My son Hugh is five-years-old and in his reception year at school. He's a happy little boy, with a head full of crazy hair that points in every direction except the way you want it to. He laughs a lot, particularly at fart noises, and he loves music and singing. He's not much of a morning person and he gets grumpy when he's tired. He's a little brother to Sean, aged six, and he brings joy and laughter into our lives every single day.
"Just like a typical little boy", you might say. And he is. Except that he can't walk. Or talk. Or even sit yet. He's fed through a tube that goes directly into his stomach. And he's blind. And sometimes he stops breathing for so long that we have to breathe for him. To the outside world, he is profoundly disabled. To us, he's just our little Hugh.
You might be wondering "what's wrong with him?" or rather "what's his diagnosis?", which is a much kinder way of asking the same question. And the truth is, we don't know. No one knows. Imagine that: all the tests, all the doctors, all the specialists and all the expertise that the NHS has to offer - and still we're none the wiser.
Apart from the frustration of not knowing, not having a diagnosis comes with its own unique set of challenges. Sometimes Hugh's problems aren't taken as seriously - from the patronising doctor who implied it was all in my neurotic mind, to the kindly relative who assumed he'd grow out of it and catch up. Professional support is often allocated after diagnosis; Hugh waited much longer for physiotherapy, early teaching support and community nursing care than a child very similar to him who had a confirmed diagnosis at birth. Even access to equipment and adaptations to make his life easier were delayed through the lack of diagnosis; the occupational therapy team discharged him and said they'd reassess him for ramped access when he was older because without a diagnosis there was no guarantee he wouldn't learn to walk.
Hugh requires 24-hour care and regularly stops breathing. I was resuscitating him nearly 30 times a month and was completely at breaking point, and yet we had to beg for help. Without a diagnosis there was no prognosis, so we didn't fit neatly into any support package. Furthermore, access to lots of parent support groups is based on the diagnosis attached to your child, meaning that at a time when you're already struggling physically and emotionally and feeling isolated and alone, you're further excluded from accessing help by not having the right 'label'. When as many as 50% of all children with learning disabilities do not have a definitive diagnosis for their difficulties, it's ridiculous that not having a label still remains such a barrier. This needs to change.
Until it does, though, we'll continue our search for the ever-elusive diagnosis. A diagnosis wouldn't change Hugh, but it might help us understand him better. It might enable us to find treatment to control the rare and life-threatening form of epilepsy that stops him breathing so often. It might give us clues as to how best to support his physical and cognitive development. It might give us a glimpse into the future and help us understand the past. Maybe we would find others with the same diagnosis, people further along the path who could give us guidance, encouragement and hope. A diagnosis would also provide answers as to how this happened to Hugh. Is it a faulty gene he's inherited from us and, if so, could it happen again?
And that is why we, and so many families like ours, continue to search for a diagnosis.
That is why I have traipsed from one end of the city to the other and beyond, attending appointment after appointment - more than twenty different doctors and specialists spread across six different hospitals, all with forms to fill in, questions to answer and tests to perform.
That is why I have spent hour after hour on the internet, scouring medical journals and trawling through search engines, looking for clues.
That is why I've woken in the dead of night, heart pounding, panic rising in my chest, desperately trying to silence the screams of fear in my head. Fear of the known and the unknown. Fear of what might be to come.
That is why just last week I cupped his head in my hands and sang "row, row, row your boat" for 20 minutes while two nurses pinned him down and stuck a needle in his arm repeatedly to try and extract seven millilitres of blood from his tiny veins.
That is why I've handed him limp and unconscious to strangers so they can scan his brain under a general anaesthetic.
I want to know the reason behind his difficulties. I want to know what caused this. Because if I know why, then maybe I can help him. If I know why, then maybe I can protect him from the worse things that might be to come. Maybe I can prepare myself for the future, and maybe I'll know whether Sean or his children or any future children could be affected.
Because if I know why, then maybe I'll know it's not my fault.
Find out more about Undiagnosed Children's Day here, or watch a video .
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Guest post: Undiagnosed Children's Day - "without a label, support is harder to access"
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MumsnetGuestPosts · 24/04/2015 10:16
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