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Earlier this week I looked after Ben on my own for the first time in three months. While James was out with Molly and Max, for just over an hour, it was just me and Ben. We did some schoolwork, then I got him changed and back into his chair, started his dinner and we read a chapter of our latest book. It was an entirely routine afternoon, only made remarkable by the fact that I haven’t been able to look after him like that since the beginning of March before I broke my ankle.

It has been strange that lockdown has coincided so neatly with my ankle recovering from being pieced back together by surgeons. In some ways it has been convenient – I haven’t had to work out how to take the kids to school on crutches, or reject invitations to meetings, because there has been nowhere to go and no-one to see. On the other hand it has been difficult because we have had three children at home and I haven’t been able to look after them in the way I usually would – most markedly for Ben. Max and Molly don’t need much physical help – in fact they have often been helping me – but Ben relies on the physically ability of others to be moved, fed and changed, and I haven’t been able to do that.

It has been deeply frustrating. Luckily with James and visiting carers (with the attendant hand hygiene, new protocols and PPE) we have made it work. Ben has been okay, but I don’t like it. I want to be a hands-on parent taking care of him and helping him do the things he enjoys but the ways in which I want to use my hands are, I have discovered, highly dependent on the stability of my ankle and my ability to walk and stand. I could read Ben books thoughout, sit next to him and keep tabs on whether he was being fed or not, but it wasn’t the same. It hasn’t felt like enough.

It’s made me realise how precarious my physical ability to look after Ben is, and that has been set against the precariousness of Ben’s normal life in general. I knew something about the fragility of my body – I have recovered from two caesarean sections and lower back problems which have each meant periods where I couldn’t look after Ben on my own – but I had settled into a naïve belief that the support that surrounded Ben was secure. Until it was all stripped away by the ramifications of Covid 19. At the exact point that my ability to care for Ben was reduced, everything else also stopped and James and I needed to not only be his parents but also his teachers, therapists, friends and carers.

I know that everything has tumbled for everyone – we had all built lives that were dependent on friends, colleagues and professionals – but Ben’s more than most. Some support can be substituted remotely, but it’s not the same. Ben has learnt to zoom call his teachers, and we have sent photos to his therapists so they can review his position. He’s having music via videolink, and we send photos of completed work to school. Many of his carers have been able to keep coming, and we have been gratefully dependent on their help to not only care for him but also to attempt to educate him, but none of it is a substitute for him being at school. Max and Molly are also missing all of the benefits of formal education but we can more easily compensate. There are losses, of course, but they don’t feel as acute to me.

And yet with a realisation of the precariousness of it all, comes an appreciation for all of these people who prop up our lives and the stability we enjoy. My naivety was a luxury – I hadn’t realised how delicate Ben’s normal, day to day, life was because he is usually so well supported and I had forgotten the physical demands of caring for Ben because I had had the benefits of my body allowing me to do it effortlessly.

It’s not all bad. In these last three months, Ben has never spent so much time in the hammock, or been read so many books, or been hugged and kissed so consistently by his sister (our fears about ruining their relationship forever by forbidding her from touching him when she was ill unfounded). He now knows significantly more about Thunderbirds than he did, and he is sleeping better than ever. So pros and cons. I suspect our children will remember this period fondly once they are reunited with their friends, family, teachers and therapists (or actually anyone that isn’t me and James). They probably won’t remember this period as a loss (though Max will take a while to recover from not being allowed to see his friends). As we rebuild all of the connections and relationship that are the foundation of Ben’s normal life, I will notice how valuable all of those people are and hope that we never notice just how precarious our dependence is again.

You should all listen to a podcast called Distraction Pieces with Scroobius Pip where he interviews Jess Thom (link here). They are two thoughtful, interesting, amusing people talking about Jess’s work and life. This is in itself fascinating, but the podcast is also a glorious auditory celebration of difference, as Thom has Tourette Syndrome and Scoobius Pip has a stammer.

I found that when I first started listening I was really aware of their particular styles of speech but by the end (and it’s over an hour long) I hardly noticed. Thom talks about how her family and best friends barely notice her verbal tics – they are so familiar with them and her that they unconsciously screen them out as they listen to what she’s saying. I could feel myself doing this as I listened.

Isn’t that the way… Something new and unfamiliar draws your attention but given enough exposure and time your brain will accommodate it. One’s perception of another persons characteristics is going to depend on your familiarity with them (or with disabled people in general), and on your own preconceptions. I notice this with Ben. People meeting him for the first time can be struck by his disability, by his wheelchair, and sometimes can’t quite get past that to see a boy. We are so familiar with his body now.

Apart from good discussions about the intersection of creativity and inclusivity, Thom also talks about the social model of disability (the idea people are disabled by society and their environment rather than their own impairments – I talk a bit about it here), making the point that she feels more or less disabled depending on the context. In an environment where she faces steps (she uses a wheelchair) or where her verbal and physical tics are not welcome, she will feel more disabled than somewhere where these needs are well accommodated.

This isn’t the first time I have heard these concepts, but each time I hear them explained eloquently I have an ‘Aha!’ moment and I hope everyone else does too. It requires a flip of mind to realise that the step is the problem, not the wheelchair. And it requires a degree of nuance to perceive disability as a constantly shifting scale that depends on the day, the activity, the environment, the level of support rather than an incontrovertible fact.

I find myself more aware of Ben’s disability when we are somewhere where he is the exception, particularly somewhere where the doors are a bit small, the spaces between the tables narrow, and we have to make an almighty fuss just to get him inside. Or in a theatre where it’s not clear that people are happy with Ben’s noises and his creaking wheelchair. In these contexts we, and the people we are squeezing past, become hyperaware of his disability.

At the other end of the spectrum, our house is where Ben is least disabled. I am so familiar with his body I largely don’t notice unpredictable movements when I look at him and will often only really notice noises that are communicative. At home he can, with help, go everywhere and do what he needs and wants to do. He can move around with his siblings, visit his parents in bed, be part of the action or somewhere quiet. He can have a bath every night. We can care for him easily and facilitate the things he enjoys doing. The house works with us, it encourages family life and visitors.

It is possible to appreciate all of these advantages, and the privilege of having been able to make this house ours, because we have lived in many houses, visited many pools and cafes and houses that worked against us in small and big ways.

The scale from ‘less disabled’ to ‘more disabled’ is not linear, and does not correlate with ‘better’ to ‘worse’. When I say Ben is ‘least disabled’ in our house, I do not mean that to be ‘more disabled’ is negative – because I do not believe that to be disabled is bad. “Disabled” is not a value judgement, it’s a description or an identity. When I describe Ben as least disabled in our house I mean that this is the environment in which there are least barriers to him doing what he wants to do, being who he wants to be, going where he wants to go (or where I think he should go, since I am his mother). This is thinking based on the ‘social model’ which Jess Thom refers to in the podcast.

So go and listen to the podcast. Maybe it will challenge your preconceptions about what people on podcasts should sound like. Maybe you will be inspired by Jess Thom’s creative work. Maybe it will expand your understanding of disability a little. I guarantee you’ll learn something, and laugh.

Son Stories by Jessica Moxham

Stories about our son Ben, his siblings and our family. Ben is 12, loves stories and is disabled. I am learning to be his ally.

Precarious