Friday, September 2, 2011

School's in

New shoes for a new school year (C's feet,
C's shoes, C's leg brace)
It was back to school with a bang yesterday.

When I asked which days C. would be having hydrotherapy this year, her teacher casually mentioned only two days. C. had been receiving three sessions last year, which was down from the four she had received in previous years. The principal attempted to remove the third session last year as well, but reluctantly reinstated it in the wake of the monumental fuss I made.

Now she was trying again. I explained to the teacher the reason for my apoplexy. "Not my decision; nothing to do with me" was her predicable response. (Nothing ever has anything to do with her, by the way).

I proceeded to the principal with the same speech. I ranted and raved about how this is the only therapy in the school that C. responds to and that I am happy to shower and dress her after the session - since the excuse for cancelling it was "There's no staff to dress her".

The principal - just a former teacher who was promoted one fine day without any training or experience as an administrator - served up her familiar lame, meaningless and syrupy drivel: "I understand you perfectly. I wish I could accommodate you. This hurts us just as much as it hurts you. It's not my decision alone and we'll all re-discuss the matter and get back to you soon".

Well, I've been served this menu before and know where it gets me.

So I chased up the social worker whom the principal named as one of her "accomplices". She was only slightly more forthcoming and not even slightly more encouraging.

I walked home shaking.

Then I shot off a furious e-mail to T., the school's chief honcho, a woman whom we happen to know from the old country and who is the trump card I save for our most serious problems. Ten minutes (honestly, not a second more) after pressing "send" for my e-mail, I get a call from the principal.

"After discussing the matter with T. we've decided to reinstate C.'s third hydrotherapy session."

And so it goes. Every little crumb that the system has on offer for C. demands a fight - and a cluster of new wrinkles on my forehead.

I won't go into the details of the months-long battle I had to wage just to get an appointment for the brain MRI that the neurologist recommended. I finally won a date yesterday. Hey, it was a great day after all.

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