Where Are We Now?

…as David Bowie so poignantly wondered.

This morning when I went in to see Nick I thought he was dead. He was lying so still, flat out and barely breathing, it was difficult to rouse him. Of course he had drunk a whole box of wine after I’d left him around half ten last night, despite strict instructions not to have any more and his promises that he wouldn’t.
He’d had two teeth out yesterday and the dentist had told him he’d need to be very careful with alcohol afterwards. He was tired when I left him and like a twit, I thought that he would.
Anyway, I wrote a big fat rant about what happened yesterday with the new carers but this is tomorrow, baby, as another old glam rocker once sang. They’re all coming out of the woodwork today.

Acme arrived while I was trying to wake Nick up and as discomfited as I’d been by the manager yesterday, meeting his partner today (the West African voice I’d heard on the phone) felt like a huge reassurance. Well, sort of. He was kind, approachable, intelligent, helped Nick out of bed and sussed out his needs almost at once. I would be more than happy to leave Nick in his care, or any team that he was managing.
Unfortunately he may or may not be coming back as Acme are not happy with the care plan they have been given by the social worker, who has bogged off on holiday. I’m not casting any aspersions on social workers, God knows I’m married to one and know exactly how hard it is.
But they say they can’t legally carry out the things in the care plan she made, which is totally inadequate for Nick’s needs in some parts and specifies things - like showering him – that can’t actually be done because the bathroom doesn’t have the right adaptations. He’s currently having a wash sitting on the edge of his bed and we’ve been waiting six weeks now for the specialised OT team to provide either some more specialised bathing equipment, or the go-ahead to help him have a shower again. Today for some reason he hasn’t even got hot water and we have to boil a kettle for the strip wash. It’s all profoundly dispiriting.
T says that Acme has told the council they can’t work like this and want to hand the case back until they can sort out some proper support with bathing. He is sorry, but he needs to protect Nick and not condone a contract that is plainly not serving his needs. He’s waiting to hear what they say.
We don’t know whether the council will agree to reinstate the Short Term Intervention service or who will be coming in at lunchtime. 
Nick is still bleary and befuddled and doesn't seem to be quite sure what is happening despite our joint attempts to keep him in the loop. 

I want to run away and hide. I can’t though. So I make yet another coffee and start cleaning instead.