Writing about what the care system misses, what caregivers know, and what we're trying to build.
There is a kind of knowledge that has no official home. It is not in the care plan, or the medical file, or any document that passes between professionals. Most of it lives only in you.
When Ben is at his worst — isolated, purposeless, alone with a screen — he puts his hands to his face and says the same thing over and over. You like people. He is thirty-eight years old and he knows exactly what he needs.
Before anyone walks out the door, Ben wants a family hug. Not a handshake, not a wave. Everyone in the room, arms around each other. A carer who knows will step in without hesitation.
Two hours of assessment. Every doctor's appointment from the last three days. Every medication. And not a single question about who he is as a person.
One pronoun reversal is the difference between a carer who understands and one who's completely lost. This is the kind of knowledge that dies when a parent is gone.
A medical file will tell you his diagnosis. It won't tell you that handing him a screwdriver and asking for help will make his entire week.
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