Where Has Mummy Gone?: Part 3 of 3: A young girl and a mother who no longer knows her. Cathy Glass
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from their fingers. ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘That’s a really good sign.’ The atmosphere in the house lightened.
Lucy, Paula and Melody fed Toscha flakes of salmon in her basket from time to time throughout the day, and I gave her the antibiotics and water in the pipette. That evening as we sat down to dinner Toscha finally left her basket and walked unsteadily to the back door. ‘She wants to do her toilet in the garden,’ I said, immediately standing to let her out. ‘She must be feeling better.’
She was very slow in her movements and unsteady on her feet, just as humans are when they first get up after flu. She’d also lost weight, but she’d put that back on once she started eating properly again; that she was well enough to go outside and dig a hole to do her business in was huge progress. I waited outside for her and she made a brave attempt to cover over her toilet but was clearly exhausted and staggered back indoors. She sat in the kitchen just looking around, probably pleased to be feeling a bit better. Her eyes had stopped watering and her nose running, but she didn’t want anything else to eat or drink. Reassured by her progress, we all went to bed that night feeling much easier.
When I came down on Monday morning I was delighted to find Toscha out of bed and meowing for something to eat. Her food and water bowls were empty, so she must have eaten and drunk in the night. I gave her the rest of the salmon and replenished her water, and told her she was going to be fine. Her movements were still a little uncertain, but I knew she was out of danger now. When the family came down they were relieved and delighted. So often we take our pets for granted. Toscha had always been part of our family and we’d assumed she always would be. This was a timely reminder that we are all mortal. I know some parents don’t have pets, as they believe it’s too upsetting when they pass, but I think that the joy they bring outweighs the loss when they do pass. Thankfully we didn’t have to face that yet.
I took Toscha to the vet that morning for her follow-up appointment and the vet was delighted she was looking so much better. She examined her and took her temperature, which was now normal. She said her throat was still a little sore and I should continue giving her the antibiotics until the end of the week, but that I needn’t bring her in again unless I had any concerns. I thanked the vet for all she’d done and as I lifted Toscha into the carer she meowed in protest. Never had her meow sounded so sweet!
Crisis over, normality returned. Neave visited on Wednesday after school, mainly to explain to Melody why contact with her mother had been reduced and the plans they had for her. Neave said I could stay in the living room with them. She sat opposite us and leaned slightly forward towards Melody as she spoke.
‘You’ve done really well while you’ve been living at Cathy’s, and have surprised us all. Because you’ve made such good progress we think you would be very happy in an adoptive home. Do you know what that means?’
Melody shook her head.
‘It’s a forever family where you stay for good and become a permanent member of that family. All families are different. Some have one parent, some two, and some families have a lot of children, while others only have one, so they have all the attention. We are looking for a special family for you where there will just be you and the mummy, like you used to have before you came here.’
I see, I thought, so she certainly wouldn’t be staying with me then. I looked at Melody sitting beside me as Neave continued her spiel, selling Melody the idea of a single-parent adoptive family where she would be the only child. The family-finding team usually come up with a profile of the family they are looking for, which includes factors like ethnicity, whether the child should be the only child and, if not, should they be the youngest in the family (or didn’t that matter). This was to ensure the child felt comfortable and to give them the best chance of bonding with their new family, and the family with the child. However, in profiling the ideal family, the social services were of course limiting their options. I thought the chances of finding a single woman with no other children who wanted to adopt an eight-year-old with a history of challenging behaviour were pretty slim. When Neave got to the end she asked Melody if she had any questions.
‘Why can’t I see my mummy every week?’
‘Mummy is very ill,’ Neave said. ‘It must be difficult for you, seeing her so poorly.’
‘No, it’s not, I have fun. I make jewellery and things.’
‘Good. But your mummy doesn’t know you are there.’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘Maybe she still does sometimes, but there will come a time when she doesn’t know who you are, which will be very upsetting for you.’ While this was harsh, it was also true and something I’d considered. I did have concerns about Melody witnessing her mother’s decline and for this reason I hadn’t opposed the reduction in contact.
‘You will still see your birth mummy,’ Neave said, introducing the term, ‘but not as often. And when we find an adoptive mother you will be seeing her lots before you go to live with her.’
Melody just stared at Neave. It was a lot for her to take in all in one go: the idea of loosening the bond with her birth mother so she could transfer her affection to someone she had yet to meet. But it was standard practice to introduce the idea of a forever family early on – if that was in the care plan – so the child had time to adjust and get used to the idea.
‘I know it’s difficult for you,’ Neave said with a reassuring smile. ‘You did a great job looking after your mother and now it’s time to let others look after her so you can get on with your life.’
True, I thought, but easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-One
The following day, the letter I’d been waiting for from CAMHS arrived. Melody was to start play therapy the following Tuesday, for an hour a week, 4–5 p.m. When I told Melody she shrugged dismissively and said she could do painting and artwork here with me.
‘It’s a bit more than that,’ I said. ‘Marina will help you to sort out your feelings about what has happened.’
‘How?’ she asked.
I hesitated and realized I didn’t know. I’d taken plenty of children I’d fostered to CAMHS, but the carer or parent always stays in the waiting room while the child is with the therapist and there is virtually no feedback. I knew play therapy involved artwork and appeared to help some children, though not all, but I didn’t know any more than that. It occurred to me that perhaps foster carers should experience a play therapy session as part of their training so we had some understanding of how it worked. I made a mental note to suggest it to Jill when she next visited.
‘I’m not sure exactly how the play therapy does work,’ I admitted to Melody. ‘You could tell me if you like once you’ve started going.’ Which seemed to appeal to Melody.
‘OK. I’ll go, and give it a try,’ she said.
‘Good girl.’
I purposely hadn’t told Melody that Mr Wilson had died, for it would have raised the question – how did I know? Also, I rather hoped I wouldn’t need to tell her, as I felt she had enough sadness in her life to deal with without adding to it. I hoped she wouldn’t notice that he was no longer calling out from his room. How wrong I was.
On Friday, armed with our usual batch of iced cakes, fruit, biscuits and another card made by Melody for her mother, we went to the care home straight after school. I’d also put my camera in my bag, as I wanted to try to take at least one good photo of Melody with her mother and give them both a copy. We were greeted at the door by Mr and Mrs Bennett, gesticulating to be let out. The care assistant who opened it said that Amanda was in the lounge and we headed down the corridor. As we passed Mr Wilson’s room I glanced at Melody. A call buzzer could be heard bleeping