A year ago, this week, a solicitor visited us to hear our version of the events leading to May’s brain damage. It was harrowing saying aloud all the moments that continue to torment me. All the more trying because I know it will, most likely, all be for naught.
The process is long partially, I think, to put people off doing it. A year on and no further progress? Having to ask and then reask and then ask again when the hospital doesn’t provide all the documentation they should? These are not fun conversations, especially when you know that proving anything will be near impossible even if you get the documentation.
Still, two weeks ago, I asked for an update. And, not unexpectedly, there is no update. The experts are still examining the documentation of which there are hundreds, possibly over a thousand, sheets of paper.
And yet, strangely, I still have hope that they will uncover something.
I walked past a house today, on the way to pick up May from nursery. It had been renovated so that a disabled person could live in it. A modest house, with a ramp leading to wide front doors. Along the sides of the ramp, were new planted flowers. I sighed. How wonderful it would be to know that May’s future was secure and that we had the means to make a house like this, her home for life.
The waiting game continues.