Some days, when the sun is shining and I don’t expect it to and we have a good appointment (or better still no appointments), I feel unbelievably, superhumanly lucky. I feel lucky that I have two beautiful, caring and lovely kids. I feel incredibly lucky in these dark days to have a comfortable life.
I feel lucky that Boo survived his premature birth. Lucky that he survived meningitis. Lucky he survived sepsis and a massive brain injury (PVL). That despite the severity of his cerebral palsy he has words – indistinct and hard won words, but words, nonetheless. I feel lucky that he is so happy. That he and his sister adore each other.
But then there are other days. Days when people say or do stupid things because you live in a world as alien to them as Mars would be. Days when equipment breaks, or having waited for months for it to arrive (always months longer than you are promised), it comes with a vital part missing or bent by the courier who shows his disgust at the weight of your child’s parcel by banging it on your doorstep. Days when services tell you about how the most recent round of cutbacks will affect your child.
Days when you send umpteen emails chasing things for your little one that were supposed to have arrived or been put in place months earlier. Days when people tell you they will look into it and get back to you that afternoon. (You and they both know that means three weeks when you next contact them.) Days when you register that some of these people are upset by this sorry reality and that others don’t, or have learned not to, care.
Days when you cannot believe that you are still trying to get put in place one of the therapeutic provisions set out in your child’s statement 18 months after the reports setting out the requirement were first submitted. Days when everyone tells you how awful this is. Days when still nothing happens. And then to top it all, days when the lift up to your front door fails and two organisations argue about who is supposed to fix it while you and your child’s ability to get in and out of the house is precariously dependent on how much your back hurts.
Days like these are the cluster headaches of the special needs world. Everyone gets headaches – just like we all have bad days – but few can understand the head splitting intense discomfort produced by these monstrosities. There is no easy cure and if your sanity is to be preserved, to an extent you just have to accept these unpleasant realities.
But it’s hard to accept things that are bad, that even hurt, your child. Really hard. As a family, we have all learned to live with cerebral palsy. That was the easy bit. It’s all of this – all that comes with CP – that I will never get used to.
I know some day, maybe even tomorrow, I will feel better again for a while. But not today.
I am lucky, but I am also sad, disappointed and frustrated that life is like this for Boo and for many, many others like him.