Where Has Mummy Gone?

by Cathy Glass

  ‘You know Amanda is in hospital?’ I asked

  ‘No, I didn’t. When was this?’

  ‘Wednesday evening.’

  ‘It would be nice if someone told me,’ she said, clearly put out.

  ‘I understand that it’s taken a while to find out who Amanda was, as she didn’t have any ID on her.’

  ‘Couldn’t she tell them?’

  ‘I don’t know all the details, but she’s been confused and is now sectioned under the Mental Health Act.’

  ‘I’ll need to speak to their social worker. Will Melody be seeing her mother while she is in hospital?’

  ‘Not right away.’

  ‘I’ll have to get back to you. I was going to make an appointment to visit Melody this week, but that doesn’t seem appropriate now. I’ll speak to the social worker first. How is Melody settling in?’

  ‘All right really, until now. Obviously she misses her mother and I’m not sure how she will take this news.’

  ‘She doesn’t know yet?’

  ‘No, I’ve only just found out.’

  ‘OK. Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch.’

  It was the first time I could ever remember having more up-to-date information than the Guardian ad Litem.

  I drove to Melody’s school, going through what I would say to minimize the impact of her mother being in hospital. Children in care often show amazing resilience and are true little heroes, but a sick parent is particularly difficult for them to cope with. I’d been in similar situations before with children I’d fostered, and knew how worried they could become. Also, mental health is an especially difficult concept for a child to understand – much easier if their parent has a physical illness like a broken arm or is recovering from an operation.

  I parked the car and then waited in my usual spot in the playground for the end of school. Melody, of course, was expecting to see her mother at contact and came out of school smiling. Miss May was with her, but having checked I was in the playground she went to see the mother of a boy she also helped.

  ‘We’re going to see Mummy!’ Melody cried, elated as she bounced over to me. ‘Did you remember the chicken nuggets and chips?’

  ‘Listen, love. I’m afraid I’ve got some disappointing news. We won’t be seeing your mummy tonight.’

  ‘Why not? It’s Friday! I’m allowed to see Mummy on a Friday,’ she said angrily. Parents close by glanced in our direction.

  ‘Come on, I’ll explain.’ I offered her my hand but she refused it, and walked beside me as we began across the playground. ‘Your mummy is in hospital, being looked after by the doctors and nurses. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but you won’t be able to see her today.’

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded again.

  ‘Because she’s not well enough.’

  ‘She’s not going to die, is she?’ Melody asked, now close to tears. I put my arm around her as we left the playground.

  ‘No, love. Let’s get in the car and I’ll explain.’ I opened the rear door and we slid into the back seat. I looked at her sad and dejected face. ‘There are many different types of illness and people get sick for different reasons. Sometimes it’s easy to see what is wrong with the person; they may have a rash or a bad cough. But other times it’s because of how they feel inside and the things they say and do, or can’t do. Your mummy hasn’t been coping well lately, and you’ve been helping her a lot.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Melody sniffed.

  ‘I know you don’t, and you’ve been doing a good job of helping her. But sometimes, no matter how much we help a loved one, they have to go into hospital so the doctors and nurses can give them medicine and make them better.’

  ‘Why can’t I see Mummy?’ she asked again.

  ‘Because the doctor wants to get her a bit better first.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. Neave will tell us, but I hope she will be well enough for us to visit in a week or so.’

  ‘We’ll visit her in hospital?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ There were so many unknowns here, I was being careful not to give her false hope as Jill had warned.

  ‘Why can’t I see Mummy now?’ Melody persisted.

  ‘Because she isn’t well enough yet. If you think about how Mummy has been – getting lost and not remembering things – I think you’ll understand. It is important the doctors work out what is wrong and then get her better.’

  ‘And once she’s better, we can both go home?’

  ‘That’s a nice thought.’

  It was one of the most difficult conversations I’d ever had with a child, and I hoped I’d handled it right. Foster carers receive ongoing training to help them foster, but it doesn’t prepare us for breaking bad news like this. The carer has to rely on experience, sensitivity and common sense.

  ‘If you have any questions, ask me and I’ll do my best to answer,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when I hear anything further. We’ll go home now, and have a nice weekend. Your mummy is being well looked after.’

  ‘Will we still be having chicken nuggets and chips?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, love.’ And she allowed me to give her a hug.

  Chapter Nine

  When Can I See Mummy?

  I kept Melody occupied during the evening, as I would be doing for most of the weekend. I quietly told Paula, Adrian and Lucy what had happened, for clearly we were home earlier than usual and wouldn’t be going to contact the following week. Now they were aware, they would be sensitive to what Melody was going through and give her extra attention. Interestingly, Melody didn’t keep asking after her mother and worrying about her as she had been doing. I think this was due to her accepting that her mother was safe and being well looked after in hospital. It must have been a huge burden for her – with just the two of them at home and Melody, aged eight, the more responsible. Now that burden had been lifted, although, of course, Melody thought that at some point she and her mother would be returning home. It wasn’t for me to tell her otherwise at this stage, and I supposed it could be possible, depending on her mother’s diagnosis, but given the history of neglect and Amanda’s drug and alcohol addiction, I didn’t think it was likely. I knew from experience that as the months went by and all the reports on Amanda and Melody were written the picture would become clearer, and then the judge would make his or her decision at the final court hearing when Melody would be told the outcome, usually by the social worker.

  We had chicken nuggets, chips and peas with large helpings of tomato ketchup for dinner, followed by jam roly-poly pudding and custard, which we all enjoyed. Melody stayed up later than usual that evening, as it was the start of the weekend and we didn’t have to be up early in the morning for school. Lucy, Paula and I played some games with her, I read her a bedtime story and then she said goodnight and I took her up to bed. I always went up with her and waited on the landing while she washed and changed, then I saw her into bed. It was part of our evening routine. She climbed into bed and cuddled the rag doll. ‘I’m calling her Mandy now,’ she announced, so I thought perhaps she and Lizzie were no longer friends – children of her age often make and break friendships – but then she added, ‘Mummy’s friends at school used to call her Mandy when she was little.’

  ‘That’s nice. Amanda is sometimes shortened to Mandy. What made you suddenly think of that?’ I asked.

  ‘Mummy used to talk about when she was happy as a child before bad things happened to her.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘She told me it was the bad things that were done to her that made her drink and take drugs to try to forget.’

  ‘That is sad,’ I said. ‘Did she tell what bad things happened to her?’ I hoped the answer was no, but Melody gave a small nod.

  ‘Her step-father did rude things to her that hurt her a lot.’

  ‘Oh, that’s dreadful. I am sorry to hear that. No one will hurt your mummy now. She is safe
and being well looked after. There will be a special doctor there called a psychiatrist she can talk to.’ But surely it hadn’t taken all this time for Amanda to get the help she needed? I thought. Child abuse ruins lives if it is not dealt with. Counselling and therapy often help.

  ‘Do you think Mummy is in bed now?’ Melody asked, kissing the rag doll.

  ‘I expect so. She is probably snuggled down in a comfortable bed, just as you are.’

  ‘Thinking about me.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  She smiled and kissed the doll again. ‘Night-night, Mummy. I miss you, but you are safe and being looked after by the doctors and nurses.’

  ‘That’s right, love.’ I said goodnight, kissed her forehead and then, once I was sure she was going to sleep, came out. Interestingly, that evening Melody had been the most relaxed I’d ever seen her, for while she missed her mother she no longer had to constantly worry about her.

  Saturday morning Adrian was up, showered and dressed at a reasonable time and left to play football, while the girls and I had a more leisurely morning. The girls stayed in their dressing gowns to have their breakfast and then dressed late morning and set about doing their homework. My parents were coming the following day and I didn’t want it left and then done in a hurry after they’d gone. I helped Melody do her homework and then took her to our local park. It was a cold but dry day and she enjoyed playing on the apparatus.

  After dinner, with everyone unusually home on a Saturday evening, we got out the Monopoly board and taught Melody how to play the game. She saw a different side to us as the noise level rose and land was won or lost, and piles of Monopoly money rose and fell. It was great fun; she enjoyed herself and so did we. I think it’s important for families to play games together sometimes, as it helps bond and unite them. Afterwards Melody confided in Paula that she felt it was OK for her to laugh and play games now her mummy was safe in hospital. It was another revealing comment about the weight of responsibility she’d been carrying. Later, I noted it in my log when I wrote up the day’s events.

  My parents arrived on Sunday around midday and I introduced them to Melody as Nana and Grandpa, which is how most children we fostered looked upon them. They were kind, with plenty of attention for everyone, and Melody immediately took to them, especially my mother. Melody had never had grandparents of her own, but she talked easily to Nana. She told her about her own mummy and how she came to be in hospital, while Mum listened sympathetically. Melody sat next to her on the sofa before and after dinner and opposite her as we ate. My children were very indulgent of Melody monopolizing Nana’s company, but I made sure they had a chance to talk to her, and Grandpa. Adrian always spent time with my father, and since my husband had left some years before in many respects he had become a father figure, providing my children with a good male role model.

  We had a truly lovely day and when it was time for my parents to say goodbye Melody came with us to the front door to see them off, hugging and kissing my mother as we all did, and kissing my father’s cheek. I think that loving grandparents are invaluable and provide a backbone of love and stability that can see a family through bad times as well as rejoicing in the good. That night we all went to bed with a warm glow, a feeling of peace and wellbeing after their visit, and with our batteries recharged to face whatever the new week would bring.

  Monday was the first day of February and the temperature dropped further. Snow was forecast on higher ground, with a possibility of it reaching us later in the week. I received the appointment letter Neave had mentioned for Melody’s medical – Thursday at 3.30 p.m. – so I would need to collect her early from school. I’d mention it to Miss May when I saw her later. It was turning into a busy week. Straight after school that day Melody had the dental appointment I’d booked for a check-up, and the following day she had an appointment with the optician. But at least all the medicals would be done by the end of the week and in time for Melody’s first review.

  I didn’t hear anything from Jill or Neave on Monday and the week progressed. Melody needed some fillings, which wasn’t good news, but when we saw the optician he said her eyesight was perfect. On Thursday, notice of the review arrived in the post. It was to be held the following Monday at 2.30 p.m. at her school. Sometimes reviews are held in the foster carer’s home, a meeting room at the council offices or at the child’s school. It depends on a number or factors, including the size of the review, availability of rooms and if the child’s parent(s) are attending. Children in care have regular reviews. The child’s parent(s), social worker, teacher, foster carer, the foster carer’s support social worker and any other adults closely connected with the child meet to ensure that everything is being done to help them and that the care plan (drawn up by the social services) is up to date. Very young children don’t usually attend their reviews, but older children are expected to. Given that the review was being held at Melody’s school, I assumed she would be attending at least some of it. I wondered if Amanda would be well enough to attend.

  Jill telephoned that afternoon, asking if I’d heard anything further from Neave or the Guardian.

  ‘No, and Melody is asking when she will be able to see her mother.’

  ‘Neave was going to make a decision when she’d seen Amanda and the psychiatrist. I haven’t heard from her so I’ve left a message on her voicemail to phone me.’

  ‘Thank you. Can you make sure she knows that Melody has been very patient, but I do think she needs to see her mother before long or she’ll start worrying about her again. Despite everything, they were very close.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll call you after I’ve spoken to her. Did you receive your invitation for the review and the review forms?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll help Melody fill hers in.’

  ‘I should take them with you to the review; they may not arrive in time if you put them in the post.’

  ‘OK.’

  I collected Melody from school early that afternoon and took her to the Health Centre for her medical, where I’d taken children I’d fostered before. Dr Wainwright, the paediatrician, was lovely and immediately put Melody at ease. It was a standard medical examination for looked-after children and the doctor checked her ears, eyesight, throat and mouth, then weighed and measured her, and asked me some questions about her diet and how she was settling in. She pronounced her fit and surprisingly healthy given the neglect she’d suffered prior to coming into care. A copy of the medical report would be sent directly to the social services to go on their file. On the way out I praised Melody. ‘We’ve had a busy week with all these appointments. You’ve done very well.’

  ‘It’s Friday tomorrow, will I see Mummy?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m waiting to hear from Neave.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she said. ‘It’s ages since I’ve seen Mummy.’ I agreed.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be too long,’ I said. But my reassurance was starting to sound worn.

  Melody didn’t have much homework that evening, so after dinner I thought it would be a good opportunity to complete her review form. As usual two sets of forms had arrived: one for me as her foster carer to fill in, which I would do later, and one for the child. We sat at the table and I opened Melody’s form between us. It was a small, illustrated, child-friendly booklet designed to encourage the child to give their views on being in care. As a foster carer I had a duty to ensure the child received the booklet and to help them fill it in if necessary.

  The first question asked: Do you know why you are in care? Because Melody was so behind with her reading, I read it out.

  ‘What’s the right answer?’ she asked, as if it were a school test.

  ‘There isn’t a right or wrong answer. They want to know if you understand why you are in care. Can you tell me why? If so I’ll write it down.’

  She thought for a moment and frowned. ‘I think it’s because Mummy couldn’t look after me properly.’

  ‘I’ll write that down then.’

 
‘Is that right? It’s what the social worker said.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The next question asked: What do you like about living with your foster family?

  Melody paused thoughtfully and then said, ‘I like the food, the house is warm, I like my bed and having my own bedroom. I like Lucy, Paula and Adrian. Oh yes, and I’m starting to like the cat.’

  I smiled as I wrote. ‘Good.’ I hoped she liked me too, but I didn’t prompt her on this point. This was her form to express her views. Children who can read and write competently fill in their review forms themselves.

  ‘What don’t you like about where you are living now?’ the next question asked.

  ‘Not seeing Mummy,’ she said straight away. I wrote it down.

  ‘Anything else?’ She shook her head.

  ‘What has gone well for you since your last review? I’ll write N/A, which stands for “not applicable”, as this is your first review.’

  ‘What has gone badly since your last review?’ I read out and again wrote N/A.

  ‘How do you feel most of the time?’ the next question asked, and there were rows of Emoji faces showing a range of emotions – sad, happy, angry, surprised, confused and so forth. I gave Melody the pen; she had to tick which face best represented how she felt. She ticked the sad face. ‘I’m sad because I’m not seeing Mummy,’ she said. Which comment I then wrote in the space beneath.

  The next question was: ‘Would you like to know more about your past?’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll put “don’t know” then.’

  ‘Do you know who your social worker is?’

  ‘Yes. Neave,’ Melody said.

  I wrote it down and then read out the next question. ‘Would you like to see more of them?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘Mummy didn’t like her.’ Which I supposed was understandable.