people were already present when I turned up at the appointed time at a glass-walled meeting room at the hospital. Mrs Willis was going to be chairing the discussion,and invited me to sit next to her. Everyone took their places around a large table and started to introduce themselves. I was about to ask about Roger when, through the window into the corridor, I saw a porter pushing a wheelchair in our direction. I was momentarily confused, and then horrified, to see that the forlorn figure apparently slumped in the chair and staring fixedly ahead of him was my brother. I leapt to my feet and went to hold open the door.
“Hi, Roger.” I spoke in as cheerful a voice as I could manage and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Quite an entrance. You OK? What’s with the wheelchair?” Roger seemed not to have heard my greeting and showed no sign of responding. It was something he did from time to time, and was one of his habits which left people unsure of how to react. Mrs Willis explained to me that it was a hospital rule that patients were not allowed to walk unaided through corridors for fear of accidents. “But Roger isn’t a patient, is he? There’s nothing wrong with him. They’re just looking after him for a few days while we decide what to do?” I was quick enough to see the exchanged glances between the case workers around the table. Roger’s wheelchair was positioned in the only available space, more or less opposite me and just set back slightly from the rest of us.
When medical and social workers speak about a disabled person, they often find it necessary to adopt a particular tone of voice that is never used for anything else. An odd lilt, rather like someone reciting poetry or delivering a sermon, which Iassume is intended to suggest care and compassion, but to me only ever sounds sanctimonious. On that day and in that room, that special tone was all I could hear; no individual words, but the bounce of joined-up syllables recited as if by rote. Only the odd term such as “management” and “supervision” and “monitoring” dented the barrier being erected in my mind by the echoes of recent conversations with my parents.
“Roger is Roger, and he’s always going to need some support,” my mother was saying, “and we aren’t going to be able to provide it for him for ever.”
Obviously none of us had expected anything to happen so soon, but my own breezy reassurances came back uninvited into my head.
“I know that, but obviously, when that time comes, I’ll take care of him.”
“I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time.” The people around the table stopped speaking. I had said it out loud, and heard myself continuing. “I will be looking after Roger. Full time. He will live with me. If you would be kind enough to keep him here for just a few more days while I collect my belongings and find a place to live, I will take responsibility for him from next week.” I glanced across the table and saw my brother Roger’s impassive face illuminate into a beam which penetrated like a rainbow through the storm clouds. His joy seemed to be unbounded; but what was it in his expression which made me wonder if this was the outcome he had expected all along?
* * *
I more or less sleepwalked through most of the next few days, but Mrs Willis, it should be said, was terrific. By the end of that week I had found and moved into a small furnished flat on the third floor of a large Victorian house in Clapham and had gathered together some bits and pieces of essentials. I was able to obtain from the charity shop enough clothes to tide over the pair of us. Roger would continue to attend his day centre, it was agreed, and we would meet with social workers and psychologists from time to time to keep an eye on his welfare and progress.
With every piece of paper in the house burnt to a cinder, I had no idea of the status of my father’s insurance, or even if the house had a mortgage on it. I think I must have
“Hi, Roger.” I spoke in as cheerful a voice as I could manage and placed my hand on his shoulder. “Quite an entrance. You OK? What’s with the wheelchair?” Roger seemed not to have heard my greeting and showed no sign of responding. It was something he did from time to time, and was one of his habits which left people unsure of how to react. Mrs Willis explained to me that it was a hospital rule that patients were not allowed to walk unaided through corridors for fear of accidents. “But Roger isn’t a patient, is he? There’s nothing wrong with him. They’re just looking after him for a few days while we decide what to do?” I was quick enough to see the exchanged glances between the case workers around the table. Roger’s wheelchair was positioned in the only available space, more or less opposite me and just set back slightly from the rest of us.
When medical and social workers speak about a disabled person, they often find it necessary to adopt a particular tone of voice that is never used for anything else. An odd lilt, rather like someone reciting poetry or delivering a sermon, which Iassume is intended to suggest care and compassion, but to me only ever sounds sanctimonious. On that day and in that room, that special tone was all I could hear; no individual words, but the bounce of joined-up syllables recited as if by rote. Only the odd term such as “management” and “supervision” and “monitoring” dented the barrier being erected in my mind by the echoes of recent conversations with my parents.
“Roger is Roger, and he’s always going to need some support,” my mother was saying, “and we aren’t going to be able to provide it for him for ever.”
Obviously none of us had expected anything to happen so soon, but my own breezy reassurances came back uninvited into my head.
“I know that, but obviously, when that time comes, I’ll take care of him.”
“I’m sorry for wasting everyone’s time.” The people around the table stopped speaking. I had said it out loud, and heard myself continuing. “I will be looking after Roger. Full time. He will live with me. If you would be kind enough to keep him here for just a few more days while I collect my belongings and find a place to live, I will take responsibility for him from next week.” I glanced across the table and saw my brother Roger’s impassive face illuminate into a beam which penetrated like a rainbow through the storm clouds. His joy seemed to be unbounded; but what was it in his expression which made me wonder if this was the outcome he had expected all along?
* * *
I more or less sleepwalked through most of the next few days, but Mrs Willis, it should be said, was terrific. By the end of that week I had found and moved into a small furnished flat on the third floor of a large Victorian house in Clapham and had gathered together some bits and pieces of essentials. I was able to obtain from the charity shop enough clothes to tide over the pair of us. Roger would continue to attend his day centre, it was agreed, and we would meet with social workers and psychologists from time to time to keep an eye on his welfare and progress.
With every piece of paper in the house burnt to a cinder, I had no idea of the status of my father’s insurance, or even if the house had a mortgage on it. I think I must have
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