Note: Writing this blog or reverse diary makes me realise I’ve never reflected much on what I’ve lived through and usually only through storytelling to others. I’m not writing it in any order, one memory triggers another, but I will share I am crying right now, as I write this bit, and I have no idea why. You’d think at 59, nearly 60, I’d be over all this shit, the stuff that was my childhood, but it never leaves you, you just get used to it sitting in your mind as an unwelcome tenant or a shadow over something happening now and sometimes a joyous memory. I have always tried to see the optimistic side, the character building and been thankful for becoming who I am but I won’t lie, I am broken, it hurt and others have suffered because of that. However, I am here, still trying to be the better man, trying to find the spark, the joy and doing the right thing when I can. Ok… in the spirit of the blog, I’m not removing this, but I didn’t expect it to go on this long. Maybe I’ll copy it and expand on it elsewhere… Ok.. on with the show.
My mom’s illness wasn’t every day, at least not at the start, but as time went on, she got worse and I thought I’d include some details just to set some context. Vomiting green bile, extreme sensitivity to light, awful headaches, and fatigue. That was the start, and it would happen a few times a week, enough for me to need to help clean up and manage to miss school, which was fine with me. Being dyslexic, school was not a friendly place in the 70’s. I was just seen as dumb, so I preferred to stay home, watch the Open University programs on BBC2 and learn how to rewire plugs, take the radio apart, and steal from the local shops, as we had very little money. She was being treated for Migraine, and yes, the symptoms did line up at the start, but later the hallucinations and horrible things would say while having an episode, blaming me for Dad leaving etc, combined with longer and longer sleeps, probably should have been investigated properly, but, back then, doctor always knew best! All this was impossible for a child’s mind to rationalise, so I became one of my hero’s, Mr Spock off Star Trek. Sounds cute but it was the beginning of my compartmentalisation skills and killed of the emotional development of my mind. Ok, scene set, lets get on the fun ride shall we 🙂
So I was never at school; I might have mentioned that somewhere else. I went through psychological interviews, and countless missed visits by the truancy officer and eventually ended up in court at ten (1975). It was strange being in court, but even stranger because my Dad came over to go with me as I needed a parent present, and Mom was too ill to be there, but no one even asked about that, not the magistrate or Mom’s family, no one. No one asked how this little boy of 10 had been looking after a very sick mother on his own for 4 years. After standing in court next to my Dad, not understanding everything going on, I was assigned a social worker, a very nice man and quite an effective one as well, as it turned out. I’m going to call him Mr Allen.
A year later, in 1976, I started at Holly Lodge High School. I think I managed a week of attendance at the start of the term, but at this point, Mom was so ill and bedridden, so I stopped going as she needed care. Her delirium was now significantly worse, and she was almost constantly in bed, maybe 80% of the time. The green watery vomit was something I’d got used to emptying out of the blue handleless bucket we had, it was its only use now and always by her bed.
If I’m honest, at this point, I hated school, and having to wear a uniform cost money we didn’t have and made no sense; in fact, the world just didn’t make sense. I felt stupid when I was there; my reading and writing were terrible, as I was reminded constantly by many of the teachers how dumb I was, and I was just too busy getting by and looking after Mom to want to have to deal with that abuse, so I stayed away. It would be nearly 30 years before I was diagnosed with dyslexia, and it all made sense finally.
So after a few weeks, early October it would have been, my social worker, Mr Allen, came to the door. By this time, I was an expert at not answering the door; I knew the car of the truant officer (a white VW Beetle) and would lean out of the kitchen window when the door was knocked, as he had started parking around the back of the flats.
My social worker, Mr Allen, drove something brown and French, I think; he didn’t come that much, so I hadn’t clocked it yet. So he knocked, and instead of ‘going dark’ and sitting in silence until I’d be sure whoever it was had gone, I just opened the door. My mom’s illness had gotten so bad at that point, I was ready to go into care, just for a rest, and that’s what I was expecting to happen. All the threats of that happening to try and get me to go to school hadn’t worked, and now I was ready just to be somewhere else, somewhere I wasn’t clearing up sick, being shouted at, being kept up all night because of the ranting and seeing mom like this. I was just a stressed and exhausted 11-year-old all the time.
“Hello David, why aren’t you in school”? He said. I just stood to one side, like a doorman, and gestured to him to come in; I don’t remember speaking at all. He stepped in, and I led him to Mom’s room. Of course, I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I remember the gist.
“I can’t go to school, mom’s always ill”. I was waiting for him to carry out the threat, but instead, he sat on the bed, next to the bucket, in the dark room. She had a flannel across her eyes, which she removed when he spoke to her. I have no idea what they talked about, but afterwards he came and spoke to me, I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something like this.
‘”OK, David. Is she like this a lot”? I nodded, “I will speak to the school and tell them you won’t be in this week. It can’t go on; you need to go back to school, but I can see why you can’t. I’m going to talk to your doctor and a friend of mine, do you understand?” I nodded, I think, “Is there anything you need?” In hindsight, I should’ve asked for help, food, and some time out, but at the time, not used to relying on anyone else or getting help, I shook my head and said, “No?” He responded, “The truant officer won’t call for the rest of the week, you can relax, but I will be back, so answer the door when I return, OK? You aren’t in trouble”. And then he left.
I didn’t understand quite what happened at the time, but I realise now I just unloaded everything that night for the first time in years, probably, and slept without the fear of door-knocking the next day.
Mr Allen did go and see Mom’s GP, who had been treating her for migraines for the last 5 years, but was turned away, so he went to see his friend, who turned out to be a leading neurology consultant and got her an appointment. Within a month, Mom was in the hospital, turned out she had a massive benign brain tumour, which took 2 major operations to remove. It was estimated that at the time of admission, Mom had 3 months to live.
During that time, over winter and Christmas 1976, while Mom was in hospital, I spent my time with my Aunties’ families during term time and with my Dad over Christmas. My school attendance was good, I started to fit in a bit, though it was a struggle, and I got to be a kid for a little while at least.
When mom came out, she was weak, obviously, as recovering from major surgery takes time, but we got no support, and pretty soon everything went back to how it was, me looking after her while she struggled to get better, and staying out of school. It was better, and I managed a bit more school; however, she had other health issues, and it wasn’t until I was 13 and she’d had some more surgery that she finally started being properly functional as a mom, but she still struggled with the day-to-day, probably the aftereffects of the tumour but more likely the trauma of everything had robbed her of her strength and resilience, I realise that now. And she couldn’t cope with me; I had become a kind of forced adult. It was too late for me to be a kid anymore, skipping teenage growth and in permanent survival mode. I developed a lot of issues which I carried into my adult life; some still affect me today I think, though I’m aware on them.
Mr Allen was the first of 3 social workers. I don’t really remember the middle one, but the third was a retired police woman, very tall… and nice, but I think by then I was too far gone to work with her and to be integrated back into mainstream school, I just about made it in for a couple of lessons a week, the ones I liked, and that was it.
Note 2: I really struggled writing this. So hard to write it with any feeling, even though I have lots of feelings about it. I think this memory is really wrapped up so tight I’m almost reporting it like I’m watching it happen, which feels very strange… like it’s outside of me, maybe I buried this too deep, maybe this is what some trauma looks like? 7 years of surviving, stealing, cleaning up sick etc… and as a kid I just thought it was normal.
