The Neverending Tale of Social Services Stupidity

My autistic son, Marifa, did his first sleep-over at the Trotters respite care facility last week, Apple Court. On the up side, he went to sleep — albeit for only four hours. He interacted with staff, and was apparently more settled than not. On the down side, he was evidently scared, and perhaps even a little traumatised by the experience. And plummeting to the very abyss of down, stopping just short of total fucking disaster, Marifa absconded. Twice. He set off the fire alarms, thus automatically opening all outside doors and summoning the local fire brigade. On the second attempt, he put perhaps a good 100m between himself and the front door before a member of staff headed him off and allegedly talked him back inside.

We found out about the fire alarms that evening, when my partner JC telephoned to see if Marifa was settled. The care worker mentioned he had got out, but the implication was he had literally one foot out of the door before being turned around — not half way down their snaking drive, which passes a complex of buildings linked to the Trotters children with a disability team — all empty after 5pm. Out of site of the respite care facility. Requiring the pursuit of one of only two night staff on duty. It was nearly 24 hours later than we first learned about this.

Yesterday, we met the manager of the care facility, Antonio. It was an amicable meeting, in which we tried to be as upbeat as possible. Yet it will remain in my mind as one of the most singularly ugly meetings I have ever attended. Ugly with pure, unrepentant stupidity and human frailty. To begin with, the manager was so nervous, his voice was dry and tremulous and he avoided eye contact. It effectively closed down conversation. We felt almost obliged to reassure him, prizing him open like a clam so he would give us a full picture of what he intended to do and listen to advice.

One could be forgiven for thinking the manager had given the meeting no prior thought or planning whatsoever. He rambled, and important points seemed to come as an afterthought. He took the most minimal of notes, and towards the end, kept glancing a little too obviously at the clock. The words “if” was used almost interminably, giving the impression that none of the safeguards he was considering putting in place were definite or perhaps even essential — alarmed covers for the break-glasses, which he “hoped” would arrive in times for Marifa's second visit this week; extra staff at night “if the meeting with night staff tonight goes as it should.” The only certainty was the decision to move Marifa to a different part of the unit, where it is more difficult for him to access the front door — except when the door leading to the front door would be left open. All half measures, perhapes, and maybes. Reassurance? None.

“We’ve never had a child here who knows setting off the fire alarms opens the doors.” The manager admitted, again and again. I looked at his face, and thought of those aliens on Star Trek: The Next Generation who kept repeating, “Our space ship won’t go,” and when asked why, replied, “Because it’s broken.” Only they were pretending to be stupid.

But perhaps this numpty display of helplessness was just as steeped in guile. What the managed didn’t want, clearly, was interference. We called the meeting and he had no choice but to agree to it. But were we taken seriously? No.

My partner is a nurse and a care manager. I am a former special needs teacher. We are known by most professionals to be informed and attentive parent, although I do have a reputation for being a recklessly angry bastard at times. I’m not liked, but frankly, I don’t really care. As a teacher, I’ve faced down potentially violent parents without so much as a bead of sweat dampening my brow, so I admit to a degree of contempt when dealing with an overly nervous professional. But whatever my personal prejudices, I do expect to be taken seriously when it comes to my son’s care and education – indeed, God fucking help the person who doesn’t. And God help this little bed-wetter of a manager, who had the audacity to treat a meeting over the issue of my son’s personal safety as if it were a courtesy visit. He thinks it’s all done and dusted and my son will be coming this week whatever he does or doesn’t do. He can think again!

So we parted with smiles, but tomorrow, we will ring this ‘manager’, to see if something concrete is guaranteed in terms of staffing levels for the next visit. That’s the bottom line — three on the night shift. If not, Marifa will be with us on Wednesday night. And we will begin looking for comparable respite in the private sector – with Trotters paying!

CODA: the matter is resolved, for now, but we are putting his guarantees in a letter to him, and making sure copies go to other professionals, including his school to prevent him from backtracking.