On please stfu

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This is a rant post, so be warned. I know that other people have problems. I know that their problems are their problems and to them, their problems are huge and big and unwieldy. I know this, and if we are friends and I love you I want to hear about your life and listen and help you (if this what you want) navigate whatever it is you are navigating.

But if we are not friends and you have your problems and you’re passive aggressively complaining because I didn’t immediately bow down to your problems, let’s be clear: there needs to be some perspective for me to relate and empathise to your problems.

Here are the problems I live with everyday: watching my son stop breathing while he seizes, praying he comes out of it and doesn’t change colour and lose all his developmental progress. Fighting to see our neurologist to help with meds to help his seizures, who can’t see us because the nhs is chronically underfunded and the neurodisability service at our hospital is in crisis and doesn’t have any available appointments at all during the next six months. Trying to keep my son from vomiting, so he can keep his meds down and have less seizures (and the washing and comforting and changing that comes with the multiple times a day vomiting). How to manage my son so he can be part of this world (when he can’t see, speak, move or eat independently). Managing our chronic grief because my son has a terminal disorder, is on palliative and hospice care, because his disorder is terminal with no cure or effective treatment.

Problems which I don’t think are problems I, specifically, need to manage or allocate effort to: your phobia of dogs.

Not because I have a fear of dogs (I do not, I love dogs) but because the severity of what we live with day to day is so chronically at the other end of the scale, up there with literally life and death decision making and kids that literally die and suffer, that a phobia, something which has a solid treatment option (even when its hard and requires work and effort) and options to avoid the trigger (again, still hard and requires work and effort), is not even a blip on the scale. Truth, if I could swap our life with NKH and it’s seizures and death and grief for a dog phobia, I would in a heartbeat.

In short I’m in a not-conflict. Because the person who has a phobia of dogs doesn’t know our story (and also doesn’t want to know). And sure, I could probably be more tolerant and kind, but also, catering to strangers not-problems is emotionally draining and my emotional plate is full of already draining things.

Also, just so you know: service/therapy dogs that are certified and trained appropriately aren’t pets.

Also: We don’t even have a dog. I wish we did, though.

The Inaugural #TeamMikaere Run

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I’m super, super late getting this post up, considering it was last September. But, The Run! Capital T, Capital R.  You must have seen the many posts leading up to it, I was all over instagram + facebook, trying to get convince people to run, to volunteer, to donate. It was the first time we’d organised an event that felt this big, that required a proper team of volunteers and tickets and several days prep and it’s own fancy website – and I was so anxious that it go well!

But here’s the thing. We have asked every single person we know for a donation. We saturated our friends and families asking for donations. You know this, if you read our blog posts, because we ask you ALL THE TIME! We know there are only so many times we can go to our loved ones with our hands out. Because you’ve all already donated (and we love you for it) and the way we keep asking, with our desperation close in to our hearts, it’s disparaging.

So now we do events, because it’s more than just putting your hand out and asking. Because events mean our friends can bring their friends (which is reaching people outside our social circle). And because events feel like we’re *doing* something, something more than just posting another fundraising link to our social channels and crossing our fingers. But I’ve never organised a run before. Did you know that runs need Race Directors? And water stops (I literally didn’t, until the morning of our run, until our newly acquired Race Director very gently let me know that I should get *a lot* more water).

But, oh my days, we had 30 runners sign up. 30 people, who had committed to raising £100 each for NKH Research, to join us around the 12km course.  We had a dozen or so volunteers, from manning the water stops, to cheering us on, to follow us around the course and man the bag drop and put out arrows.

You guys…. 12km is not a short distance. I struggled. And in case it’s not clear what I mean by that: I was the very last one across the finish line, and I almost bawled my eyes out as I crossed it.  My son is never going to run. Not a single step, not 12km. NKH has robbed him of that opportunity.

Which meant that every step felt personal. It helped that Sam had pushed him around the course before me, and that one of my nearest and dearest, Breege (who lives the grief and special needs life too) ran alongside with me, letting me feel my feels as I went. This run, this fundraising, it’s personal. This was not ‘just’a another fundraising event (are they ever?)… This run genuinely was about hope. My hope. The hope that one day kids with severe NKH will run. That they’ll take steps independent of support equipment. That they’ll find the joy in independent movement.

I can’t tell you how much I want that for my son. The depths to which I hope and wish, and the overwhelming and shattering grief when the reality is unlikely for him. (Grief… it’s real and hard and we live with it everyday. You know how it is. I’m always bringing my grief to the internet). So, this run was personal for us. We were joined by two other NKH families, which made this run special. It’s always heartening to know we’re not alone. That there are people in our corner who share our life, our grief and our love.

Thank you to everyone who donated. Thank you to everyone who fundraised. Who ran, and volunteered (hi Lucy!) and who showed up to give NKH the finger. We love you, and we’re grateful. So so so grateful.

With matching, raised £12,741.00 – isn’t that a phenomenal amount?! It makes me quite teary. This means so much, so so so much to the world of NKH Research. I’m grateful for the love and persistence with which our runners met their fundraising pledges.

It’s important to me that everyone knows that our valiant fundraising efforts do not disappear into the ether. The funds were donated to Joseph’s Goal (run by Emma + Paul Kendrick, whose son Joe has NKH) and from there (in full) to Prof. Nick Greene at UCL, who is currently the world leader in NKH Research.

Funds like this make a tangible difference in the research that can be done by Nick.  When we met him earlier this year, he said donations like ours have sped up his research by approximately 18 months. That is life changing, when most children with NKH won’t see their first birthday. His team are making progress, which give us hope, something to hang to to.

Through him you give us hope that children with NKH might have a different future.

I also want to take a moment and thank Lou and Sam. Because without their love, and determination (and that cheeky lunchtime pint at our local) this run wouldn’t have happened. We love you guys, for offering help and for saying ‘ yes we can’ to something which felt impossible. We did it!

We’ll be back again next year. Do you fancy joining us?

If running is not your thing, is eating chicken nuggets? Fancy signing up the chicken nugget challenge – it goes down at the end of Feb!  www.teammikaere.com/chicken-nugget-challenge



On a nursery update

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I just got a call from the early years head teacher with an update. Internally, they’ve discussed Mikaere’s case, have gone to the local authority to say the package isn’t right for him and they’ve suggested we appeal to the Complex Needs Panel.

Okay, this blew my mind, because we’re talking about a special needs school, in an early years class of special needs toddlers who have very similar physical and cognitive abilities as Mikaere. What kind of complex needs does my son have that these kids don’t that requires he goes to a special panel?

And then it clicked. He’s on palliative care. That’s why. My son has a terminal disorder, and that’s why we’re jumping through extra hoops. There is no one else in the class who is on palliative. Just us.

So now we’re going to an extra panel, to ask for one to one care in case Mikaere has a seizure at nursery. I worry about this, because the first panel, without us, allocated a package that wasn’t suitable.

Truth: I’m intimidated by a room full of strangers that I don’t know, making decisions about our life. I fear they’re going to say no. That the answer will be no and our Lovely School will feel like they can’t safely provide care for him and we won’t have the opportunity.

I’m scared that in advocating for him I’ve ruined his chance to go to nursery. I wonder if I hadn’t made a fuss, if he would have been alright going five days a week (I don’t think so, but I do wonder). I wonder if I’ve done him a disservice, by fighting for more, for better. For safe care.

Sigh. I don’t know. We’ll see. We wait to hear from the complex needs panel. Another group of people we don’t know, making decisions that will have huge impact on our lives.

Fingers crossed for positive news.

PS – If you’re thinking of signing up to the Chicken Nugget Challenge, get involved!  We’re looking for more team members! www.teammikaere.com/chicken-nugget-challenge

More on Vision

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Now that we know Mikaere’s eyesight is worse than we originally thought (See the post titled ‘To my son I’m a giant blob‘) we can introduce things to help.

Now that it’s dark in the afternoons, I set up light shows for him. We were gifted this amazing black carpet/fibre optic amazing whatsit that has little lights on a black carpet that change colour (<3 Alexander x). We also have a set of fibre optic cables that came from a charity. Sometimes he’s interested, sometimes he’s not. We were told by his vision therapist that if he looks at a anything, that’s a win.

We’re also trying to introduce single bright toys against dark backgrounds in the hope that it helps. Portage bought around this great moving wooden duck that waddles very very slowly down a slope. I’d hoped he track it, and he kind of did the first time. We showed him a large light tube at vision, where the light moves down the tube, super slow. Again, tracked it, kind of, the first time.

Now he won’t. Is it because he can’t see it? Is it because he’s not interested? We wrangled a dark backdrop up to work as contrast to be be honest, I don’t know what’s working and what’s not.

I struggle with this, because I know vision, focusing and following is the basis of most physical developmental movement. So many movements start with looking, with motivation. And if he can’t see and he can’t hold and doesn’t have the motivation to see, which then moves into a lack of reaching or touching, what does that mean for him?

We’ve already seen that his little left roll is not a neurotypical roll, because he’s not starting it with his arms outstretched, as he reaches for something. He tucks his arms in, to keep them out of his way and leads with his knees instead. A bottom up rotation, instead of a top down.

So, working on vision. At least the lights are pretty.

On the Emotional Struggle

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There was an article I read a while ago, which was shared all over the special needs community. PTSD Helps Parents Keep Their Medically Fragile Children Alive — But At What Cost?

It was validating, I guess, but not super helpful. The main point is that the ongoing strain of the special needs life causes intense stress resulting in PTSD. There was a comparison that treating PTSD in special needs parents was similar to treating it in service members engaged in active combat.

However, the ‘how to deal with stress’ or PTSD advice was low on the ground, or as the article put it: there are ‘financial or logistical barriers’ to carers receiving care.

And I get that. I don’t know when I’m meant to fit in self care in Mikaere’s day (don’t tell me the line about how important it is, because I don’t want to hear it – I already KNOW it. Not knowing how important it is not my problem). Truth: I also don’t have the funds for the care, or the funds needed to pay for a nurse while I go to do whatever it is. Just as a comparison: I have had my hair cut exactly twice this year, both times when I was away without Sam and Kai, that I saved up over MONTHS for. If I can’t manage a haircut while taking care of Mikaere I couldn’t see myself managing regular therapy.

(Side note: I want to clarify that we get couples therapy through our hospice, specifically to tackle bereavement and the special needs life. Our therapist comes to us so we don’t need to worry about care for Mikaere. It’s also paid for by our hospice, which we’re grateful for. But a session every few weeks is helpful when you’re in a safe space and maintaining, but in our life too much happens for us ever to get to the ‘maintaining’ part of things. We’re always tackling the next crisis).

Thing is,  I cycle through the occasional periods of ‘I’m fine, look at me do all the things’ with the debilitating downsides of extreme and chronic grief and depression. I’m going to pause here for a moment, because it feels weird to admit this at large to the internet. But the truth is, children have died. Many children, that we knew and love. My child will one day die, and I don’t know whether that’s soon, or not soon (both realities are inconceivably scary). If you add in the sleep deprivation from around the clock care, and the relentless day-to-day appointments and therapy, I think extreme and chronic grief and depression is an appropriate response.

The thing is, when I’m so down, doing anything other than taking care of Mikaere is tough. (Side note: I will never be so down that I can’t care for my son. He will always get the meds and feeds and care he needs, because idea that his already limited life should be anything less because of my feelings is impossible and will not happen).

I just… I feel like my emotions are raw, just under the surface all the time. It comes with all the shame and guilt and feelings like I should be better at holding it all together. I should be better for Mikaere. (To be clear, again, in case any stranger on the internet feels the need to DM me with their concerns  – his needs always come ahead of mine, because if they don’t he’ll go into a seizure coma and die. Even in my deepest darkest abyss, I’ve will never not be able to take care of him).

You guys… so many children we care about have died. I talk about this all of the time, but I’m really struggling with it. There are big gapping holes in my heart. My child is so disabled and his disorder is terminal – the phrase ‘all is right with the world’ will never again be relevant to me. I’m constantly fighting for the next thing, constantly trying to figure how to get more for Mikaere, how to keep our little ship afloat, keep him happy and healthy. How I’m meant to hold on to the happy when our day to days are so stressful is beyond me.

I’m at a loss. I feel like I basically need to find another outlet for my emotions. I think about the gym. I think about more 1-1 therapy. I think about how we’re a single income family and how I’m meant to find time and money to do these things and the idea of finding time in Mikaere’s schedule and organising care… it seems impossible.

And then I mentioned it to our Homestart Worker. Homestart are charity, and they have a therapist who does pro-bono sessions.  And now I’m set to see a therapist. I’m nervous, not really sure about how it’s going to go. I’m also really nervous about unpacking all the feelings from the last three years that I’ve packed waaaay down so I can get on with my day to day.

I’m scared to stay where I am, in the infeasible present, and I’m scared to start therapy, and facing the giant mess of grief I’m holding tight. I don’t fully understand how people navigate the world of pallative and grief and special needs without crumbling. The last three years have been so brutal. Facing more years seems huge (and idea of not facing more years seems impossibly crushing).

If someone has a magic wand they could wave, that’s the solution I could use right now. (Or you can fundraise/donate towards a cure. I’m shaving my head for NKH research, so yeah. Donations would work too).


On AFO’s. 

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Sometime last year, our physio mentioned AFO’s – Ankle Foot Orthosis. We were using trainers + leg gaiters to help with free standing (I say ‘free’ standing, but what that really means is that we hold Mikaere up, rather than him standing in a stander).

The trainers were to stop his feet over pronating (meaning: the arches of his foot rolled inward), and the gaiters to help maintain knee extension (meaning: he can’t lock out his legs, and use his knee to keep his leg straight).

But, she thought that AFO’s – like a hard sandal that has a back that goes up to the calf – might help his standing without the need to fix his knees.  Mikaere is also showing dystonic posturing of his feet into an equinovarus position (pointing down and inwards), and the idea was that AFO’s would offer him more time with his feet supported in a more neutral position.

We’re lucky that we’re part of a tertiary hospital that isn’t currently suffering from funding issues thanks to private funding, which meant that with a referral letter from our clinician and a letter from our physio, we got the thumbs up for AFO’s. To be clear: our local community hospital wasn’t going to fund them. So we’re grateful!

They’re custom made for Mikaere – his feet were covered in plaster and the AFO’s made from the mould. We use them most days during physio-like activities, and sure enough, they help keep his feet in more neutral positions and definitely make standing easier!

They’re another set of supports in our kit. At this point – it’s heart breaking knowing my baby is almost two years over the point where most kids learn to stand. It’s unlikely he’ll ever it do it by himself, without support.

I also know that if he doesn’t stand, if he doesn’t bear weight through his legs, his hip sockets won’t form and he’ll be at risk of hip sublaxation (where his hip is partly dislocated) and/or hip dysplasia (where his hip socket isn’t formed correctly, which doesn’t hold his hip joint in place).

I know that both those options can be painful, and awful. I’d like to avoid that. So, standing. As much standing as we can do. To be honest, it’s not a lot. Finding time in our days to fit standing in isn’t easy. But every minute counts. So some days it’s kneeling against me across the back of the couch, and some days its in the stander, and some days in ten minutes in the AFO’s.

We do what we can, hey? We’ve picked a fun blue camo, in the hope that it will make them more ‘fun’ to use. Sigh. Onwards we go.

On the Walker Saga

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The thing with having a child that can’t be upright by himself means that every time Mikaere is upright, his legs are strapped down. Every time. He’s entire lower half is static. Can you even imagine?  That to upright independently, you have to have your entire body from the chest to your toes strapped down.

This means Mikaere has never been in an upright position and realised he has ankles. He’s never had the opportunity to understand what his ankles are, when he’s upright. To realise what his legs are for.  Or realised that if he locks his knees he could stand.

There was also a theory, once, that if Mikaere learnt he could move his legs, realised he had mobility and ankles and knees, he might begin to weight bear. Maybe (this is very long long shot).

So I looked around at equipment that might be supportive for his trunk (because obviously he’s going to need support) and have his legs free, and I came across gait trainers, or walkers. They’re exactly like what they sound – exactly like those little walkers you plop babies in so they can move their feet and go – except instead of fisher price it’s a full on piece of therapy equipment.

I convinced our NHS physio that it was a good idea to try, and she said no harm. So we tried a walker. We organised a rep to come out and fit it and put him in it.  You guys. Nothing in the sky aligned for us.

Mikaere refused to nap and he’d a load of seizures so already we were on the back foot. Coaxing Mikaere into the walker, sans nap, into a completely new experience was both fine and heartbreaking.

There were moments were he was happy. Holding his head up, curious about what was happening to his legs, the freedom and movement, but when he realised he couldn’t get out of it, he screamed. Big tears, very unhappy, completely helpless, frustrated that what he wanted (out) he couldn’t do himself. Proper, loud, distraught screaming. Back arching, over extension. Rage. Screaming.

I hate it when he screams. I hate it when we’re trying something and we go too fast, or it’s too much and I can’t anticipate it and he just, it’s too much. Screaming. It hits me right in the heart that something I pushed for has caused my baby to scream like that.

I pretty much tore through the straps to get him out out as quick as we could, and comforted.  We cuddled and sang songs and coaxed him back in. Fine for a few minutes, not fine after that.

Essentially I called it after the third attempt. My aim was to see if we could put him in a supportive position to teach him how to weight bear through his legs himself. Or even, teach him that his legs are helpful for weight bearing, for standing. To see if he had any inclination in propelling himself forward with his legs. To teach him he has ankles.

Turns out he wasn’t keen. We had a talk about how neurotypical babies learn, but things like a baby doorway bouncer or a baby activity ring, they don’t have enough core support for him. Our NHS physio basically said they wouldn’t fund it. He didn’t show enough forward momentum for him to show that it would be beneficial. Womp.

We talked about standing slings, to see if I could suspend him from a doorway (like a doorway bouncer without the bounce) but the hoist company wouldn’t sell the sling to a family without a hoist. Our plan was to suspend it from a pull up bar in the doorway, knowing full well that if it could hold Sam’s weight it could hold Mikaere’s. But no go. (I did, later, try suspend the upsee vest from the pull upbar, but it makes him lopsided, head forward legs back. Not what I was looking for!)

And so I mulled on it. And thought about it.  And then I mentioned to our private physio what I was thinking.  See, the difference between our private physio + our NHS physio is that she has the time, and space and freedom to try different things. She isn’t bound by KPI’s, or the weird NHS culture that our other (lovely, completely competent and wonderful) physio is.  She’s also knows Mikaere well enough to know what he’s like on a bad day, and how different he is on a good day.

So, we tried again, privately. I’d look at private funding, but first we’d get the rep out and see him again in a walker.

It was 100% a different experience. We went slow. Spending a good few minutes looking at the walker, touching the walker, going in and out of the walker. Feeling his feet, on the carpet, on the tiled floor. Feeling his weight move from the front of his foot, to his heel. Literally holding up his head in our hands, his hands exploring the conveniently placed ring for holding onto.

What a different experience. He didn’t love it, he tolerated it. But – BUT! He was using his ankles, weight was going through his feet. There was definite learning there, figure out how and when and what! If the goal is for him to be more aware of his body, to learn he has ankles and to strengthen those muscles and maybe, one day (extreme stretch goal), weight bear independently, then this session showed he could.

So we pushed go. I got funding, and we said yes please to the rep company, Jiraffe. We would like a small pacer please. In speedy purple. Could we please have a quote? It took a while for the funding come through, but it did (thank you, Elifar!) and when it had, unfortunately Jiraffe had upgraded to a new walker that wasn’t quite as appropriate for Mikaere. They only had the demo walker left.

We’re not precious, so we asked if we could purchase the demo version. There was radio silence on Jiraffe’s end, and when they came back, blow me over with a feather. Because Mikaere’s condition is terminal, they would like to GIFT the demo pacer to Mikaere! Oh my days! We were so grateful, so so so grateful and accepted.

And now Mikaere has a gait walker. It’s beautiful. He’s tolerating it for longer and longer periods (it helps that his vision has improved and he now watches TV. The walker puts him at the right height). He doesn’t throw his head back anymore, and has learnt to hold his head forward (which means we don’t need to hold his head!). He’s beginning to understand the concept of taking steps (with a lot of support, not independently!) but mostly, he’s feeling his legs and his ankles upright, free of straps. He moves his legs, moves his ankles, and that’s everything. He also smiles when he’s in it, which is everything.

So, onwards we go. Upright, with feet free. With Disco parties in the hallway. We’re doing it!


On friends running the Dublin Marathon

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Today Shane, Maria and Kevin ran the Dublin marathon for #TeamMikaere and Joseph’s Goal.

Shane’s son Rauirí and Mikaere are friends from our local special needs playgroup. There is a lot of love between our families, we have an incredible amount of time for them.

Shane (and Maria and friends!), running for us today? That’s everything. They wore Kai’s name across their chests and ran 26.2 miles. A phenomenal achievement. Even more so, apparently one of their party injured themselves half way *and continued* still crossing the finish line. That level of determination is admirable.

They’ve also raised a whopping £2k for NKH research, and if I’m honest, that feels personal. That feels like over and above, and we’re grateful. Heartwrenchingly, overwhelmingly grateful. So to the Hoynes: thank you. Thank you thank you thank you, genuinely.

If you’d like to support this amazing achievement they’re fundraising on justgiving at: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/shane-maria

On making the boot work

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Fuck. I was putting Mikaere into his car seat when I felt his gastrostomy button pop out of his stoma. I heard his stomach contents dribble out and – fuck – was my first thought.

It was raining. It was just me and Kai and we were in the back streets of an unfamiliar suburb. I did a quick search, and sure enough, the nearest changing places facility (basically, a public toilet with a changing bench bigger than a baby changing table) is just over 15 miles away. Blah.

Mikaere’s button pops out all the time, and usually it’s no big deal. But we’re 40 minutes from home and I know he can’t have the button out for that long without it beginning to close. (Considering it was surgery to put it in, closing is not an option).

So, I do what I always do when I’m in a tight spot, which is move him to the boot of the car and take care of it. So I do, changing him, deflating the button and putting it back in with the gear we carry around with us in the emergency bag.

But I think how undignified for him. How cold and uncomfortable and just – not ideal for all of this to take place in the boot of my car, with the door pulled low to keep out the rain.

But the thing is, there aren’t enough safe places around where I could change him. Places with a long enough changing table to make it safe. Baby changing tables are everywhere, but they’re too short for him.

As I change him out of his vomity clothes, I think how awful that the quick, easy solution is here. Where anyone can walk by, where the breeze is cold.

I hate this. I hate that this is our life. The special needs life is just awful. I’m glad it was quick, but I wish we had the facilities nearby to manage without resorting to the boot of the car.

Also, as he gets bigger, the boot of the car isn’t going to cut it. What are we going to do then?!

On keeping my eye on the (Zonisamide) ball

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I feel urgent. I’m in the car, silently willing traffic to get out of the way. Mikaere’s fine next to me, kicking the shit out of some bells tied to ribbons in front of him.

There’s been a mix up, and I wasn’t top of my game enough to catch it, and now there is all sorts of hustling happening. There are four medications Kai can’t skip. Two for his glycine, and two for his seizures. We’ve recently switched services, a new GP which comes with a new pharmacy.  Except that our new pharmacy doesn’t call you when the medications are in, and also isn’t open on weekends (literally wtf).

So, I’m in a panic because we have exactly one anti-epileptic dose for the weekend, when we need at least four doses. Fuck. Missing them and facing a weekend of seizures (and all the joy that comes with them) is not how I want to spend my weekend.

But the anti-epileptic Mikaere is on is not your typical run of the mill anti-epileptic. That’s because the bog standard seizure medications are contraindicative with NKH.  So, he’s on a medication that’s not licensed for children under 6, and it’s usually down the bottom of the list of what a neurologist would try, because it’s more expensive.  What I’m saying is that it’s not a medication most pharmacy’s have on hand. It’s usually special order.

Conveniently, I called our old pharmacy, who have a box in stock (woo!).  But, to pick up the box, I need a prescription, and our GP is closed. So I call our CCN, who was all hands on deck for someone else’s emergency. Womp. Next step was to call our palliative Care team, who have a backup GP but told me to get in touch with our local hospital as technically we’re not in hospice on a symptom stay, so should be supported by our community team.

So I call the switch board of our local hospital, who put me through to casualty, who told me to ring 1111. I rang 1111 and spoke to a lady who could send a repeat prescription to only specific pharmacies.  Lovely. So I ring the four pharmacies they work with, and none of them have it in stock.

I call 1111 back, and speak to a doctor who took a history. Said that because the medication is usually only recommended for those over the age of 6 (and my son is 2) and so we’d need to be reviewed, with documentation that he’s been prescribed it.

So, I made us an appointment for in 30 minutes. We live 25 minutes away, the next dose is due in 20 minutes, so the three of hustle to get out the door.

Traffic is awful, but we manage. The doctor see’s us right away (and I feel terrible for wasting her time, showing her our latest review letter with medications + doses listed, and with the last prescription receipt) and then we make it to the pharmacy just before it closes.

I make up the dose right there in the car, and the dose is only 15 minutes late.

I’m relieved, but fuck you guys. That was hours and hours of hustle because I didn’t know our local pharmacy isn’t open on weekends.

Hey ho. I’m glad we worked it out in the end.