An otherwise unremarkable day

As she got in the car after school yesterday, my daughter remarked that she probably needed new glasses as she was struggling to see the whiteboard. It’s been almost two years since the last sight test so, as we were already in the car, we popped into town to book it.

Trying to arrange an appointment in the near future when we could both attend was proving difficult so I asked if she could be seen without me being present. After establishing that she is currently 14, the receptionist said that wasn’t possible as “it’s against the law for us to see her without an adult.” I knew that was complete and utter tosh and said that it might be company policy but it certainly wasn’t against the law. I explained that she would be considered competent to make her own informed decisions about any medical care and therefore has a right to do so. I pointed out that I work with young people and this principle is central to my work and therefore I know what I’m talking about. I was about to explain how this is enshrined in law when I realised that the young woman in front of me would simply parrot that it couldn’t be done.

I concluded that there was no point in labouring the point so just agreed to arrange the appointment for a couple of weeks hence instead - a minor irritation in an otherwise unremarkable day.

Appointment arranged and we stood to leave. As we did so, she said, “Maybe another time you can get someone older to come with you – bring your big brother next time.” We were floored! I knew that the look of horror on my daughter’s face was mirrored on mine. I didn’t know what to say, or how to react. So many thoughts tumbled through my mind simultaneously.

The receptionist’s bright smile was slowly replaced by a puzzled expression. She clearly knew something was wrong but had no idea what it was. It wasn’t her fault – she couldn’t have known and I felt for her as the silence became increasingly tangible and then oppressive but I couldn’t seem to formulate a sentence. Instead, my head swivelled back and forth between looking at my daughter, who was equally unsure of how to respond, and the young woman in front of me. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few seconds, I managed to stammer, “I’m sorry – you weren’t to know – her brother died a couple of years ago.” I felt my voice break a little as I said ‘died’ but I somehow managed to regain some control.

She apologised immediately and I slipped into my ‘smoothing’ role. With a smile on my face, “It’s OK – you weren’t to know. . . No really, it’s fine. Thanks very much. We’ll see you next Monday. . .  No really – it wasn’t your fault.”

As we left the shop, I wondered how she knew about a brother. Within a week of his death, I’d made a list of all organisations that had him listed (dentist, Dr, optician, Connexions etc) and had contacted them to explain that he had died and requested that he be removed from their records. I had done this because I knew I was numb and so could manage it easily then. And I wanted to avoid the reminder letters that would invariably arrive when I was no longer cocooned in shock and numbness.

This morning I checked that list. That optician was on there and I’d ticked (and dated) it when I’d contacted them.  I decided to call again. I explained why I was calling and asked them to check my boy’s records. The young man on the line told me, “Ooh we’ve got him down as live here ... Er I mean he’s still down as a live customer ... er I mean a current customer. I’ll remove him. Well I can’t remove him completely. I’ll mark him as deceased.”

It wasn’t his fault. I knew that. He was flustered and stammering as he dug the hole deeper and deeper. I reassured him and said it was OK. The record was altered and we said goodbye. Again he apologised. Again I said it was OK. 

It wasn’t though.

Another otherwise unremarkable day.