The Cost of asking for help

A very long time ago, once upon a time, in the depths of the fog of the great long past, I was a young mother. I had two little children who were growing up and learning and causing the usual havoc that toddlers do.

We lived in the beautiful bubble of home that so many young families enjoy. We saw grandparents every few weeks. We went out of the home to see other parents, to go to the park or for playdates with the children. We created a cosy, safe place at home that was ours alone, as so many families do.

While I was expecting number three, we realised that Eldest was struggling, both at home and school. He was different from his peers in ways difficult to pinpoint: his behaviour was tricky, he wasn’t sleeping very well, he was “too clever” and didn’t understand the difference between children and grown-ups. So began meetings with teachers and doctors and intrusions into that bubble that was home.

And then Little came along…

Eleven weeks later, Little was rushed to hospital and diagnosed with failure to thrive (bad mother!), a heart defect and leukaemia (“can’t you see he’s dreadfully ill?” – bad mother!).

My older two were thrown into strangers’ homes to allow me to go to hospital visits. The strangers were  known and safe villagers, but nevertheless strangers to me and the children. Asking for help was not a choice, but a necessity and I had to accept it from wherever it came. “Act now, ask questions later” became a necessary survival technique.

Time wore on and we got into the rhythm of hospital visits. We moved country, we moved house, we moved hospitals, and doctors and nurses. All with Eldest, Girl and Little under the age of 4.

We are human and we couldn’t keep going without help.

So I took a deep breath. I knew that help would mean allowing people into our home bubble. I knew that people would look at the dishes in the sink and likely “tut”. I knew they would look at the mess on the table, the floor and their eyebrows would rise to the ceiling. They would see the pile of sheets covered in vomit and wrinkle their noses. But I knew I could not keep going alone much longer.

So I called the health visitor. And the church. And from there we say nurses, and social workers, and carers, and therapists. And because the world is what it is, most of those lovely people moved on to other things after a while, so I would meet a new nurse, social worker, carer, therapist, teacher, teaching assistant, support worker… oh another nurse from another department!

I now work as an advocate supporting families like mine. In this video I explore the cost of asking for help from that perspective…

I made the decision to ask for help 22 years ago, almost to the day. Since then, my home bubble has been open to the world and I have been open to a parade of well-meaning strangers’ judgements.