Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new)

by Jeanne D'Olivier

  His rocking horses stood where they had been, unmoved. The first one I had given him after his first ride on a real pony on our first holiday away to Centre Parcs – so many firsts in that room – the other horse had been given to him by my mother, the last Christmas that she was alive. His little bed was still made up with his White Company Patchwork quilt over the top and the two paintings of Thumper and Dumbo that I had painted for him as a baby lay against the wall. Dad had brought them out to America at my request, but I had carefully brought them back home with me and put them back into their frames. I didn't want to change anything, because I believed that if I left things as they had been, then M would come back to me.

  Mother’s Day was another milestone to face and to make matters worse, my father had developed a nasty attack of Cellulitus and had had to go into hospital. I had come back to his house whilst he was ill to look after him, but over the weekend of Mothering Sunday he was still on the ward having drip antibiotics. Naturally I was very worried about him but it also meant that I would spend the day totally alone. Again I was allowed a call with M and again I had to chase through the duty social worker to get it. I sometimes wondered if the Foster carers did this deliberately to cause me torment. They were probably just careless, but how could they understand the importance of those few minutes on the phone when separated from your child?

  I went to put flowers on the graves of my mother and sister and sat there weeping and thinking of all that I had loved and lost. I prayed, although my faith had gone completely. I begged God to let me have my precious son and I asked over and over again in my mind “why?”, the echoing loud resounding question mark hanging over our lives – WHY? A question that we may never know the answer to.

  It was at about this time, I decided to get the dog for company. M had always wanted a dog and I felt it would give him something to look forward to. I knew I still had to keep believing that he would be returned to me and this would help me to focus on that as a certainty – the power of positive thinking. Our cottage was only two- bed roomed and very small. We also had no garden, just a little back yard, but we were a stone’s throw from the beach so could easily manage a small dog. M had always liked Chihuahuas, so when I saw some long-haired Chihuahua puppies advertised in the local newspaper, I decided to go and have a look.

  I have never been a dog person, always preferring cats with their sleek independence, particularly Oriental cats. When M was a baby I had had to part with my much loved Burmese for fear that she may attack him as she was so possessive of me and rather unpredictable. I had wept buckets as my mother had collected her to take her off to live with friends, but she had gone to a wonderful home and M’s needs were always at the forefront of my mind.

  I had made a new friend since coming back to the Island. Liz was something of an activist and rebel herself having been treated badly by the system over the years. In her case her beef was with the Education Department, but there were a lot of similarities in the way she had been bullied and how they had tried to suppress her as subversive. She had been fighting her own cause for many years and would never let it go. Naturally they had deemed her mad and stuck her with a Borderline label which ensured that she could shout as loudly as she liked and still not be heard.

  I first met Liz through another friend who had a similar case to mine on the Island and had a child at the same school as M. We had begun with just phone calls and emails. It was not until I returned from the States to the Island that we actually met in person and quickly became firm friends. She was a kind, generous girl, incredibly bright and loyal to those she supported of whom there were many. She had an open-door policy and there was usually someone drinking tea in her kitchen whilst her Jack Russell scrabbled at their legs looking for scraps or attention. As I had little experience of dogs, although we had owned a Border Collie cross in my childhood, I decided to ask Liz to come with me to look at the puppies.

  Liz was only too delighted to come along and we were both absolutely smitten with the tiny furry creatures who were no bigger than hamsters and not dissimilar to look at. These long-haired Chihuahuas were much prettier than the short-haired variety and the one that stood out was a tiny fawn and white coloured puppy. It seemed quieter and more docile and sat apart from the rest. I picked it up and it nestled in my palm, so I decided that this was the one for us. I took photos of them all though and took them to contact to show M so that he could pick out his favourite. He also picked the fawn coloured puppy, so it was decided. Straight after contact I drove to the breeders and paid the deposit on the tiny hamster-like dog.

  The puppy couldn't come home for another six weeks as it had to be a certain age before the dealer could let it go, but meanwhile it gave M and I something to talk about and look forward to and I'd already checked to see whether I might be able to bring it to contact for him to play with. The Contact Centre staff, who were by now, mainly supervising my contact with M, had no objection at all. I was told that lots of children had contact with their pets at the centre and I also knew that one of the girls who worked there used to bring her Staffordshire Bull Terrier into work with her on occasion.

  M and I spent the weeks leading up to getting the puppy, in choosing names. I printed off a list of Mexican names and he picked the name Coco.

  Meanwhile M was due to have a small operation for an undescended testicle. I'd been pushing for this to be done and he had had one side done already. I knew that any delay could leave him infertile in later life, as it had a member of my own family. The Department of course, were against anything I suggested, regardless what it was – it seemed for the sake of it. They accused me of being over-solicitous to M’s health, despite all the medical evidence and the fact that M had been under the Urologist for a number of years. In fact the Urology Department were already negligent in that this operation should really have been done before he was five and he was now eight. I'd been on their case the whole time, but they'd assured me it was not urgent, now they were saying it was already too late and if he became infertile the damage would already have been done.

  The Department routinely objected to anything I put forward, regardless what is was or how sensible it was. M had always had hay fever. He has had the condition every year since he was four years old. I would give him Piriton, an over the counter antihistamine. My doctor has prescribed it for him since he was four and from Spring onwards he would need this. However, the Department refused to allow him to have it and he was sniffing badly now and clearly very uncomfortable. The Foster Carers wouldn't give it to him, insisting that he had a cold. It was ridiculous when his medical notes bore out the fact that he had the condition. I hated to see him suffering unnecessarily, but when I tried to point out that he needed his Piriton, I was accused of over-medicating him. It was the same with M having been drowsy in the mornings at school. The Paediatrician had prescribed him Melatonin for a short period before we had gone to the States to try to help him sleep as the forced contacts had been giving him nightmares. I was then blamed for giving him the medication as prescribed. This was the extent to which they twisted things and tried to demonise me. It was anger making, and yet I had no power to change it. Neither it seemed did my lawyers, who wrote letters and were constantly ignored. In the end M started having nosebleeds as the lining of his nose had become inflamed, but still they would not give him the medication that would have brought him almost immediate relief.

  With his operation now approaching, it was even more important that M was in good health. He would be having an anaesthetic and would need to be able to breathe well, but once again my pleas for him to be allowed his meds fell on deaf ears, as did the diagnosis of M’s former GP.

  They had drawn up a schedule for the day at hospital that gave me one hour with M prior to his operation and one hour when he came round. My father would also been given an hour with him following his op. I bought some items of clothing for him which they had already agreed did not constitute as gifts, mostly because the Foster Carers d
idn't want to spend any money on clothes, and I managed to give him an I-pod Nano so he could listen to his favourite music by suggesting it was a late birthday present from a family member. by

  On the day, I had brought in the new soft pyjamas, a sweatshirt and small cuddly toy - a few harmless items to comfort a young boy facing surgery when his mother would not be allowed to stay with him - I would later criticised these too. His father, by comparison, was allowed to buy him an extravagant gift with no criticism whatsoever.

  I arrived in good time on the Children’s ward and was naturally anxious. Miss Whiplash and another Social Worker were already in the room with M. The second Social Worker, a man called Chris, was Liverpudlian and had supervised some of our contacts and on the whole seemed a decent sort. He was someone who would join in with the games at contact and was kind to both M and I but he was quite different towards me today. Now in the presence of the more senior Miss Whiplash, he was showed total allegiance to her.

  I was heavily chastised for being five minutes early but was nonetheless allowed to come into the side room where M was now seated on the bed waiting anxiously for his operation. I was proud of how well he was coping and how brave he was being. He was naturally pleased to see me and we cuddled up and I read him a story to take his mind off the ordeal that lay ahead. I'd been told I would be called on my mobile once the operation was over and would be allowed into the recovery room, so I was able to reassure M that the first person he would see when he came round would be his mummy. His little voice pressed, “Promise me Mummy you will be there.” I held him tight as I assured him I would.

  The Department had written a new decree for the hospital visit that confirmed my two hours contact and that I could be there with him both when he went into surgery and directly afterwards. With a written agreement, I felt secure in the knowledge that they would have to stick to their word for fear of the disapproval of the Court.

  Eric the Children’s Ward Manager, also Liverpudlian, seemed to be well known to both Miss Whiplash and Chris and the two men, it seemed, belonged to the same football club. Eric's attitude to me, though, was openly hostile. I mentioned the fact that M was sniffing and clearly congested, but he dismissed this, as did the anaesthetist when he came in and gave a cursory examination of M. It seemed they had been primed not to pay any attention to anything I said. My status as the mother who had raised him and cared for him until now, was suddenly inconsequential. These people who barely knew my child, now made all the decisions and I was merely an unwanted visitor.

  The two Social Workers paid little attention to M, but sat in the room whispering and giggling together like school kids. I tried to ignore their insensitivity and focus only on giving M as much reassurance and comfort as I could. Soon after they arrived to take him to theatre and I was allowed to walk with him to the pre-op room and wait with him before he went in for his operation. I was with him right until he had his anaesthetic and watched his vulnerable little form fall asleep, leaving the room with tears in my eyes and hating, like any mother that he had to suffer any discomfort at all.

  Chris, now away from Miss Whiplash, showed some humanity and decency by saying to me that he understood that operations were harder for the parents than the child and became affable again as we walked back to the ward.

  I was told to go and meet my father in the coffee bar and wait for the phone call to summon me to the recovery room. I did so and waited anxiously, sipping nervously at my coffee and checking my phone at minute intervals. An hour later the phone rang and it was Miss Whiplash. She told me M was on his way back from the recovery room and to meet them in his room. I was outraged. I had promised M that I would be there for him when he came round and they had denied this to me, even though it had been in the written agreement they themselves had drawn up.

  They hid behind the usual flight risk theory and said that the Children’s Ward manager had said there could be only one person in the recovery room and as that would have meant leaving me un-chaperoned with M, despite their being half a dozen nurses, they had not allowed it. It was absurd. As if I could have taken him straight from an operation in a locked room. It was just another way of bullying me and an attempt to sabotage my relationship with M by forcing me to breach my promise to him. When I reached the ward and whilst waiting for M to arrive, I asked to speak to the Children’s Ward Manager, who told me he was acting on the instructions of the Department. I then asked to speak to him with Miss Whiplash and asked her why they had said I could be there for M and then reneged on this. The two blamed each other. It was hopeless. I later made a complaint but as usual got nowhere. The Director of the Hospital closed ranks with his staff and the Social Workers. I was then accused of being aggressive, which I had not been, although naturally I had been upset. I was expected to be a robot and register no emotion whilst they kicked both me and my child.

  I went back to M’s room and waited for his return. He was still sleeping as he was wheeled in and I sat on the side of the bed waiting for him to wake. The hour’s visit that I had been given post-op was nearly up and M slept through all of it. I didn't want to disturb him, but nor did I want to leave until I had reassured myself that he was okay, so I asked if I could remain a little longer when I reached my eleven O clock curfew. I was callously informed that I couldn't. I already felt terrible that I hadn't been there when M had come round in recovery as I'd promised to be and it was imperative to be there when he now woke. God knows what they would have told him, had I not. Most likely that Mummy had abandoned him and didn't care. Miss Whiplash refused, but I stood my ground and in the end she conceded to giving me an extra fifteen minutes. M then woke feeling nauseous and I bathed his forehead and held him, reaching for a cardboard bowl and holding it under him, mopping his brow, as he retched. He had not had this reaction to his earlier op when he had still been with me and I guessed it was from the phlegm from his sinuses dripping down the back of his throat and mentally cursed them for not treating his Hay fever.

  Fifteen minutes passed very quickly with all of it spent with me trying to alleviate the distress of M’s nausea. “Time’s up,” said Miss Whiplash. “You have to go now.”

  M was still retching and begging for me to be allowed to stay with him, but Miss Whiplash was adamant. I was forced to leave him holding his own bowl and pleading for me to stay. Their cruelty knew no bounds.

  My father was incensed when he heard what had happened and as his hour was now due to start, he headed to the ward. He told Miss Whiplash that he would sacrifice his time with M so that he could have his mother. She initially objected but then gave in and Dad’s time was cut in half to allow me another half an hour with M.

  The time went by in a flash. He was still feeling very poorly but was less sleepy and we managed to play a game on my phone for a few minutes. At eleven-thirty on the dot I was again told to leave and this time M raised less objection. He'd become resigned to the situation. He made one feeble plea for me to stay and then his little white face took on the ghostlike qualities of a child who has had his life, his security and his wishes removed from him for so long that he has given up trying to fight for his rights. He simply didn't have the strength. Even if he hadn't been in his post-op weakened state, he knew it was pointless. These were his jailors and both he and his mummy had no say in anything.

  I waited whilst Dad had a short half hour visit and then he took me out for lunch to a nearby pub where we often used to take M. I could barely eat and we both expressed our anger at how M had been treated. I rang the ward to see how he was half an hour after leaving the ward and was told he was now fine and his father would be with him for the rest of the day. The man who had caused him so much pain and anguish and who had lost him his family, the same man who had not even wanted to know M until he was six months old and had never seen him through one day’s sickness before, had now completely usurped my role of caretaker.

  I spoke again to Miss Whiplash asking if M could be allowed a phone call with me to let me k
now how he was later that evening. This was refused. I rang the ward again to see if he was over his nausea and was told that he was still on the ward. I was surprised as he had been home within a couple of hours following his previous op, but the only information was that he was still feeling sick and they told me I had no parental rights to any more information than that. This was completely untrue and against what the law dictates as I had never lost Parental Responsibility for M. All I could do was like awake and worry and hope that I would be granted a call in the morning. It was torture.

  The following morning, I was, at last allowed a call. I received an email giving me one ten minute call to the Foster Carer’s home. I was relieved to hear that M sounded better, but I longed to be with him to nurse him through his recovery. It must have been so hard for him to be with total strangers instead of his mother at only eight year’s old following a fairly major operation.

  The puppy came home soon after this. I collected Coco from the breeder’s and other than whimpering a little for the first night’s separation from his mother and brothers and sisters, he settled in quickly. My good resolve to keep him in his bed in the kitchen at night, very quickly went out the window. I needed the comfort more than he did. I would carry him up and place him on a puppy mat on my bed and his tiny warm little hamster-body, would cuddle into the crook of my arm and sleep, reminiscent of when my son’s little body had curled into mine seeking the very same comfort and warmth. Of course, a puppy cannot make up for the loss of a child in any way whatsoever, but his warm little presence, another living being in the house, was a welcome gift at that time.