Autism & Forms

Special needs parents are a tough bunch.  

We attune ourselves, with exquisite sensitivity, to the complex needs of our kids while developing the assertiveness skills of an outraged rhinoceros. We circumvent the normal channels of communication and instinctively intuit when someone else is hurting.  Meanwhile, we manifest our inner steam roller and stop at nothing to ensure the wellbeing of our loved ones. 

It's a yin/yang kinda vibe.  Don't judge me.

I can manage my Joan Crawford/Doris Day ambivalence fairly well.  Each of us is a combination of many different parts and I summon up whatever aspect of my Self is needed to deal with what's before me.  

While I eat, drink and swear too much to be a warrior-angel creature, I occasionally wear my pants on the outside (by accident) while mustering all my strength to advocate for my son.  What I mean is, I'm a kinda crap super-hero.  More drunk Super Ted than Bionic Woman.

But, despite all my super-heroing, one aspect of special needs advocacy continues to be my undoing.

Fucking application forms.

I wrote about this before, but it's the gift from the bowels of hell that keeps on giving.

Here's what happened.

James and I take Finian on a train ride to Dublin.   Train rides are only marginally lower on his List of Favourite Things than Bob the Builder and salt & vinegar crisps.  He's having a blast, but it works out kinda pricey. It occurs to me that he's probably entitled to free travel.

Google directs me to the Free Travel Scheme.  I am pleasantly surprised that there is a specific link for disabled adults who cannot travel alone.  Form FT U70 to be exact. All Finian's boxes light up with happy ticks.  I envisage the joy he will get from limitless train and bus rides.  Filling out a form seems a fair enough trade to make this happen.

My heart sinks a little that Form FT U70 requires a medical report. This means organising a trip to our GP, who has better things to do than say "yes.  After 18 years of seeing this young man, I can attest that he's still autistic.  I do not expect him to ever be not-autistic.  I expect him to undress, scare small children and probably maim himself if allowed to travel alone.  Decades of being a doctor inform me that none of this is a good idea.  Give him a fucking travel pass".   I have a word with my inner Zen Masters and decide to be Buddhist about it.  I'm delighted with how spiritually evolved I am.

But something feels off.

I read the form again.

There it is.  The fly in the bureaucratic ointment.  A fly big enough to make my inner Buddhist cry and my Zen Masters wonder if this would be a good time to experiment with crystal meth.

I cannot complete this form for Finian unless I first fill in Form FT1.  

I know I would only be harming myself if I hurl my laptop against the wall, but the urge is compelling.  I retain enough inner Zen to resist.  I am more than a little surprised at the depth of my metaphysical resilience.  I pat myself on the aura.

I follow the link to Form FT1.

Suspiciously, it seems pretty simple.  No medical required.  Same old information they've had about eight thousand times already.  I swat away the shadows of despair leaking into my consciousness.  I'm a strong, independent woman.  I can do this.

I can't do this.

Form FT1 informs me that I cannot complete this form unless Finian has a Public Services Card.  

Finian does not have a Public Services Card.  

Acquiring a Public Services Card involves an appointment, obtaining photographs and waiting in lengthy queues.  

And more forms.

I wonder if staff in the Department of Social Protection cannot allow their own intracellular biochemical processes occur without first completing a small avalanche of forms?  Do they emerge from the womb clutching a clipboard, insisting that everything is completed in black ink?

I breathe deeply and ask myself what would the Dali Lama do?  He would definitely not hurl himself off the nearest bridge screaming colourful obscenities, attractive though that is.  I decide he would chose to ignore the card requirement thing and send in Form FT1, just to see what happens.

I do this.

Nothing happens.

Admin and autism is an exercise in back-weaving into a blackhole of red tape designed to strangle anyone naïve enough to get too close. 

I'm stubborn enough to not give up, but I doubt that rarefied monks in cloistered mountains ever have to deal with this shit.  I don't feel bad about wanting to join them.

Apply in writing