It seems that there is no school which will actually take my child. Correction: there is no school prepared to offer my son even an assessment, despite the information in the EHCP being about two years old. I recently had an email from the case worker saying that yet another school is unable to offer a placement because “the high levels of disruptive behaviour D displays would be detrimental to the effective education of the current students”.
This is a school that says it serves pupils with Autism Spectrum Disorder and Complex Social, Emotional and Mental Health Needs.
Is this stitch-up on a par with the school that said it already has a child similar to my son, so won’t be offering either an assessment or a placement? I think so.
During the past eight months I have experienced whole new layers of stitch-up that I never would have thought possible. Schools – specialist educational settings for those with special needs – are turning my son’s application down on the basis of symptoms common to their eponymous target group. What do they want – a child with ASD but who doesn’t present with any of the characteristics that make a mainstream school the wrong setting? What are we supposed to do? Although, in my own case, medication enables me to function well and enables the best possible me to emerge, I wonder if these schools would rather my son were drugged. That way, perhaps he might not present so many barriers to them teaching. And although I do wonder whether reducing Daniel’s anxiety levels might enable the better version of him to emerge, I have misgivings nonetheless: is it the aim of this country’s administrative establishments that we are all patients, somehow; on a prescription?
“”And do remember that a gramme is better than a damn”” (Brave New World, about soma).
I think it is clear, from my entry Email to the case worker Mon 18th March 2019 that I cannot stand the aforementioned specimen. He has consistently failed to argue on my son’s behalf with dozens of educational establishments; and that after having recommended a school move in the first place last May. The reply that I received to this email infuriates me further, since the jargon in which it is written both tries to avoid liability on the part of the Local Authority but also appears to make a mockery of the process in which, through very unfortunate circumstance (the case worker and the old school SENCO) we have been locked for months now.
” I recognise this continues to be a challenging period for Daniel and your family. ” No. Shit. Sherlock.
I’ll tell you what the biggest challenge is: it is keeping away from the fucking moron who is ramping with my son’s future and not beating seven shades of shit out of him. That is the challenge. Every time I walk along Esher High Street I consider going into the Civic Centre, asking for the case worker, and laying him out cold, bare-knuckle, in the foyer.
My son is brilliant. He sets himself projects in the form of electrical modifications to many items: taking battery-operated fairy lights and connecting them to the mains via a USB; stripping the wires and joining the positive and negative electrical ones; discarding the data wires, altering their polarity or wiring them in series or parallel when he wants to test the bulbs or make them pop with a little device that can deliver from 3 to 12 volts as he turns the little dial with a flathead screwdriver. That is my son; he is a budding electrical engineer but with a massive fear of learning because he might get it wrong (and he is a perfectionist) but also, principally, because a mainstream tutor was sent to our house and wrought havoc with her accusations and her utter hysteria. Which brings me to the next thing about the layers of stitch-up that I have been experiencing for the past few months.
When I complained to the company who had sent the hysterical tutor, after the case worker told me that the Local Authority had done its “due diligence” and the ball was now in my court, no-one came back to me. Weeks later my case worker, from the independent Education Advocacy company whose services I have, in desperation, sought in order to try to get somebody to do the right and legal thing by my son, provided me with the name of the person to whom I should direct my complaint.
This I did, and received an initial reply utilising the same jargon that companies do in order to try to duck liability on their part – ” I can only apologise for what seems to be less than satisfactory service for representatives of Winchmore Tutors.”
When I replied that “To describe what happened as a “less than satisfactory experience “ is bathos; it was traumatic for my son and for myself and I believe that the woman in question should be prosecuted or, at least, sacked.” I received a wordy and altogether discourteous reply, stating that the case had been investigated and closed because it was the Local Authority who were the client, and that they were all satisfied (self-satisfied, in my view) that procedure had been followed and duties dispensed. The final sentence of the email was a quote of my own and, as such, represented more a slap in the face than any concern for the harm done to an innocent and vulnerable child:
“While we appreciate that this entire incident has been most frustrating for you, there is not really anything further we can do, as our contract is with Surrey County Council, and only they, not us, are able to make any further decisions as to the well-being and care of your child. We have taken on board your input, as well as that from the tutor and Surrey County Council, and will now be drawing this incident to a close, as I am afraid but there is nothing further we can do to assist you in ‘resolving this appalling and traumatic situation for my child and myself.’”
Well thanks; Fucko. Yet again, it falls to Surrey County Council and, specifically, to the case worker, who commissioned this horror story and ducked responsibility when I complained. I should say that if it is indeed Surrey County Council who have the power to make decisions about the well-being and care of my child, then it is failing consistently and absolutely and utterly fucking appallingly. This is my son’s legal right to an education that is being jettisoned; no-one is stepping in to contest the stitch-ups by the schools who won’t offer an assessment or a placement on the most ridiculous grounds, given that they have never met my son and are supposed to be trained in the education of children just like him.
Is it that surprising, then, that my stress levels are astronomically high, despite the medication that I am on? In addition to this there is the problem, since the brain injury, with hormones – particularly progesterone. This has recently rendered me exhausted, unable to function and thinking of suicide and self-harm. It is thanks to my meds that I have been able to make better decisions than the ones suggested by my head, and stay with Mum for back-up with looking after Daniel, and to make sure that I am not alone and therefore less likely to act on the thoughts. There was one incidence, last Monday, when Daniel and the babysitter popped out to pick up some kitchen equipment, when I quickly swiped a razor across my arm. I thought better of it, however, and resisted the urge to deconstruct the casing of the razor in order to use the blades to cut myself more deeply. Knowing that Daniel and the babysitter would be back within 30 minutes also helped to disabuse me of the intention.
Thoughts of laying the case worker out in hospital frequently plague me, and I try to remember my faith: I am Buddhist, and do not believe in harming anyone or anything. Yet I ponder Boxing as a pastime, as I am filled with such an anger and such a sense of frustration and futility that it is hard to contain.
I have called, as advised, an Emergency Annual Review of my son’s EHCP with the Local Authority team, and this is scheduled for the afternoon of April 15th. I was in the gym last night, capably chest-pressing 25kg and seated-rowing 26kg. I think of Rocky Balboa in Rocky II, chasing a chicken, military-pressing a heavy bar, skipping and performing one-handed press-ups. I consider whether, for this meeting, I should wear my hand wraps.
ASD: on being a special-needs single parent 