Will things ever get better?

Feeling a bit down about it all this week. We’ve had a call back from Comedy Colin and he is going to make a referral to a child psychologist which is great but it just feels as though Elliot will never get better. We’ve been pushing for him to see a psychologist for over two years and was told by one particularly unhelpful nurse, in front of Elliot, that the waiting list is so long he’d only get onto it if he was suicidal.

So far this week I’ve washed the sofa cushions and covers four times, washed his bedding every day, cleaned up poo from the carpet twice, and had him in tears twice because he’s so fed up with it all.

It feels worse when we’re out, today we went to the park and went in a rowing boat on the boating lake. Elliot went to the toilet before we got in the boat but still did a huge wee while we were on the water. When we got out of the boat I was torn about what to do. There was a big wet patch on the seat but I didn’t want to draw attention to it because he’d have been mortified. But I thought I should say something to the man running the boats so he could help me clean it before the next people got in the boat. I was just about to ask him if he had a cloth I could borrow when I caught Elliot’s eye – the look he was giving me was imploring me not to tell anyone. So I didn’t. We got out and left the seat with wee on it for the next person possibly to sit in. I felt awful but I think I’d have felt worse if Elliot had had to suffer the acute embarrassment of everyone seeing what he’d done.

It’s so difficult. Sometimes it feels as though we’re getting closer to things improving, but then other times it feels as though he’ll never get better.


The week in numbers

Thought I’d use Bridget Jones style stats to summarise this past week.

Days since Comedy Colin said he’d call: 9 (it’s likely they’ve found out he’s not a real doctor and he’s been sent back to secure accommodation)

Phone calls to Colin: 4

Messages returned: 0 (probably difficult to use phone whilst wearing straightjacket)

Poos in toilet: 6 (v good)

Poos in pants: 5 (not so good)

Poos in bed: 2 (why?? for warmth??)

Poos on carpet: 1 (improving)

Wees on sofa: 1 (too engrossed in 60 Minute Makeover)

Loads of washing: 16

Times having to abandon basket mid-shop to run to toilet: 3 (good exercise and potentially saves money)

A fairly normal week but for some reason I’ve found it particularly draining. So much so that by Friday I couldn’t even muster up the energy to read Rose a bedtime story and just left her to read the lyrics to Uptown Funk to her teddies.

Coated in a light sheen of shite

So this morning went like this…

If you’ve ever been in contact with small babies, you may be familiar with what is often referred to as a ‘poonami’. Or sometimes ‘poomaggedon’. Basically when a beautiful, small, sweet smelling creature manages to emit a massive pungent turd, seemingly twice the size of itself, and normally spreading all over its body, hair and surrounding furnishings.

I’ll just leave you to picture that on a nine month old baby. Now imagine that scaled up to a nine year old child.

Who has consumed seventeen pints of lager and a vindaloo. Plus several days of very high strength laxatives.

And who has ‘helpfully’ tried to clear it up for you.

Imagine you also have just been woken up, after quite a poor night’s sleep due to having a cough and sore throat, by your other child, who has decided today is going to be another one of her ‘angry’ days. She has already shouted at you and thrown a shoe at you. This is because she has dropped a Playmobil figure down the stairs and you had the cheek to sleep through it and hadn’t telepathically realised she wanted you to prevent this happening.

So accompanied by the background soundtrack of intensifying shrieking and wailing, you deal with the nine year old, who is coated in a light sheen of shite, and surrounded by enough poo-covered debris to be a contender for the Turner Prize. On bed, on floor, on wall, in Lego, and now, somehow, in your own hair.

You bundle everything, including the child and yourself, into the shower and hose everything down. All while screaming like a fishwife at child number two (and simultaneously being ashamed of yourself for doing so), who is refusing to get dressed and is blaming you for the fact that it isn’t Friday.

Onwards and upwards…

Comedy Colin

So, I was right about the colorectal nurse – he did indeed wear comedy socks. He also made jokes about his head being on upside down. I wasn’t endeared to him. Neither was Elliot, who spent the entire appointment trying to disappear inside his chair.

He did seem genuinely keen to help Elliot, but at the same time also seemed to have no clue what was going on. It was almost as though he rocked up to the hospital one day wearing a nurses uniform as a joke, and as nobody asked him to leave he thought he’d give it a go. The hospital is so woefully under resourced they’re probably grateful for anyone who is willing to help. Even Colin Hunt from the Fast Show.

He brought up Elliot’s latest x-ray on the computer and asked me what I thought. I thought the insides of my son were very interesting, but not being medically trained I couldn’t really advise him. So he said he’d ring the consultant to ask him to have a look. I bit my tongue and managed not to ask why we couldn’t have seen the bloody consultant in the first place. The consultant was busy, and was going to call back, so we spent an uncomfortable twenty minutes with Comedy Colin trying to make Elliot laugh, through a bizarre series of activities including tickling, lying on the floor, and asking if Elliot would like to wobble his tummy.

At this point we realised the consultant probably wouldn’t call back, so we escaped with the promise that Colin would call us first thing on Monday with the consultant’s verdict.

It is now Wednesday and we’re still waiting for the call….