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Since it’s Halloween, I thought I’d tackle one of the scariest monsters out there—the future. As a parent of a child with disabilities, the unknowns can be downright haunting. So, I wrote this “ghost story” inspired by my role as a disability parent—a tale full of bone-chilling doctor’s appointments, eerie government forms, and the endless maze of support services.
One dark and stormy night, a wicked wind whipped through the trees, carrying echoes of whispered pleas from parents long gone—or maybe just stuck in the never-ending queue for government funding. A bone tired mummy, lay in her bed after an exhausting day of researching medical alert devices and supported housing options when she heard it: a ghastly rustling in the hall. She sat up, heart pounding, and reached for her phone… only to find it had died again, despite claiming to be at 37% just seconds ago.
She tiptoed toward the door, candle in hand, the hallway illuminated just enough to reveal what looked like a trail of… forms? Each was a request for yet another a summary of her child’s diagnosis, and they stretched as far as she could see. She took a deep breath and followed the paper trail, muttering incantations against the bureaucratic beasts she’d battled so many times before.
As she turned the corner, a shadow flickered across the wall. “Only the brave shall pass,” a voice rasped, thin and spectral. She shuddered. Was it… was it the ghost of an appointment scheduler, back from the beyond to haunt parents with waitlists stretching into eternity?
“Who… who’s there?” she called out, her voice trembling.
The specter emerged, clutching a clipboard covered in unintelligible writing. “You must fill out these forms… again. In triplicate,” it moaned, waving one crooked, bony finger toward the forms. Mum’s heart sank. These forms had haunted her days—and nights—for years now.
Shaking her head, she pushed through. “I’ve battled tougher monsters than you,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. The ghost balked, but then noticing the fierce fires in her sunken eyes, it recoiled, disappearing into a cloud of medical receipts and to-do lists.
She moved deeper into the hall, only to be greeted by a faint, eerie beeping. Following the sound, she found herself in a bleak and darkish room, where hospital monitors lined the walls, their lights blinking in a symphony of dread. “Oh no, not again,” she whispered. She recognized this place. She felt it in her bones—it was the hospital’s *ER Room of Infinite Waits*, where the ghostly call button only summoned yet another layer of paperwork, as the minutes stretched into hours, into days.
In the corner sat another figure, hollow-eyed, a grim frown on his twisted face. “I am the ghost of doctors past,” he droned, peering at her with indifference. “If only you’d been more persistent…” he mumbled, vanishing into thin air just as she tried to voice her concerns.
She shivered, the weight of every condescending dismissal descending upon her like a heavy fog. But she knew she had to press on. The sound of her own footsteps mingled with a creeping realization of something much darker—looming financial instability. She turned a corner to find a hideous figure standing over a horrific pile of ODSP forms, disability tax credit applications, and a black mysterious shadow slowly taking the form of Henson Trust… how it works, nobody really knows.
With one last bit of courage, she pressed on, the tiny flame of her candle flickering as she moved down yet another winding hall. Suddenly, she spotted a door labeled “Future Unknown”. Succession planning never fails to give the creepiest of chills, as ghostly figures of despair, guilt, and ill preparedness lurk around every corner. Her heart raced as she turned the handle, bracing herself.
Inside, she saw a dimly lit room filled with countless Plan Bs. “But I… I only planned for *one* future,” she whispered into the darkness. The ghost of Anxiety, pale and frazzled, loomed large, cackling, “You think the world is going to bend for you and your child? Prepare for eternal uncertainty!” Mum gasped as the cruel cackling echoed through her bleeding heart.
But she knew better than to back down now. Giving up was never an option. She reached into her bag, pulling out her secret weapon: her thick binder of IEP documents, medical info, and advocacy strategies. She held it high like a talisman, and the spectral beings shrank back, hissing, “No… not the paperwork of empowerment! Not the binder! Anything but the binder!!!”
With a deep breath, she chanted, “Equity, inclusion, accessibility!” Her words grew louder as the ghosts of ableism and prejudice wailed in agony, dissipating into a cloud of dust.
Just as the last ghostly form faded into nothingness, she emerged into the dawn, bleary-eyed but triumphant. She had battled all manner of bureaucratic beasts, stood her ground in the face of endless trials, internet trolls, and unkind monsters. She knew the haunting was far from over, but armed with her binder, the support of her mombie community, and the knowledge of all she’d overcome, she felt ready to face the scariest beast of all: the future.
And so, she trudged home, vowing to pass along tales of her journey to every parent who is fighting the same monsters. Tales shared in hopes of connecting caregivers, one podcast episode, one blog post, one instagram reel at a time. And so this mummy summoned all to gather round the campfire in a coven of trust—where love, courage and community are the ultimate ghostbusters.
The End (but not really)
You can listen to the podcast episode on this topic HERE
“Halloween is fun not scary. I’m not afraid of anything.”
