PART 3 — THE CABINET
On the Saturday, while Saskia was still in that hospital, I went home and opened the medicine cabinet in her bathroom.
There are three auto-injectors in this house. That is the arrangement and it has been since 2019: one in her bag, one in the kitchen, one in her bathroom.
All three had expired.
Two of them by more than fourteen months. The one in the kitchen by nine.
I sat down on the floor of that bathroom.
Then I rang the allergy service at Calder Point on the Monday and asked for the record on her file, which as a parent you are entitled to.
Her annual review was scheduled for the January.
It was cancelled and rebooked, then cancelled again in the February and not rebooked.
Both cancellations were made by telephone by her father.
The prescription that supplies those pens runs off that review. When the review stopped happening, the prescription lapsed in the spring, and the pharmacy sent two reminders.
To the contact on the file.
Which since the November of 2023 has been Dax Kelling.
He changed it at an appointment I could not attend because I was in a room in another state. It is one line on a form. It takes about four seconds and there is nothing sinister about being asked to do it.
He did not do it to hide anything. I have never once believed that and I do not believe it now.
He did it because a receptionist asked and he was the one standing there, and then for two years every message about my daughter’s medication went to a man who thought the whole thing was overdone.
Two reminders about an expired prescription went to a phone that also received, in the same period, about eleven thousand other things.
I found out on a bathroom floor on a Saturday morning, twenty months after a form was filled in, that my daughter had gone to school every day since the spring with a pen in her bag that would not have worked.
