7 January 2020
Mr Dixon doesn’t like the amended rules we want to establish for the new year. He’s wanted to get away from us, his parents, for quite a while, as any self-respecting 28 going on 18-year-old young man would want to. In fact, it would suit him admirably if we moved out of our grand old lady Queenslander and he stayed put. He has been downstairs behaving like he’s the boss, telling me with a vigorously wagging fore finger, that I will not be changing the rule about the communication sheet between his service and us. In fact, he postulates, there won’t be any new rules at all. When it comes to the communication sheets, he tends to dictate to the carer what to write about his daily activities. This is a nuisance because we really don’t know what he does on a given day because the dictated text invariably involves going to a fish ‘n chip shop on a motorcycle with all the related biker paraphernalia being appropriately worn no matter the weather. Alternatively, the carer will be instructed to write that the motorcycle ride will occur with one or more kind and attentive female carers in attendance on separate motorcycles. Now, don’t think I’m disrespecting the carers here. Mr Dixon can be powerfully insistent when it comes to his wants and needs and the carers have a great deal to do at day’s end so they quickly scribble what he commands, and hopefully, something that reflects the reality of his day, just to get rid of him. So, he’s downstairs, as I was saying, sounding awfully like his father when the latter is cross with him. I tell him I’m not interested in what he has to say if he’s going to say it in such a cross manner.
“There is no point in going on about those blasted communication sheets because we are simply not allowing it to go on as it has”, says I
“There will be no saying that there are no more blasted communication sheets”, says he.
Geez, thank goodness I don’t swear! The neighbours would hear this interaction in his big booming voice.
“Oh, my goodness, I’ve had enough of this, I think I’ll leave home”, says I.
“Go, go”, says he. “Go on, you can go”. He stopped short of telling me to pack my bags as I know his father has said to him.
Meanwhile, I said, “Talk to me nicely, and remember that we all have to abide by rules. It’s not just you that has to”.
He proceeds to tell me the same thing over again trying very hard to sound kinder and more upbeat, wearing a grimace on his face that he suggests is a smile.
“Look, I’m smiling,” says he, telling me again that he wants the communication sheet situation to stay exactly the same.
Why can it not stay the same, I hear you ask. Because he’s been attending Blue Care four to five days a week for ten years. That’s ten years’ worth of communication sheets each carefully placed in its plastic sleeve squirrelled away in his own filing system in his bedroom and they all say the same damn thing.