I Believe Her

After working for twenty years in the field of mental health I often consider whether it remains the right job for me. Each day, each week, each month hardly varies from the mean average of the longitudinal effects of such specific stress but the effects are cumulative. To spend more waking time with the dispossessed, the vulnerable, the victims and survivors than I do with my own family takes a toll I thought I had ameliorated through years of practice. But the toll is almost imperceptibly gradual, too slow for recognisable increments, until an uncomfortably honest and necessary reflection jolts me into admission. I have seen myself, year after year, being tough and flexible, dependable, calm under pressure. But only now, after the death of Ruby, am I looking at who and how I am with a clarity I never had before. Only now, through a new lens and framed within a new setting, am I beginning to notice the subjective effects of two decades in the company of distraught and damaged people who, like me, are trying their best to live, maybe to thrive or maybe just managing to tread water for a while.
The effects are broad and deeply affecting. The effects are stratified through who I am, like lode combing down my timeline. The effects are veined between my new and old skeletons and are intertwined with the framework of who I was and of who I want to become.
I can feel weighed down, tethered by the shared ownership of others' suffering.
But then there are times when I think I save a life. or reduce harm or just make things  a bit better for someone. There are times I can see my value, when there is obvious pragmatic change for the better, when someone leaves a meeting with me and we both know they are likely to make it for at least one more day, maybe a little less afraid or a little less alone. At times like that I have to reconsider my position as a support worker and revaluate the breadth of my shoulders.
I get more fragile and more sensitive and I am more affected by the needs of others as I age but also the older I get the finer the balancing act between providing solace for others and defence for myself.
Compassion fatigue is indefensible- anyone who gets near that point should have left their profession many patients ago- but tiredness of the heart is an intermittent and temporary litutle death that can remind me of my compassion and the necessary commitment to love and to empathy. Adversity can let me know how much is at stake and how much it is all worth.

And then sometimes an event happens of such magnitude that it feels like I've been kicked by a stranger, an event that clarifies my position as a potential helper to those in need.
Yesterday was the result of a nine-week long court case here in Belfast of a young woman sexually assaulted by four men. I had been following the case closely as the victim was hauled over the coals by the solicitors involved who evoked the age-old techniques of victim-blaming and of discrediting her with patriarchal, bossy, misogynist nonsense. There were flaws in the police presentation, flaws in the media reporting and extraordinary pressure on her over eight days of questioning. The jury was ordered to vote unanimously, with "beyond reasonable doubt" at the front of their mind and taking into account the "character" of the assailants.
The rapists walked free from court with a "not guilty" verdict. And I am furious. I am not surprised but I am furious.

It should go without saying that many more women will now not report their experiences of sexual assault and will be feel less hopeful about the justice system.
What is less likely to be recognised is the strength and courage that many people, me included, can take from her experiences.
I know how awful grief can be, I have experienced a horrifying sense of loss. I am on first name terms with courage but, even with my experiences in mind, I constantly revere the valour women possess in the face of sexual violence. This survivor of such awfulness, and many women like her, possess an extraordinary strength that I admire and can learn from. She, and other women with similar experiences, have taught me so much.


She has taught me to always speak up about gender inequality. Always.
She has taught me to confront bullies. Always.
She has taught me that, even when confronted with a legal wall, an authority designed to hold me back, there is always a right thing to do. Always.
She has taught me to hold fast through adversity. That there is an end, a goal, and to always aim for it.
She has taught me that, even if my ultimate goal is not achieved, there are positives to be taken from any endeavour.
She has taught me that some laws and rules are plain wrong and need to be directly challenged.
She has taught me that the capacity for human flexibility, stamina and bravery is almost limitless.
She has taught me that life goes on and that the key is not to relinquish to fate but instead to learn to navigate.
She has taught me that truth can be absolute and is always worth defending.
She has taught me that it is a natural human trait if, in the search for truth and justice, my voice cracks.
She has taught me to use my privilege constructively. To not do so would be a waste of my time alive.
She has taught me the importance of using feminism and humanism as the ultimate frameworks for daily living.
She has taught me the weight of bodily autonomy.
She has taught me the power of solidarity.

I believe her and I believe the millions of other women who know how she feels.

#ibelieveher
#repealthe8th

There will be no public enquiry

I am two months away from the fifth anniversary of Ruby's death.
Claire and I received the final decision from legal entities involved in investigating the circumstances around that fateful day in Scotland- the final legal decision is that there will be no public enquiry.
There will be no public enquiry.

This side of Ruby's death- the investigation of what happened before, during and after her death- is an aspect of grief I have found too hard to bear. Claire has lead and managed this throughout our grief with the help of her family (this is one of many unexpected aspects of grief- how personal it is and how each of us vary in our resilience and coping strategies from one incident to the next) and I have remained very much on the side, observing and occasionally contributing, but generally finding it too painful to grasp all the details about these investigations.
There have been three major aspects- the NHS Trusts involved in her care from birth to death, the education board that manage her school and the legal powers in Scotland that support the police at the scene and the subsequent management of all investigations.
As usual the NHS were as efficient as they could be and were transparent and exemplary in their actions. All carers for Ruby throughout her short life- cardiac surgeons, consultant paediatric cardiologists and others- convened and reflected on every detail of her medical history from Claire's 20 week scan when she was pregnant with Ruby, Ruby's major heart surgery at four days old (transposition of the great vessels) and thereafter her yearly follow-up appointments with cardiologists keeping an eye on her progress in London and then here in Northern Ireland. The medical team, with agreement from Claire and I, concluded that they had done everything they knew at the time was possible to do to look after her as best as medical research knew how. Some changes, new tests, have now been implemented for other children having similar cardiac follow-up to reduce the risk of this ever happening again (after Ruby's death the pathologist discovered that Ruby had been slowly developing a very unusual, and nearly undetectable, heart condition as a result of her surgery as a baby- it was this that caused her fatal heart attack). In other words, the medical staff reflected and reassssed their approach and implemented the findings. This happened within a few months. An apology was offered and accepted, counselling was offered and accepted and Claire and I continue to hold up that team, and the NHS in general, as being a sentinel guiding us through these extraordinary times.
The police that investigated Ruby's death were intensely thorough and diligent (and mercifully brief) and the protracted legal process kept us informed of all processes and developments.

The dissatisfaction I feel is aimed squarely at the education board who runs the school she attended. I have deflected my anger over the last five years which could have been (rightfully) directed at her school and the education board because to not do so could have destroyed me. I will continue to deflect and mange this as best as I can.
There is no one individual to blame for Ruby's death, this is true. There were no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death, this is true. What is true is that more than one person made a mistake in her care on the night she died which resulted in her not being given the opportunity of survival. Her death was barely avoidable, as was agreed by the pathologist and others, but due to lack of thought, management skills and appropriate risk analysis we, her parents, will never be able to know whether she might have survived that night and thereafter had subsequent surgery to allow her to live and thrive.
It was a heart attack, incompetently managed, that allowed her to die.

We wanted a public enquiry to show the world that mistakes were made. We wanted to show that her school were not as blameless as everyone thought and that may other parents, who were relying on Ruby's school to look after their children and keep them safe, were misguided in their beliefs.
One year after her death the school went on another week-long trip. And the parents, who know of little else, let their children go. These trips continue even now, after little change in policy.
We wanted a public enquiry to clarify, with absolution, the potential for avoidance of such a tragedy again.
We wanted a public enquiry so that certain people and organisations involved would apologise. And would apologise unequivocally after reflecting on their poor practice, learning from their mistakes, knowing how they went wrong and then unambiguously say sorry without exception before changing policy and actions.
We wanted a public enquiry to give us some closure. But, as is the way with grief, there is of course no closure, just a series of small doors closing an exit to a dark corridor.