Where Has Mummy Gone?

by Cathy Glass

  ‘Yes,’ Melody said.

  ‘When children can’t live with their own mummy and daddy they sometimes have to come into foster care – like you did,’ Nina continued, slowly getting to the point. ‘Then some children in foster care are found new forever parents who adopt them. They become their permanent family. I think Neave has talked to you about this?’

  Melody nodded.

  ‘How do you feel about having a new forever family?’

  Melody shrugged. ‘Don’t mind.’

  ‘Do you think it’s something you might like?’

  Melody shrugged again. I thought it was probably asking a lot of a child to make a commitment or say much when talking in abstracts. Melody didn’t know Dana or what to expect in terms of living with her. Once the introductions had begun and Melody had met Dana and seen her new home, it should become much clearer and easier. In my experience the child is then far more accepting and enthusiastic and their move to permanency usually runs smoothly.

  ‘Neave and Cathy will talk to you more about all of this over the coming weeks,’ Nina said. ‘But you’re happy for me to tell the judge that you’d like to be adopted?’

  Melody nodded.

  Nina was with us for about an hour and then made a point of saying goodbye to Melody and wishing her well for the future. This would be the last time we saw Nina, as the Guardian ad Litem’s role usually ends with the final court hearing.

  The following day Dana telephoned me to arrange her visit and we decided on next Wednesday at around midday. I suggested Wednesday as Melody would be staying later at school for sports club, so I’d have an extra hour. Melody wouldn’t know of Dana’s visit or anything about her until the match was approved by the panel and introductions could begin. If the match wasn’t approved – which can happen, although it’s not often – then Melody would be none the wiser.

  On Thursday evening Melody and I baked cupcakes as usual and on Friday I visited Amanda alone. From now on I would be going alone for two consecutive weeks, as Melody would be seeing her mother every third week. How long I’d be able to keep this up I didn’t know. It would depend on my future commitments, for the return journey of two hours, plus at least an hour with Amanda, meant that a good chunk of the day was taken up.

  As it happened I was relieved that Melody wasn’t with me that Friday, for Amanda didn’t manage to get to the toilet in time and messed herself in the lounge. This was upsetting and degrading enough, but when a care assistant tried to take Amanda to the bathroom to clean her and change her into fresh clothes she became aggressive and pushed him away. It took three care assistants to persuade her into the bathroom. I waited in the lounge and when she returned, washed and clean, the first thing she did was to pull down her slacks and try to take off the incontinence pants they’d put on her. A care assistant came to my aid and we told Amanda a number of times the pants had to stay on. Not only did I admire the patience, care and understanding of the staff, but I knew that Amanda’s condition had worsened and taken another step in robbing her of the last vestiges of her dignity. It was heartrending.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  True Heroes

  I was apprehensive about meeting Dana, but I knew it was important that we got along, for once the panel had passed the match and introductions began, we’d be seeing each other most days. I also had some concerns about what, if anything, I should say to her about her daughter, Katie, who’d died. If I was meeting someone who’d been recently bereaved then I’d offer my condolences and say how sorry I was, but Dana’s daughter had passed twelve years ago. Would she want reminding of that sorrowful time now she’d moved on with her life and was hoping to adopt Melody? Yet to say nothing seemed cold and callous. I was in a dilemma, but as it turned I needn’t have worried, for Dana mentioned her daughter shortly after she arrived.

  Dana was gently spoken, with an open warm smile – I couldn’t help but like her. ‘Thank you for making the time to see me,’ she said as she came into the hall. ‘I know how busy you foster carers are.’

  As I showed her into the living room (which I had tidied) she remarked, ‘What a lovely house, so cosy. I can’t wait to have children’s clutter in my house again. You know I lost my daughter Katie twelve years ago?’

  ‘Yes, I did, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you. But you mustn’t ever think that Melody will be second best. As I told Neave and Gaynor from the family-finding team, I will never forget Katie, but I have plenty of room in my heart for Melody too.’

  A lovely lady, and after that the conversation just flowed. I made us coffee and toasted teacakes and we sat in the living room where I told Dana all she wanted to know about Melody. Although she’d been given Melody’s basic details and background information when she’d first applied to adopt her, she was now eager to know about her time with me. I went back to the beginning when she’d first arrived and had been described as feral, having lived rough with her mother and not attended school. I talked of the huge progress she’d made – and continued to make – both in her education and her self-worth. However, I added that while Melody was a joy to look after, like all children she still needed boundaries sometimes. Dana came across as being gentle and placid and was clearly so delighted and looking forward to being a mother again that I thought she might forget she’d have to be firm sometimes.

  I also talked to Dana about Amanda and how quickly her illness had progressed and the effect it would be having on Melody, even though she didn’t say much about it. Dana confirmed she’d continue CAMHS in her area and was anticipating bringing Melody to see her mother every month for as long as it was appropriate. She mentioned that she’d begun her career in safeguarding adults before changing to child protection, so she had experience of the course Amanda’s disease was likely to take. I thought she was in a good position to support Melody through it.

  ‘I’m planning on still visiting Amanda once Melody has left,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know how often.’ I didn’t mention that I was already going alone on the weeks Melody didn’t visit her.

  We continued talking and suddenly it was 2 p.m. I asked Dana if she’d like some lunch, but she refused, saying she’d have to leave soon. I made us another coffee and then showed her Melody’s bedroom. ‘Melody loves her room and keeps it tidy,’ I said. ‘When she came to me it was the first time she’d had a room of her own.

  Dana nodded. ‘The conditions some children live in are beyond belief,’ she said. ‘Some of the things I’ve seen keep me awake at night.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  By the time Dana left I was convinced this was a match made in heaven, and that Dana and Melody were exactly what each other needed and would be very happy. I was bursting to tell Melody, but that would have to wait until the panel had sat and the introductions could begin.

  September gave way to October and autumn set in. A chilly north-easterly wind whipped up, bringing down conkers, acorns and the leaves from the trees. Gone were the long, lazy days of summer and the nights drew in, so we were switching on the lights in the house before 7 p.m. Jill paid me her usual monthly visit, but I didn’t hear any more from Neave, so I assumed she’d be in contact after the adoption had gone to panel when she’d want to visit to explain to Melody what was going to happen.

  I had concerns about taking Melody to see her mother again after my last visit when Amanda had been both incontinent and aggressive. I tried to prepare Melody by telling her that, as it was three weeks since she’d last seen her mother, she might notice a difference in her.

  ‘You mean she may be worse?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know for sure, but it’s something we need to be prepared for.’

  ‘I hope she’s not dead,’ Melody said with a child’s forthrightness.

  ‘No, I would have been told,’ I replied as honestly.

  As I drove to the care home I fed the children’s CD into the player and Melody ate the sandwiches I’d made. It was still daylight when we arrived at f
ive o’clock, but it wouldn’t be long before winter drew in and we’d be arriving in the dark again. As I opened Melody’s car door the wind tried to snatch it out of my hand and tugged at my coat. The flat open countryside stretching to the hills beyond, so idyllic in summer, now left us exposed and at the mercy of the elements. Melody tucked her hand into mine and, heads down against the wind, we crossed the car park to the main entrance.

  Relieved to be in the warmth of the porch, we signed the Visitors’ Book and I pressed the bell to be admitted. Only Mrs Bennett appeared and my heart sank.

  ‘Where’s her husband?’ Melody asked, voicing my concerns.

  ‘Perhaps he’s using the bathroom,’ I suggested. But we’d never seen one without the other before.

  A care assistant appeared, gently moved Mrs Bennett out of the way and let us in.

  ‘Where’s Mr Bennett?’ Melody asked her.

  ‘He’s passed away, pet,’ the care assistant replied matter-of-factly as she closed the door.

  Melody looked as though she might cry and I swallowed hard. Anyone working with patients with life-limiting illnesses must have to adjust to death becoming a regular occurrence in order to do their job, but for us it was raw. Mr Bennett had become as much a part of our visit as Mr Wilson had been calling out that he had a plane to catch. We’d got to know them and others, and we felt their passing. However, Mrs Bennett seemed oblivious to the fact that her husband of fifty years was no longer at her side. Now the door was closed she went through the ritual again of trying the handle and pointing to the lock as she’d always done. I supposed her dementia protected her from the pain of losing her husband, and maybe she’d never realize he’d gone.

  Melody was quiet as we walked down the corridor towards the lounge; even when we passed Mr Andrews making his ‘boo-boo’ noise she didn’t comment or smile as she usually did. We found Amanda asleep in one of the chairs in the lounge, head relaxed to one side. The occupational therapist wasn’t present. As Melody and I crossed the lounge I said hello to the care assistants we’d got to know, and then Melody gently woke her mother. Amanda came to with a start, looked at Melody and then closed her eyes again. The chairs either side of her were occupied, so I pulled over a couple of chairs from the table.

  ‘Mummy, it’s me, Melody,’ she said, touching her arm. ‘I’ve made you some cakes.’

  Amanda opened her eyes again and Melody took the lid off the box, but Amanda only glanced at them uninterestedly.

  ‘Would you like one?’ Melody tried, taking a cake from the box.

  Amanda’s hand suddenly shot out and she roughly pushed the box away. Melody looked hurt at the rejection. It was the first time Amanda had refused a cake, and in such an abrupt manner.

  ‘Maybe she’ll have one later,’ I suggested. Melody put the box away.

  We sat with Amanda as she gazed absently into space as many of the other residents were doing. ‘Shall we go to your room?’ Melody asked after a while. She preferred being in her mother’s room to the lounge, especially if the occupational therapist wasn’t present to make something.

  Amanda looked at Melody – not so much at her but through her – and made no attempt to move. We continued to sit beside her while Amanda returned her gaze to some distant point across the room. Then abruptly she stood and began to cross the lounge. We followed her, but instead of turning right out of the door towards her room, she turned left.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Melody asked.

  Amanda kept walking.

  We followed her to the end of the corridor and down another corridor on the left where she began opening various doors, peering in, and closing them again as if looking for someone or something. A care assistant approached us on her way to answer a call bell. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Does Amanda still know where her room is?’

  ‘Amanda, are you looking for your room?’ she asked her.

  Amanda looked at her with the same blank expression.

  ‘Try her,’ she said to us. ‘You know where her room is?’

  ‘Yes.’ She left us to tend to the other patient.

  ‘Amanda, your room is this way,’ I said, touching her arm. She gazed at me absent-mindedly. ‘This way,’ I said and, taking her arm, began along the corridor. Melody linked her other arm and together we walked three abreast along the corridors to her room. But even inside she didn’t show any sign of recognition and remained distant and unresponsive. Melody offered her a cake again, but she turned her back and walked away across the room.

  ‘Put them in the cabinet and she can have them when we’ve gone,’ I suggested. But when Melody opened the bedside cabinet she found two cakes left in the last box.

  ‘You didn’t eat all the cakes I made you!’ Melody exclaimed, hurt.

  Amanda looked at her blankly.

  ‘I expect she forgot they were there,’ I said. ‘I think maybe leave the new box where she can see it on the table or her bookshelf. We’ll throw those old cakes away.’

  As I put the old box in my bag, Melody set the fresh box of cakes on Amanda’s shelf, pointing out to her mother where she’d left them. Amanda didn’t give them a second glance. I replenished the fruit bowl, which was empty, and also replaced the plant, which had died. I’d replaced it a couple of times during my visits, as it didn’t always get watered. Clearly Amanda wouldn’t know a plant needed watering, and the staff were too busy caring for the patients.

  Presently Melody took out the photograph album, but Amanda wasn’t interested. Even when she sat on the bed beside Melody she didn’t look at any of the photos as she had done in the past. It seemed Amanda was barely relating to her surroundings and recognized virtually nothing. Abruptly she stood and left the room, and we followed her back to the lounge. The chair she’d been sitting in was now occupied by another resident – quite a frail elderly lady who I’d seen before. Without warning, Amanda grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her roughly from the chair. A care assistant quickly intervened and Amanda tried to push him away. He calmly but firmly steered her to another chair. I saw the look of horror and confusion on Melody’s face and decided it was time to leave. As I’d warned Melody, her mother had deteriorated – I’d noticed a difference even from the week before. Amanda the person had gone and Melody summed it up so touchingly as we returned to the car.

  ‘That’s not my mummy. Where has Mummy gone?’

  ‘I know, love. Try to remember the person you knew.’

  Driving home, we had another heart to heart, although there was little I could say beyond what I’d already told her.

  The following week I couldn’t visit Amanda, as my week was full, including a three-day foster-carer training course on challenging behaviour and promoting positive outcomes. I telephoned the care home to see how Amanda was and a member of staff told me she’d had lunch and was asleep in the lounge. The next week I saw her again without Melody and she seemed about the same – detached, uninterested, no longer able to remember where her room was and a shadow of the person she had been. Many of the other residents behaved similarly, sleeping in chairs and being woken to be taken for their meals or to the bathroom to be changed. Amanda appeared to have accepted she needed incontinence pants and there’d been no repetition of her trying to take them off. I often thought the quality of her life, and that of the other residents, was nil, and I had to concentrate on the positive – that they were being well looked after. Seeing them made me appreciate my own parents even more and I gave them an extra hug when I next saw them.

  With Melody attending CAMHS after school on Tuesday and sports club on Wednesday, then cake-baking on Thursday (which often included Lizzie) and swimming on Saturday, plus homework, the weeks flew by. At the start of November the air chilled again and many of the shops began displaying Christmas gifts. One card shop even started playing Christmas music.

  I heard from Neave that the match had been passed by the panel and the final court hearing had taken place and gone ac
cording to plan. She then telephoned with details of the adoption planning meeting, where we would get together to plan the timetable of introduction and Melody’s move to her adoptive mother. In preparation for this, Neave had previously sent me a form to complete and return – a questionnaire about Melody that gave a portrait of her character. I wasn’t to say anything to Melody, as Neave said she’d tell her at the start of the process. However, I told my children that the adoption was proceeding so that they could prepare themselves for Melody leaving us. They obviously had mixed feelings too.

  The day before the planning meeting, Dana telephoned. I hadn’t spoken to her since she’d visited me and her voice was so slight that for a moment I thought she was going to tell me something awful, like she didn’t want to go ahead, which had happened before. But she said in a shaky voice, ‘It’s all go then. I’m so nervous. All these months of working towards adopting and now I am.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Melody is going to love you.’ I swallowed hard.

  ‘Oh Cathy, I’m being so insensitive. I should know better, being a social worker. How are you and your family feeling?’

  ‘Were doing all right. Obviously we’ll miss Melody, but it helps knowing she is going to a really good home.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. I know social workers don’t always remember to tell the foster carer, so I’ll say it – you and your family did a fantastic job turning Melody around. It could so easily have been different.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’

  We said goodbye and I replaced the handset, tears in my eyes, but with a warm glow of satisfaction from Dana’s kind words. She was right: certainly the social workers I’d dealt with (apart from Jill) hardly ever remembered to say thank you, and while praise and thanks aren’t something foster carers expect, it’s nice to hear. I did feel that I’d ‘turned Melody around’, as Dana had put it, and yes, the outcome could have been very different, but part of that was due to Melody and her acceptance and willingness to lose her anger and move on with her life. She and the other children I’ve fostered are true heroes.