Tag Archives: depression

“S.C.out of there”

Unusually I am starting the week not in crisis. By this statement I know I am probably doing the proverbial, ‘Tempting fate.’ However, all is quiet on the home front. Then my dad arrives in the company of our lovely, working Cocker Spaniel, Scout. Scout is a girl! She is named after the central character in the American classic ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, something I repeatedly have to explain to people who failed to have studied it at school, or who do not have a father who has it as one of his favourite books.

Dad and Scout arrived after a walk at Rudyard Lake, where dad had allowed her to explore the lake through a ‘good paddle’. Thus allowed her to acquire a considerable amount of sediment in her paws and fringes, most of which was deposited on my living room floor. My dad dutifully got the hoover out, which triggered a mammoth barking session and attempts to exact dominance over this noisy, electrical device from Scout.

Dad cleaned the area where the dirt had been deposited, leaving a ery clean patch in the middle of my floor. His OCD kicked in and he began hoovering and dusting the rest of the room so it would look eq

ually clean throughout. I did point out my cleaner was coming the next day and would have nothing to do, but to no avail.

Having a dog in our lives has proved to be a revelation, technically

Scout is our 2nd ever, family pet. Cassie, her predecessor and a Westie, was a different temperament altogether, not particularly into exploring in fact she once got lost when she squeezed under the garden fence and my mum found her in the neighbour’s garden waiting for someone to find her. It did not seem to occur to her that she could walk to the front of the house. Her single great motivator was food and the company of my nan, who she stayed with in the day while we were all at work or college. She had the acquisition of food down to a fine art. When my nan would go to visit her stepmother in respite care she would take Cassie to visit with ‘the oldies’ who would furnish her with Kitkats and other forbidden treats. Such was the mark this made on her that when walking past the home and not visiting she would attempt to drag her human companion into the entrance. Similarly, the owners of the local oatcake shop used to give her a sausage and this meant that she would refuse to go past the shop until she had received said sausage. She was my post-orthopaedic surgery present, the good effects of which lasted longer than the surgery’s, i.e. I benefited more from having her than from having the surgery itself. She wasn’t what you would call intrinsically loving, she would just flap her ears up and down to show she was pleased to see you, but she was funny to have around.

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Scout is a different personality altogether and, I have to say, she is never more than two feet away from you. I think her middle name should be Shadow. She likes to get her nose into everything, followed thereafter by her paws and then her mouth, this is quite sweet until you find her having a discreet little nibble of your left front wheel, or running off with a pair of your socks. Phone conversations with my Dad have now become punctuated by “Scout get down” or “Scout get out of there”. I commented to my Dad that she was very aptly named having ‘out’ in her name. Some of my friends have said I should train her to be an assistive dog. I thought this sounded like a good idea and in the book I bought I was heartened to see that a spaniel was featured. I sat her on my knee and pointed at the picture. I don’t think there a spark of mutual recognition. In this book it talks about dogs loading the washing machine with clothes, the closest we have come thus far (with the possible exception of the day she made me late for art by pulling my trousers off when I was trying to put them on) was when she stole my new, relatively expensive top off the radiator and proceeded to chew it and mop the floor. Not the kind of help I had in mind. Unbelievably my new top came out relatively unscathed.

I have discovered there is nothing like the companionship, fun and love you get from a dog. Scout is a positive force for healing in the wake of bereavement. She is my Dad’s new companion in daily activity, with an endless love of walking, boundless energy and inquisitiveness. On Monday I found her in my kitchen with a pen in her mouth, looking like I do when I am thinking what to write next. I think she is getting to know us both very well indeed!

Dyslexic, Uncovered

Last week I attended the Annual Conference of The British Socological Assocation (BSA), an event that brings together individuals from all areas of sociology. This proved to be a time of reflection upon my own journey to becoming a sociologist and the issues and barriers facing others that find themselves in a similar situation to me.

It has now been some ten years since I graduated with my degree in Crime Deviance and Society and ten years since I gained my Masters in Social and Cultural Theory, things could have been very different. I was never considered to be particularly academic as a child. I was the one who sat at the back of the class with a vacant expression. Well, I must have looked vacant anyway as I spent my formative years being told off for daydreaming.

Many of my regular followers know my background but here is a quick refresh or introduction for those of you new to my e-world. I have Cerebral Palsy, use a wheelchair and went to special school from which I made my escape aged 16 with no qualifications to speak of. I enrolled in a mainstream college and was diagnosed with dyslexia at 18. University followed. I am passionate about education, for me it is both the gift of, and key to, personal development and social stability. I often get accused of being more than a little obsessed with the education topic, such that when two close friends announced they were pregnant I was plotting their due date against the English academic calendar.

I am an August birthday, us summer-borns are something of a scourge on the educational landscape. My teacher friends tell me that “you really don’t want a class full kids like you.” We are you might say on the back foot academically speaking, invariably not quite ready for the work we are doing. We are the cake that would have been so much better with another five minutes in the oven. If you add dyslexia to the equasion, you can really feel up against it.

These days we are used to the ideas of inclusion and disability awareness. Last week I even came past my local primary school and noticed the school sign had a wheelchair using child prominently displayed. It has become the norm, no big deal, to have a child who uses a wheelchair or a walking frame in mainstream school and there would be an outcry if adjustments were not made to accommodate their obviously differing needs, and rightly so.

However, there is one disability that, even in the inclusive atmosphere we see today, often continues to go unrecognised and therefore unsupported. Dyslexia is a condition that has been subject to a great deal of misconception and is much of the time on the margins of educational discourse. We see periodic surges of interest in the condition, debates over causes and even whether it exists at all. Dyslexia is all too often discussed only in the context of academic learning and something that is only relevant to childhood, a problem that disappears with the end of compulsory education.

So what is it like to be dyslexic? In what ways does it affect the individual? It is something that is different for each person. Every dyslexic I have met has their own, sometimes seemingly unique, problem areas. Many have some amazing strengths as well.

When I was a child dyslexia felt like being in my own world. It always felt like I was missing something that was obvious to everyone else. At my best as a child I felt like I was 30 seconds behind the others in the room. In school, classroom activities are structured around how the majority learn. This can lead to the classroom becoming a very bewildering place for dyslexic people. In my life I have seen very intelligent people who are disinterested in learning, have little self worth and feel like they have nothing to offer, purely because the current system at its best puts some of those in it at a disadvantage, and at its worst condemns them to fail from the outset.

Of the multiple diagnoses I have I find physical disability frustrating, depression frightening and dyslexia embarrassing and loaded with social stigma. If I had the choice to remove one of my disabilities dyslexia would be the one I would choose without a second thought. There are some I know that think having dyslexia is a gift giving them creative flair and problem solving skills. For me it was like being in a cage. Before the dyslexic label was applied to me and I got appropriate help I used to think I would die in my own mind. In my more wry moments I have thought that my being dyslexic is living proof that God has a sense of irony. Writing is the one thing I am good at, but I need help to do it. I was having a bad time in hospital a few years ago that resulted in my having a long-term urinary catheter. While it was being fitted, something I had resisted for years, I remarked to the consultant, that if I were to find myself in hell for me it would not be fire or ice I would just be catheterised while simultaneously being made to play scrabble.

Dyslexia with the correct support does not have to be a barrier to achievement. It is not all that you are. Whether you are diagnosed as a child or as an adult, there is help available and improvements can be made at any age. However to enable this, dyslexia has to be recognised as something that affects people across the board, making it not just an issue for educators but one for other walks of life too.