A Place for Everything by Anna Wilson

Author:Anna Wilson [Wilson, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

‘Your mother has capacity.’

This expression is repeated over and over in the next few weeks as Carrie and I continue to ring and write and to try to find our way through the labyrinth of mental healthcare provision. The phrase is never fully defined. Capacity to do what? ‘Capacity’ to me means ‘being capable’; being capable of making decisions and choices and being capable of looking after yourself.

Mum is not capable of anything other than sitting in a chair in the dark and staring at the wall. She can’t decide whether to wear a jumper or a cardigan. She can’t decide whether to have porridge or toast. She has shut down her choices so that they no longer overwhelm her. She wears the same clothes every day, eats the same food every day, sits in the same place every day. How does this demonstrate ‘capacity’?

One day, I make a discovery that is at once like a light being turned on and a dead-end presenting itself. I discover that ‘capacity’ is a trap for anyone trying to care for someone with mental health problems.

It is a neighbour who explains it to me. She runs a local care agency and offers to talk to me about what the possible options are for Mum. She is a nurse and her husband is a GP. She will be able to help me, I am sure of it. She listens intently, leaning forward in her chair as I explain the whole situation, and I finish by mentioning this baffling phrase, this bit of code: capacity.

‘We keep being told that Mum doesn’t have to accept professional help because “she has capacity”.’

At this point, my neighbour sits back with a sigh, her expression telling me all I need to know: capacity is a brick wall.

‘Has anyone told you know about the Mental Capacity Act?’ she says.

‘No.’

No one has told me anything useful, anything that gives me any knowledge or power.

‘I suggest you read it. It’s what the doctors and nurses are referring to,’ my neighbour says. ‘It’s an act that protects the patient’s rights to be cared for how they wish – which is admirable, if you think about how people used to be treated in the past.’

I nod. I know how people were treated: locked away and forgotten about. And I don’t want to imagine the treatments I’ve read about. Of course I don’t want that for Mum.

‘But it does make things tricky for carers,’ the neighbour goes on. ‘Read it and let me know if there is anything else I can do to help. I can ring the Tonbridge branch of our agency to see if they can go and see your mum. They will need to assess her before agreeing to come and look after her anyway. That’s assuming your mum will agree to be assessed – or cared for.’

If I knew this woman better, I would break down in front of her. She is being so kind. I know what she is saying, gently but firmly: Dr M’s secretary was right.

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