The story of Great Ormond Street. The Psychiatrist appointment.

For the first time since I started writing, I’ve been putting off writing this blog. Not because I don’t want to write it, but because my brain is so manic and so fragile at the same time I’m struggling to make sense of the last two appointments we have had on our London mission. So it’s been a while since I posted. Sorry about that. This morning I’ve decided to just get up and write and see where the words take me. If you like, I’m going to let my sub conscious mind do the driving. So here we go…Last week we travelled to London for the second part of our privately funded medical journey for the kiddo. We had two appointments booked this time. The Psychiatrist and the sensory assessment. Let’s concentrate on the appointment with the psychiatrist in this blog. We will call him Mr S. 

As we walked into his clinic on a Saturday afternoon I could feel the anxiety rising from my feet upwards. I was already confused from it being a Saturday, and from how nice the building looked facing out on to the classic London street they would choose to use as a movie set on something like Love Actually. Kiddo was no ones fool that afternoon. He knew we were not there for fun. He was immediately agitated which set me on edge even more. But he calmed, bribed with an endless supply of chocolate buttons, whilst his Dad and I climbed the stairs of the London Town house to talk to Mr S alone.

It was a familiar routine, the usual questions. Only this time the air was different, the atmosphere warmer somehow. There was no judgement, no working out if we were exaggerating. Just an understanding face who took everything in and asked all the questions I had prepared to answer. Because usually the questions I want to answer are never asked. So I insist on an endless script of my own, informing medical professionals of what I think they need to hear. Not today though. The questions were written on the walls, just waiting for me to answer them. Before we brought kiddo into the room, Mr S gave a warm smile. He said “well he clearly has ADHD”. I sat for a moment and let this words sink in. I have been saying this, asking this, fighting for this for a year. But no, autism covers it apparently. It most certainly doesn’t, but that’s another blog. Kiddo came in and demonstrated his skill in bringing chaos to even the calmest environment. Mr S managed to engage him and then we were left once again, just us three adults. “It’s a tough job you have here” he said. I’ve never been so grateful to hear those words. A highly qualified professional telling me that yes, I should be finding this hard. I am not a bad parent, I am not lacking skill. This is hard. 

He then moved on to ask about the interventions we had been provided with. What therapies had kiddo been referred to for his autism. “None” I said, “it’s all about diagnosis now in Devon. Intervention is our responsibility, not theirs”. Mr S, ever the professional, kept an unreadable face and said how sad that was and that we had done the right thing starting on this London mission. He looked at myself and kiddo’s Dad and simply said “I see many couple’s whose marriage is a lot more fragile than yours”. It was such a compliment, to which my husband very typically replied “well, I do find her rather irritating at times”. Git. 😂

The diagnosis of ADHD is not formal yet, but will be once the relevant paperwork has been filled out. I came out of the appointment both sad and elated at the same time. My brain was a fish bowl with a swirling tornado of water spinning around. Still is today to be honest.

But one thing is for sure, that man saw us. He really saw us. He listened to us. He really listened to us. The relief from that alone helped me sleep that night. My ADHD battle is coming to an end. There are therapies to be had and we can execute these ourselves in the home. We are one step closer to helping our kiddo exist in a world which never stops moving. For anyone.

Thanks for reading,


2 thoughts on “The story of Great Ormond Street. The Psychiatrist appointment.

  1. I understand that it takes a long time to sink in. I know how it was when I received my diagnosis. The sinking in can’t be rushed, unfortunately.
    I don’t think I realised you are in Devon; we are in West Somerset 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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