We had arranged a meeting, but he didn’t arrive on time. I called him—no response—so I decided to drive back and see where he was. I left the meeting, drove about 150 yards, and then reached a roadblock, arriving 15 minutes after the accident. The road was closed, and a sea of blue flashing lights covered a couple of ambulances, several police cars, and a fire engine. The scene was filled with paramedics, police, and onlookers. I approached a policeman at the roadblock and said, “That’s my son,” hoping I was wrong.

“How do you know that, sir?” he asked.

“I just know,” I replied. He assured me it was probably not him, and I clung to that hope.

The officer walked a few hundred yards over to where the emergency team was working frantically on the victim. He stood there, talking with the medics for what felt like a lifetime, and then finally made his way back to me.

“Yes, sir,” he said solemnly, “it is your son. Prepare yourself for the worst.” I’m still unsure why he shared such a detailed account, but he did.

My mind took over, and my whole body drained as the fight-or-flight response kicked in. I was overwhelmed. I called my wife, Jacki, but could barely speak. I wanted to give her some hope, but I couldn’t. All I managed to say was, “It’s Adam,” as blunt as a brick through a window.

Thankfully, the accident had happened less than a mile from Salford Royal Hospital, which has an exceptional trauma department. I sat in the A&E waiting room, wearing my mask and anxiously waiting for news from the trauma team. After about an hour and a half, a police officer approached the reception desk. She looked down at her notebook, then lifted her head with a serious expression and called out, “Kevin Moorhouse?”

This is it, I thought. The policeman at the accident had told me to prepare for the worst, but I hadn’t been able to. My mind was buzzing loudly, and I could hardly hear. She led me outside to talk, and as we walked, I could barely contain myself. “He isn’t dead, is he?” I asked before we’d even made it through the doors.

“No, he isn’t,” she replied, “but he has sustained some very serious injuries.” I pressed for reassurance. “He is going to pull through, isn’t he?”

Once again, she responded with the same words: “He has sustained some very serious injuries.” I asked a third time, hoping for a different answer, but I received the same response.

Shortly after, my wife, Jacki, arrived, brought over by our neighbor, Jean. We sat together in the waiting room, trying to count our blessings. “He’s in the best place,” “He’s alive,” “It could have been worse”—all the things people say in these situations to find some comfort.

After a few more hours, the head of the trauma team who had been assessing Adam’s injuries came to speak with us, and we were finally able to see Adam. Given the COVID-19 restrictions, we probably shouldn’t have been allowed to visit him, so my mind immediately went to a dark place. I thought, They’re letting us see him because it’s really bad—he’s not going to make it.

For years, I’d struggled with my relationship with Adam, often focusing on his shortcomings. When we finally saw him, he was in a bad way. Despite the doctors’ attempts to stabilize him, he was visibly injured and in severe pain, even with the morphine. Yet, through the haze of medication, he was fully lucid. The first thing he said was, “Is the girl in the car I hit okay? I want to talk to her and apologize.” In that moment, I felt immense pride in him. I told him, “Let’s put the past behind us and focus on getting you better.” There’s a lot of history between us, and it may be easier said than done, but it’s going to happen. For the record, the girl in the car was treated on the scene and was okay.

The doctors informed us that Adam had numerous broken bones, but the most serious injuries were two fractures in his pelvis. These were life-threatening, as uncontrolled bleeding from these injuries could be fatal. We endured a harrowing period of uncertainty, not knowing if the bleeding would completely stop.

With heavy hearts, my wife and I eventually returned home. I resorted to my usual “antidepressant”: a nice bottle of Renato Ratti Barolo at 15.5%, with a few (or more) sips of whisky.

Adam went on to undergo numerous life-saving surgeries and remained in the hospital for several weeks. The uncertainty was constant—questions of whether he would walk again, and what his future would look like, lingered. It was incredibly frustrating, as we couldn’t see him often due to COVID restrictions, so he was left to endure much of it alone. As for me, my spirits continued to sink lower and lower.

In July 2020, social services found a potential forever home for Mary. Jacki and I have been fostering for many years (although, to be honest, Jacki is the true caregiver—calling me a foster carer would be a stretch, as she handles all the hard work).

Mary is incredibly special to us. Social services had let her down multiple times; on one occasion, they removed her from our safe care and placed her in a connected carer’s home—a decision we knew was entirely wrong. (It’s a long story, one that deserves to be told, but not now.) Some people in social services believe they know best because they’re “professionals,” but they also have targets to meet – one being to place kids out of social care within 28 weeks. To hit this target, they sometimes prioritise quick placements over the child’s best interests. Because of this, Mary ended up in the center of a strange town, living in a small property with a family that didn’t love her, where she suffered further neglect. Social services even overlooked their own rules, as this family didn’t qualify as connected carers. But in their rush to meet targets, they turned a blind eye.

While Mary was with this family, our hearts ached. But finally, after too much time had passed, she returned to us. She is a wonderful child, full of life, and everyone who meets her adores her. When she came back to us in May 2019, her happiness was immediate—and so was ours.

One of the hardest parts of fostering is the moment when a child has to move on. As I mentioned, a potential forever family had been identified for Mary. When Adam had his accident, we were in the midst of preparing her for this transition, which began in July. Mary’s move was set for November 5, 2020.

The thought of her leaving filled me with sadness – I really didn’t want her to go. We had discussed this decision at length, and while it was undoubtedly the right choice for Mary, I just wanted her to stay with us. As her moving date approached, my depression grew deeper, and I felt a strong urge to drink, knowing it would temporarily numb the pain. Adam had moved back home in early October, but he was bedridden and couldn’t walk or care for himself, so we had carers visiting three times a day to assist him.

Toward the end of October, we – or rather, Jacki (I found it too hard) – began gently explaining to Mary that Margaret and Jack, her new adoptive parents, wanted her to come live with them and that they loved her very much. Explaining this to a four-year-old is incredibly difficult. Mary didn’t want to go; she insisted she wanted to stay with us. She would cry for hours, pleading to stay. I struggled deeply with this – the little girl we all loved had no say in her future. To her, Jacki was her mum, and she had been calling her that for months. Jacki wanted to be her mum, too.

I was heartbroken. Personally, I felt my inner strength fading, and I grew more and more depressed. I felt as if I had let Mary down, knowing she wouldn’t understand why the people who had cared for her seemed to be letting her go. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she must feel – that we no longer loved her or wanted her. She’d already endured so much in her short life, and now, just as she was finally happy, everything would change again. She loved her school, her friends, her home, and her family—Jacki, Kevin, and Adam. We were her family, and she was happy. And yet, I felt responsible for taking all of that away from her. I was devastated.

Give me a drink!

Those of you who know me are likely aware that I enjoy a drink. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a heavy drinker. Throughout my adult life, drinking became a habit ingrained in every occasion—whether celebrating, commiserating, or simply passing the time, alcohol was always involved. Only in the last three weeks have I come to admit that, for me, drinking was more than just a social event. Not a day went by without a drink. If I felt happy, I’d drink; if I felt low, I’d drink; and if I felt neither up nor down, I’d drink.

Please don’t misunderstand—I didn’t lose control with alcohol; I used it to relax. Often, I was as relaxed as a newt. I didn’t become violent or abusive, nor did I drive while intoxicated.

Alcohol became like an old friend—a steady antidepressant that brought me to a place of calm and relaxation. Being a very active person, sometimes even hyperactive, alcohol helped to quiet my mind. It became a crutch, and I genuinely believed it helped keep me positive. In some ways, it did. But while I felt that drinking helped me, I was being selfish, as it wasn’t always good for others, particularly my wife, Jacki. Looking back, I now realize it may also have contributed to a strained relationship with my son.

Two days after my son’s accident, I looked at my wife and saw just how incredible she is. She was experiencing the same trauma as I was, yet somehow she was much stronger. She faced the same anguish but also carried additional burdens. Jacki has suffered from rheumatoid arthritis for years; some mornings, she could barely walk, her hands, feet, and shoulders aching. Yet she kept going, staying up all night with foster children if they needed her. She truly is an exceptional person. She always hated my drinking, and it was a frequent source of conflict. But selfishly, I wanted to keep drinking.

In that moment, I realized the next few months would be incredibly challenging—with Adam’s accident, Mary’s transition, and the added stress of coronavirus, which worried Jacki deeply, as her medications made her more vulnerable. So, on the 27th of September, I decided to stop drinking altogether.

You may wonder why stopping a depressant could make me feel more depressed. Well, I had used alcohol as an antidepressant. Some might argue that quitting should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. It made things worse because I had lost my crutch and now had to face my problems head-on. As you can imagine, there have been many times since I quit that I’ve desperately wanted a drink.

I was working with a couple of clients. I don’t want to come across as arrogant, but when it comes to my profession, I know what I’m doing and have been doing it successfully for many years. That’s not to say I’m not still learning and improving. One of my projects was with a company in Salford—a company, ironically, that Adam and I were scheduled to visit on the day of his accident.

I had been working with them for about six weeks. They’re a great company led by a passionate owner, although there were many areas with room for improvement. The owner had a clear vision that involved strengthening the management team, and he saw how my expertise in implementing processes could support his goals. I, too, believed in his vision and felt confident that my contributions would bring real value to the business.

However, during this time, I was struggling personally—feeling unhappy and depressed because of everything that was on my mind. Despite this, I delivered on my promises to the company, and the feedback confirmed that I was meeting expectations. I believed I was masking my true feelings well, though inwardly, I knew I wasn’t as sharp or as focused as I usually am.

I’m a strong believer in the benefits of occupational therapy, and I tried to immerse myself in the project to avoid dwelling on all the stress in my life. Being busy often helps, but I can also be short-tempered and impatient, traits I usually manage by making an extra effort to be patient and tolerant with others.

On December 16th, after spending the day with this client, I received a call that evening from the business owner, telling me I’d somehow upset one of the team members. Normally, I’m very perceptive about these things, so I was surprised—I hadn’t realized I’d done anything to upset anyone. We agreed that I would address it the next day.

The following morning, I arrived at the office early and prepared some materials. I had observed that the person I’d unintentionally upset was taking on far too much and was feeling pressured. My plan was to listen to her concerns and offer support. However, the meeting didn’t go as expected. It quickly became clear that there had been a significant misunderstanding, and I have to admit I was frustrated. Normally, I would work through the issue patiently, leaving the person feeling supported and encouraged. But on this occasion, things took a different turn—she burst into tears, saying I’d made her feel inadequate.

Reflecting on the situation, I wondered if there might have been a hidden agenda, but I was devastated. In over 30 years of working with hundreds of people, I’d never encountered a result like this. Regardless of any external factors, the outcome was my responsibility. I was the seasoned leader, and she was a young professional who needed guidance.

Ironically, my wife had taken my son to Salford Hospital, which was just around the corner from the office. I called her to explain what had happened, and she did her best to lift my spirits. But I was truly at rock bottom. This was December 17th, 2020.