  most days, for the past 18 months.

I  tried to pre empt/ avoid  this impersonal prescription with a spontaneous greeting-

Issy’s dressed and/or in the bath,/

‘Nothing strange or starling has happened’.

Ever hopeful, for an individualised reaction.

Ever dreading, the ritual.

But knew regardless of my reply,

‘How do you think I am ?’,


Issy’s been up all night ‘.

I would be ignored, and receive at best, a look of pained/irritated sympathy.

Or, at worst,  the question repeated in the kitchen.

This was  a box, that had to be ticked.

The social workers/ doctors/ etc. did the same.

My reply of ‘Cataclysmic‘ even incorporated  against me by our social worker in a  core assessment.

I’d sat in my kitchen now for months, with a Pilgrim’s Progress of workers, all with their stories.

I supported a worker’s partner’s rape trial, another’s partner’s cancer treatment,

they had shed tears.

I too had bared my heart and soul.

Voiced views on the dire state of our country, for hours, not knowing they were both, laughing, and, spying on me.

I considered them friends.

I was isolated.

I had given them clothes, Nintendo games, books, shoes, creams, bags, lent out shoes and dresses, only to have them throw hissy fits, and, never to know why, or to see them again.

I was at their mercy.

Two nice workers, had recently disappeared, and, as always, it was impossible to find out why.

I suspect, they did not want to be part of the final horror, of spy, and remove.

But, it was much worse  a betrayal, for Issy.

She still calls out, the departed’s names.

We were being processed by human beings, who themselves, were being  processed.

Anyway, back to Friday.

As I said,  the standard, how I was, but never  Issy.

I thought, I’d clear up the ringing the doctor, although, not mentioned by the social worker, who offered to ring, the day before.

I therefore, thought it best to announc, as Isabel had eaten, didn’t have a temperature, and appeared well,I wouldn’t be ringing the GP.

‘Fine’. Was her only response.

She then asked, if I wanted them to do anything.

The upstairs bathroom floor  still had urine on it, and, the floor was still dirty under Isabel’s bed ,so I asked her, if she’d mind doing these tasks.

Fearful to add, she’d had had all day yesterday to do them.

Not knowing, they would later be used, as evidence, of Issy’s unhygienic home conditions.

The social worker support, instructed the male worker, on half her rate, to clean the bathroom floor.

He duly brought the mop out.

On walking into the kitchen, I noticed she was going through the mops threds.

And remarked to me,

Finola,  you will have to buy a second mop. You can’t use the same one with faeces on from the bathroom, on the kitchen floor’.

But she could find no faeces on the mop, nor can I remember it, nor the bathroom floor ever having had faeces on it.

Taken aback by the comment and accusatory tone, I wittered on apologetically,

’Of course I would later that day’.

Then remembered, we had two mops.

And fetched the other brand new, unused one, from the same place as the other, and gave it  to her, with a,

Here you are, we have got one’.

She made no comment.

This was  the creation of a ‘safeguarding  issue’  at its best.

And, what must be what they train disability social workers in.

I felt pleased, I was able to thwart it so easily.

‘Mother using mop with faeces on, to mop the kitchen floor’.

But no doubt, they’ll find another tomorrow.

I pondered, if I now had to, daily date photo my mops, to prove  I had two and they were faeces free.

After all that, she didn’t mop the kitchen, although there from 10-4.

No one did.

I entertained them in the kitchen in the afternoon, with stories of my youth in Liverpool.

The social worker, more than half my age, said,

She loves being entertained by me’.

Another worker, said I could cook, ( neglect issue).

The trainee lady, the day before so silent and furious, had once hugged me, at length, telling me how ‘strong’ I was.

Aren’t I the lucky bunny.

And so endth another day at 4.00 pm, with as always, no comment about Isabel being still in bed.

Poor Issy……