Here we are at the hairdresser’s again. I’m unsure about what I’ll write. Is that the time to stop? Or will inspiration come. Writing again into the dark as Dr Kinouani (2021) described it.
I’m so tired, despite the early night. Perhaps the early mornings don’t help.
I remember years ago as a Student Nurse how we’d complain about too many earlies in a row or nights one after another, 7 or ten in a stretch. Then as a parent with a baby how that brings a whole new perspective on nights and earlies. How ‘being on call’ impacts planning.
Rota’s always a bone of contention. The person who did the rota where I last worked said how helpful it was to have someone flexible who could slot in here or there, change at a moment’s notice but that was blocked by those higher up. I’m repeating myself. Perhaps it’s a different audience.
Bank and agency staff say about how unwelcome they have felt, hard enough as it is to slot in to fill the breach.
We’ve got a bit of a situation going on. I feel so sorry for the person who has been brought in to fill someone else’s shoes. A horrible horrible situation that is just so sad.
Seriously I’m fighting back the tears as I write. Sometimes life is so unfair. Oh my mascara. I’m in the fucking hairdresser’s. I feel uncomfortable, focus on the bunny fur on my trousers… she’s under the drier now.
I wonder what will be on the death certificate. I doubt the childhood trauma will make it into the list. Another life cut short.
Rest in peace. I’ll remember you for your fun and laughter. Your cats and your ‘boys’, BBQs and stories.
It’s such a weird feeling when someone dies out of what feels like natural order. I think of her brother and mother and her many many friends.
I offered to write something, it was declined, fear of upsetting, treading on toes. Perhaps what I’ve said already too much. But I wanted you to know that others are thinking of you too. The health professionals involved in your care and your family. Everyone will have been hit hard after so long, so much uncertainty but now made certain.
I’m half listening to the hairdresser, they’ve talked about Eurovision, what an utter disgrace, but it’s all good fun and political, talk about drugs. Awful.
Hair is recovering, it’s noticeable how much choice is offered, how this is responded to, the kindness here. Checking and rechecking. It’s how health care needs to be.
I wonder if the hairdresser knows how trauma informed they are.
I went to webinar, a conference with people from all over the world. Exciting to be part of something when there’s so much push for equity.
A story of people being called out. There was listening and humility but I had to leave just as it was getting more exciting, them pledging a high impact plan. Left the computer on expecting to be back.
But the train wasn’t running an option of a bus to somewhere else, another hour wait. So I filled up with fuel at the second garage I tried, the first one empty.
Missed the butcher’s because of the diversion to collect our son, to the bus stop where the school bus goes which is so far from us. Us being ‘out of the way’.
That’s what inclusion looks like here.
But at least I phoned the social worker because we still hadn’t heard. We have an appointment next week.
Spoke to the carer’s, they are going to write a letter about how it’s been, what they’ve seen.
So I’m sorry I had to leave early. Not what I’d planned but that’s how it is here.